Jumble.

Right. So. 

Erm.

How are you?

Moi? I’m completely exhausted, stressed and fed up. Listen carefully.

...

...

Yes. Violins. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love my degree to bits. Just sometimes it makes me feel like this.

I am also entering into the confusing situation where I’m more confident with the complexities of the philosophy of language (don’t ask) than the most basic of French grammar (I thought compliments were things one expected to receive on a date, not the parts of sentences such as 'that she was hit by a car' or 'that she shaved off her eyebrow').

For the last week I’ve been buried under a mound of notes, attempting to read my own handwriting and piecing together something legible about Batman going to parties and the importance of telling your wife her dress is unflattering.

Last week I took time out to faux sympathise with the boyfriend. He had convinced himself his bruised foot was a repetitive strain fracture that could cause it to splinter into a million pieces at any moment, causing mutual destruction to himself and the entire universe. He took himself off to A&E with his foot wrapped in a Sainsbury’s bag and using a broom as a crutch. There is just no accounting for style with some people.

However, time out this week was far jollier. I visited Dorset to sit in the sunshine with some wine and spend time in good company, especially a dog called Merlin.

 I say took time out, I mean I took my work into the garden, which are now annotated with pawprints. But he looks like a dog who knows his embedded from un-embedded clauses, non?

Also, check out the view from one of the local pubs.

Gorgeous ain’t it? Green!!

The party that evening was also a good’un: like I always say, its no party without wine, dancing, and setting the kitchen floor on fire.

Back home now. There are cake crumbs everywhere due to the birthday we are celebrating today. 4 tier Orange & Lemon cake for a special friend.

What’s the French for nom nom nom?

As part of these celebrations, my flatmate has awarded herself the ‘best-housemate’ crown. The hat itself looks a bit like she attacked the Pope with felt tip pens and tin foil. Nonetheless, I am coveting it:I want to be the best housemate, Mummy, it’s just not fair! I’m sure it earns me some cheese. Or the last cookie. Or the age 7-8 boys tank top with a dog on it from The White Company I spied today. 

Watch this space, a plan is coming and victory will be mine. 

Salute,

Little Red.