Road To Nowhere

Apart from dipping into Torchwood - still loving Captain Jack - I'm a big fan of Skins.

Loved the first series, adoring the second.

Sometimes it kind of misses the spot, but mostly it's on target and I just love the characters. But especially Chris. Oh I love Chris. We all know a Chris... We've all lost a Chris...

And I think Chris might die tonight and if he does I'm going to cry, I just know it.

Now we're on BST and I'm getting into the whole idea of running and shaking off my winter hips, I'm turning over a new salad leaf for a bit. Yeah I know, yawn... but I can't run up the river like I want to with an extra seven pounds of winter insulation hanging off the back of me.

However, neither can I be doing with all this calorie counting and points and stuff and bits of this, but only one serving - pah. Just give up sugar, in everything, and it's off in six weeks.

So there I am at lunch time. Checking out the best balanced salad in M&S. Nice thai prawn with green stuff, rice and chilli dressing concoction. Could have been better balanced with brown rice but not a bad effort.

So I get to the cashiers' bit and, low and behold, I'm informed they are giving cake away with salads this week.

'No thanks,' I say. 'I'm not doing cake at the moment.' *Yes I know, I'm painting it like crack cocaine but let's not pretend it's any good for us *
'Ooh,' chorus the M&S ladies. 'That's very admirable. But you could give it to someone else.'
'Let's not get carried away with my admirable qualities,' I say. 'I'm not giving the stuff away to someone I know. I'm not a saint.'
'Oooh' *I'm guessing the chorusing of 'oooh' is in some in-house training programme, they are very good* 'I like your style.'

And so I swung my ample hips towards the exit, head high, smiling. So that's day two in the no-sugar house now. Anyone want to put odds on whether I make it to the weekend?

I can do a typing cat... I can do a typing cat! *skip, skip, skip!*

Jack's instructions were brilliant.

God, I can't believe I'm cheery on a Sunday night. Wheee!

Right, before I do crack on with the swotting can I just say a HUGE congratualtions to the Great Britain Track Cycling team.

They pulled off an astounding nine gold medals in the World Championships. That's NINE, folks, in the contest held in our fair city yesterday.

That's two more than our record of seven picked up in Palma in 2007.

I might add the Observer's sports pages have just managed to find a corner for it, but only just about. Sandwiched between the usual football obsessing.

So I thought I'd shout a bit - BRILLIANT. WELL DONE. HURRAY.

... loudly sing cuckoooooo!

Yes, now when I wake up at 5am it is 6am. We are back on summer time, proper time.

It's still a bit parky out, isn't it? But had a blistering run this morning, gamboling down by the river which was running way faster than me.

Bounded up the hill, grinning. Bobbed about on the top - nobody in sight - and it was 8.30am as well! Love having the view to myself.

The field was all boggy, due to lashing rain last night, so it's a bit like running through treacle out there, but had great fun playing running fast, running slow to Radar Love by Golden Earring and Daft Punk's Superheroes.

Right - onwards to dissertation. I have to write 500 cohesive words on feminist research theory this afternoon, which is turning out to be interesting and more absorbing than I ever thought it would be. Swotdom, here I come.

I know, I know.. I just needed to get it off my chest and say it (sneakily quite late at night).

I know dance theatre is out there.

But I just think she is the most incredible, moving, beautiful thing that takes emotion and feeling and pieces of history and weaves these mesmiric scenes that pull me from A to Z emotionally.

I'm just popping this one down. It's about Cafe Muller and there's a fair bit of waffle in French for about 2 mins but then it kicks and.. I've seen this live five times and I've cried five times.

It's about (I think) scenes from a cafe Pina Baush witnessed as a child, just after the second world war. Mostly, I think, I find it so moving because we have no idea, really, what it was like in Germany after the war. For us it was all about victory and that's all we see. We forget what it was like there; the loss, the misery, the starvation, the not knowing what to do, locked in patterns of desperation.

This piece of dance shows people trapped and falling in cycles.

Hope you like it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dtqrqjERhkQ

PS Music - which is just the most beautiful thing, is Purcell, from Dido and Aneas. It's from England's oldest opera, from 1689. How incredible is that!

Settled down to watch the Dubai World Cup at 5.30pm.

Blinked.

Opened eyes to discover posh bloke prattling on about some 'disa-r-ster' over chocolate.

Rolled off sofa, lurched into kitchen. 6.30pm.

Curses! The curse of afternoon drinking. Curses!

You see I wasn't conscious to cheer Frankie on and even though that Curlin was so the favourite I reckoned I had a good chance each way with Jalil who was never close, apparently. Never mind. Was only the cost of a pint in London.

You can't win them all, eh Celtic.

And now my brother's going to be miffed with me because we stuffed Villa. Oh dear, perhaps I should stay away from sport.

Always having been one for guilding the lily. my birthday trundles on to Birthday Saturday.

I have been to Oxfam and bought three books for when I've finished dissertation and am able to read books properly that aren't about feminist research ethics, mass media and society or the wonderful world of dualism. One is about hill running, another is Anais Nin's diaries - she sounds like my sort of girl. I like a lady who bucks the trend.

Then we went to Didsbury cheese shop and Didsbury butchers' and bought great, great suasages and chicken and bread and emmenthal. Then we went to the Railway Hotel and I had three pints of Timothy Taylor's while I watched the Blue Noses beat my lovely Celtic. Well you can't have everything your own way, can you.

Celtic played rubbish and in spite of my cheering at the tele Gordon Strachan's men failed to pull off a derby win. (I used to work with Gordon Strachan's mum, she's lovely and Gordon played for Man U and is a straight up guy, you can't not love him). Some Ned in the pub put his arms up in the air and cheered when Rangers won which I thought was toally inappropriate given there were only six of us. So I glowered as we left and the words "Blue Nose piece of rubbish" (or words to that effect) may have passed my lips as Nibs hustled me through the door remarking (probably quite rightly) God I can't take you anywhere, can I?"

And then we went to the record shop and bought Los Lobos CD and looked for one by someone quite obscure called David Faye (possibly) but they didn't have it.

And now I have £5 each way on Frankie in the 5.30 World Cup in Dubai as my birthday bet. Fingers crossed!!

Why oh why...

Can't I make those little smiley faces and you all can *pouts, sighs*

Can someone explain to me how to do it?

Oooh, and how to make my youtube offerings appear in my blog. Do I link to the picture instead of the globe?

Help. Me. Piglit.

*ok, so I'm not actually Piglit, but feel like him today*

...But Oh My God, it is the best fun.

Enjoy!

Not happy about advertising exisiting at all really.

Encouraging people to buy a lots of useless stuff they don't need but somehow think will fill the vacuums in their lives left by capitalism and its relentless jackboot stomp through our lives, stripping away our sense of community, spirituality, love of neighbour... *stops to pause for breath before she falls over*

But, if there's one advertisement that makes me wince, shout and now change my opticians it is this one: Specsavers and the Edith Piaf advert.

How can you take someone so tragic, so talented, so remarkable, original and truly, truly magnificent and reduce her to a puppet it a meaningless, unfunny nothingness. Shame on you!

OK, adverts we hate. Beat that one!!

*Can someone help me off my high horse please?*

Now the weather has tuned itself into Old Testament stylie good and proper I decided, as I charged round the house like a dervish on turbo this morning, that 'hat' was essential.

Grabbed the beret which, with my natty trench coat, gives me the air of a french resisitance heroine *knows reality is Frank Spencer lookie-likie but I prefer blissful ignorance so back off with your reality thing*.

Looked at beret. Felt wrong. Felt felty.

Put beret on. Beret wouldn't go on head. Ran to mirror. Beret perched on crown of head. Very wrong.

Either head has grown with dissertation brains or beret has somehow fallen into washing machine and been shrunk... mystery. Obviously chief suspect is Nibs with his blind-as-bat eyesight and habit of just scooping everything up in vicinity and washing it.

I know there has been much Nibs bashing this week but I've had a flashback to seeing beret on the clothes horse a few weeks ago and thinking that was a bit odd at the time.

Of course he denies all knowledge but then how would he know? He can't remember my birthday!

Why oh why oh why...

1. Do young, skinny boys who look like they have more in common with TS Eliot than Puff Daddy find it necessary to wear jeans hanging half off their scrawny arses with the drabbest baggy jersey pants pulled up to their armpits? It doesn't suit you, it's really not attractive and yes, I am talking to you, blondie, on the 43 sailing down Palatine Road this evening at 5pm. Pull your levi's up, for god's sake.

2. Do I have this song stuck in my head? help me! '"Little Red Book..." Damn that Burt Bacharach, man with the tunes. "Da, da, da, da, da.."

3. Is it Nibs can make a comeback by buying me a really nice perfume I have never had before and then an hour later wander into the bathroom as I'm serenely poaching myself to a very pleasing shade of pink and announce that he "needs a poo".

All answers/suggestions/recipes for improving men gratefully received.

Right, am off to bed in a bit to read books on feminist research ethics. yeah, I know, insomnia cure No 1,241.

Ever been stuck behind a caravan and silently seethed?

Ever been knocked off your bike by a caravan (that could just be me, but it was sore nevertheless)?

Here's a caravan coming a-cropper.

Very funny... well, I thought so! It's clearly a funny day today!

But this is

funny, funny, funny...

Don't you just love Laurel and Hardy.

"The money that I gave to you, that you gave to him, that he gave to you, that you gave to me..." *sniggers to self for umpteenth time*

So... it's 7.30pm on My Birthday and I am enjoying a gargantuan gin and tonic - on a school night - while sifting through my dissertation referencing and making everything luuuuurvely.

Yes, I know I'm spelling lovely in a silly way. I can play properly when it comes to dissertation proper. Honest *hic!*

I am also partially sulking because my mother has phoned and that has been a long, long tale of illnesses/family friends' illnesses/family friends' impending redundancies/Anne Robinson of Weakest Link fame's alcoholic past *What, you think I could make this up?*. I felt like Neo dodging the Smiths' bullets in a Matrix Mother World of doom, misery and inquisition.

You see - and please don't tell her - Nibs had forgotten my birthday. I know. Shocking. Shaming. Utterly not on. I know I'm self-absorbed, what with living in head with dissertation, but that is taking the f***king piss. I mean really. Is not good, is it, really?

However, to tell mother - that way spells thunder, lightning, some kind of signing of carte-blanche permission for flash-flood unannounced visitations. No, no, no!

Is better to spit quietly *shhhh!*, nurse discontent and sort out in own time. Without Mother, like ghost of Malcolm, Banquo fused with and the three witches, chiming in her opinions at any given opportunity.

So... shhhh! We're very cross... but shhhhhh!

Yay!

Thank you to everyone for the lovely, lovely birthday wishes.

I have arrived at work with a bag full of cakes so I will be leaving sugar rush-crash chaos in my wake later this morning.

In the meantime I've wracked my brains to see if I've had any kind of epistemic visitation in the night. Well I woke up this morning and thought 'Bugger me, I'm 43' and laughed a bit at it rhyming (to myself, Nibs was still asleep at 6am). I'm guessing laughing at your own little rhymes doesn't really count.

I can tell you this: it's all about love and there really isn't anything else. No, not even frocks are that important.

Oh and I have these two tunes stuck in my head and so I can share these with you.

Rock and Roll - Led Zep
Little Red Book - Love

I'll bob by with updates as they happen - now, where's that cake?

... but isn't it bright and sunny.

Up for work this morning at 6am and it was light! Light! Light!

No black, oppressive night-timeness. Tweety birds, blue sky - light.

Yay, hello Spring... though it's still Baltic out there.

Can you have your cake and eat it? Well I can tomorrow, it's my birthday!!

There's been a family somewhere around Ballymena sitting round a dining table looking at a pretty lack-lustre roast dinner this Easter.

Quite why someone would get so annoyed at a football team they'd throw a leg of lamb onto the pitch, I can't think.

Perhaps the accompanying bottle is a clue. The chair? Who knows.

Neither can I quite work out why an animal rights charity thinks it's ok to eat a lamb's leg but sees throwing one as a 'disregard for animal welfare'.

God only knows what they would have had to say about the horse's head on the doorstep incident. They take their hockey a bit seriously don't they in Cookstown?

Lots of questions today!

Listened to the United game this afternoon while writing about the rise of celebrity culture in the media over the past forty years.

I'm a girl: I can multitask.

Three-nil. Resounding win. Obviously always a joy to see off Liverpool at home.

The whole experience was somewhat marred by this bloke though - Alan Green. Who he then? I mean, apart from a rabid Liverpool fan.

As a reporter I had 'unbiased reporting' drummed into me from the moment I stepped into the classroom on my National Council for Training of Journalists pre-entry course. Fairhandedness obviously doesn't extend to football commentating.

My favourite moment was when he just launched into a 'United aren't playing that well' spiel just as we scored the third.

Humble pie? Hmm.. hope he chokes on it!

Displacement: In psychology, displacement is a subconscious defence mechanism where the mind redirects affects from an object felt to be dangerous or unacceptable to an object felt to be safe or acceptable. For instance, some people punch cushions when angry.

Displacement in action: Deana has a dissertation due in on 23 April. So far today she has contucted a fruitless search for an item of clothing that disappeared six months ago, reread some old love letters and thoroughly depressed herself, ironed six pillowslips, eaten two slices of cheese on toast and watched the snow melt.

Apologies for ignoring all your blogs for the past few days - no, time, no time! Big love to the special Bunny at this celebratory time. Big Easter hug, Bunnybunbunbun! x

Free Tibet.

Five Years in Iraq.

Happy Easter.

Think I'll be battoning down the hatches with my chocolate bunnies, duvet and ipod.

Someone let me know when things brighten up out there.

... well definitely in the running.

It's a BBC Radio Liverpool phone in quiz thing.

My personal favourites:

Driving on the Left

John Barnes Legs

It's all good. Can't stop grinning. Happy Mondays *ooh, which is a Manc thing, but whatever...* Enjoy!

Upside of trying to juggle a full-time job, a part-time master's degree and anything vaguely resembling a social life... the dross gets dumped.

Just pottered through the BBC news website - see what's happening out there.

*Free Tibet, Free Tibet, Free Tibet*

I spot this. Dancing On Ice. I haven't a clue who any of these contestants are.

And I bet no one else will in three year's time.

Right - back to the gindstone.

Verisimilitude

Def. The quality of appearing to be true or real.

Verisimilitide in action: Deana appears to be working on her dissertation. She says that's why she's on the computer so surely that must be true. She is, in fact, playing about on her blog and needs to get on with some bloody work. She knows this, and yet...

Right.

Our Thespian had asked to see my new haircut.

I had to have my pic taken for work this week (I am shamefully useless with a camera) so I have one now.

New happy shorn sheep haircut. My hairdresser is great, though if she takes off any more I will have to start wearing pink.

We don't know which one of them it is, but I have my suspicions.

It could be the big, beefy white one and then there's the two black ones. They're brother and sister and live up the top of the row. But I reckon they're all in a gang, together.

The little devils have been at it since we moved in two and half years ago, but this time they have gone too far.

Who? The neighbourhood cat burglars, that's who! I don't know what we've got they want but they won't give it up.

We've got a cat flap in our back door, which we gaffer-taped up because it was drafty round the ankles otherwise in the utility room/space the size of a broom cupboard barely wide enough to swing a hamster, never mind a cat.

And every week they've had it off again. They can't get in, the flappy bit's locked. But they just love to rip off the gaffer tape and let in the draft.

This morning I noticed they'd dragged off the tape on the inside as well. How the hell are they doing this?

Of course I could nail it up but I have ambitions of getting my own cat one day, for whom the cat flap will be ideal. In the meantime I'm getting gate crashers.

I've never caught them at it but I imagine them out there in the dead of night, balaclavas on with little holes for their ears, little stripy jerseys and bags with 'swag' written on them. They've got their penknives out, clutched in their front paws and they're pulling away at it. Nextdoor's security light suddenly comes on and they all freeze and back up against the wall. One says 'Give it here, I'm using my claws' and the kitty frenzy begins.

Because there's always a mess of ripped up gaffer tape on the step.

Unless, of course, they're sniffing the glue off it, or smoking it... You know sometimes I think I have too much imagination.

... off for a run, I can see where I'm going at last.

Then I've a day in Manchester Uni library swotting.

God, if my life were any more exciting... I don't know how I stand up to the constant thrill of it all.

*Focuses on day after dissertation hand-in date - April 24 - and visualises wild celebratory events too incriminating to be mentioned in public*

I was hoping I'd catch Uskie's picture poser this morning. Seems the early bird doesn't always get all the fun... see you later x

Oh dear. I've discovered a new vice.

Horse racing.

I know, I know, slippery slope... end in tears... this way lies dragons, rocks, penuary, looming disaster... blah, blah, blah.

But I had a brill time this week during the Cheltenham racing days. I only had one win (and some seconds) but my fiver seemed to last all week due to some byzantine betting concoction called a lucky 15 (I think).

And I've discovered a racing chum at work and she knows lots, so once this dissertation is in (due date: April 23 - argh, that seems scarily soon now) I reckon it's time to start studying form.

See, I learned some of the lingo already... and she's off!

I haven't twittered on about my inability to sleep/stay asleep for a while.

Sadly it hasn't magically gone away, I've just got bored of talking about it.

I can now get off to sleep, but I wake up at 3.30ish. But it's better than nothing so I'm really not complaining. Actually, it's probably pretty useless because that happens every third night - nights one and two are largely sleepless. I get one night's sleep every three nights. That's rubbish, isn't it?

Learning how to function with next to no sleep takes a while. I look like a grumpy panda most of the time, but it's doable. But dear God, it's so boring - what is there to do at 5am? Well, 5.42am.

It's still dark. I can't go running till I can see the difference between river and not-river on the trail. I don't want to read.

Oh, thank god for blogging... and cups of tea.

On the bus.

This morning.

No, not me. On the floor. Vomit.

Went to sit down and then realised what I was walking into. Scurried quickly to my right and another seat.

Yesterday smelly old man who lives down the road and wears his door key round his neck managed to keep seats behind and in front of him clear. That's pretty good going.

I was fortunately upwind in the circle.

It's enough to make me consider buying a car again.

Got to go - it's Cheltenham this week. Got to monitor my horses' progress this afternoon.

So who thinks She sacrificed Pym instead then?

Oh...

She's got better.

Cancel the crate of champagne and I'll stop polishing my best grave-dancing shoes.

Ooh I love going to the hairdressers', getting a head massage, chatting to Nina and coming out with my hair all scuffy and short.

And it always leads to frock shopping. Well I just feel soooo good.

This wasn't a shopping mission, I was only looking. But there it was.

The dress.

Fine knit and periwinkle blue, it's exactly the same colour as the one Cinderella wears to the ball on the second night in the Ladybird book I had as a frock-loving seven year old. Oh yes, I've been obsessing about The Frocks for a long time. And its all empire line with pretty buttons and little waist tie and short sleeves and knee lenth and just beautiful.

And yes, I bought it. And now I'm so pleased with myself I need a nap.

And yes, pay-day is ten days off... but needs must when the devil drives.

Our film reviewer has left us. Filmflamfanman where are you?

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

... I've caught a bloody cold now.

*Sneezes violently and sprays spit across desk.
Mops face/keyboard/notebook with tissue*

Eugh! Dammit! Eugh!

Uselsss. Useless. Useless.

I have the most boring short sightedness prescription in the world.

Minus five. In my right eye only. Left eye - can't see a thing.

Yes, I know, pretty bad but hardly puts me on the list for a guide dog.

So all I want is one box of disposable lenses for my right eye. Do my Opticians' have them? No. Will they have them tomorrow? No. Will they be there for Monday? Oh, possibly... err, do I want them to ring me?

So, no running for me this weekend. I am a speccie till Monday, at least.

Yes, I know I could have shopped ahead but I've been sick. I ran out. It happens.

In the Valley of the Blind the one-eyed woman apparently needs foresight.

I thank you.

So I've stopped being sick, feeling woozey and having constant hot and cold shivers.

My tummy doesn't gurgle, groan or gripe and, well, let's just say nether regions lie dormant.

Looks like I'll be back at work tomorrow and I'll have to abandon my sofa squat and move back to the bedroom.

But how am I going to get through the day without Don't Shoot Me first thing in the morning? I've grown accustomed to Frasier. I can actually understand what Karen is saying on Will and Grace now.

Maybe it's for the best. I caught Loose Women yesterday and actually thought it was quite good.

That noise in the background? The sound of brain cells committing suicide.

I've been quiet on the Kevin Keegan baiting front recently.

Well, why do all the hard work when Kevin is just so good at it?

How long has he been manager at Newcastle now? Ok, so they were plummeting like a stone towards the drop zone anyway and they're three points away from that now already.

But there's no need for the teary interviews yet, is there, really? Anyone see the post-Man Utd chat with the BBC the other week - very sad.

And then getting caught out by Blackburn where the manager is another Man Utd star, Mark Hughes. All very depressing, I'm sure.

But cheer up, lad. No one wants to see you go down. Where would be the fun in that.

...oh no, it's a flying Australian and his chihuahua!

'She knew that we were in danger, but she didn't panic or anything,' said the very sad man who clearly thinks a dog so small it could be taken by a guineapig somehow still has the brains and wit of Lassie.

Whatever happened to Skippy?

His Nibs brought one home tonight.

'You won't like it,' he said. 'It's horrible. I got it from someone at work. I don't know why I brought it home...' he places the offending article on the kitchen table.

I'm sick, as we know, so I'm not in a good mood to start with. I pick it up. I glare at him. I glare at it. I glare at him again. I thumb through its shiny pages. My eys are confused by the glaring images, the bright colours. Shocked and confused I try to make sense of it. I feel dizzy.

'Oh my god, that's disgusting. That's vile.'

'I know, I know, I knew you wouldn't like it.'

'But it's the NME. What have f**k they done to the NME?'

Yes, YOU Conor 'I'm-so-bloody-trendy-I-don't-have-a-last-name but I'm having my picture in on page 3'. What fresh Hell is this?

How have you managed to turn the layout of the NME into some unreadable explosion in a paint factory with some words and pictures thrown in? It's bitty, it's tedious, nothing flows and it's full of lists... and a bloody shopping guide!

Where are the words? Where are the writers of this generation? I grew up with Paul Morley, Julie Birchill, Tony Parsons. I read on with Stuart Marconie, Steve Lamaq. Aren't words important any more?

There's certainly lots of pictures. The NME now shamelessly features pop stars knocking 50 but uses photographs of them when they were in their 20s. Man over 30? Then put on these big dark sunglasses. Female over 30? Oh sorry can't see you - you don't exist. I know we live in a youth obsessed world but if you are going to listen to our music why can't you look at our faces?

I read the NME every week for years. Years and years. This is just horrible. It's like turning over the layout of the Guardian to The Star's subsdesk. This is some horrible teen-pop self-conscious, overly affected Smash Hits pastiche. Stop it.

And I'm now so cross I feel sick again. Excuse me....

Oh poor me, oh poor me...

Tummy not happy. Bottom very, very unhappy. All started about 1pm. Now rolling beyond queasy and visualising projectile vomiting quite easily. Bit hot now. Was a bit cold earlier when I collapsed on the sofa and dosed for half an hour.

'Oh no, you must have The Terrible Virus,' said his Nibs.

'Oh no, not The Terrible Virus,' I replied, faning as much wit and good humour as I could muster.

'But you'll be infectious. You can catch that,' he said while slowly backing away fown the landing.

Beugh!

Excuse me....

*exits stage right, back of left hand on forehead, trips over own melodrama on way to bathroom*

Well thank god the weather's improved enough for housebound swots to get on their running shorts and plough down the riverbank in some fresh air and sunshine.

Lovely, lovely sun and blue sky and chubby clouds this morning. The wind was still up and the ducks who weren't being dragged along sideways through the water were stood on the bank staring at it thoughtfully (or not, let's face it a duck's mind is his own business).Though the banks were a bit on an obstacle course of broken branches and slidy mud I bounded along to a new collection of running tunes I'd put together for the ipod.

I'm even crafty enough to put the ones that really kick in around the 20-35 minute mark where you go all weary and you really need to push on. And so, as I caught sight of the bridge that holds up princess parkway I was chuckling inside to the Kinks and Little Richard.

I walloped up the new hill three times today - definitely worth a leap of joy and achievement - and played running as fast as I can... and then walking a bit... all the way home.

Right, back to the books....

Bit of an add on from yesterday.

It's been five years since Rachel Corrie died trying to stop the bulldozing of a family's home in Gaza.

Can you believe that? Five years.

I've spent pretty much all of today pouring over papers, nose deep in books and giving myself a headache over focus group research techniques.

I was spitting this morning as the weather was too foul even for me to go out running and so, after I'd scurried round the market and grabbed a paper I sat down to pour over the Guardian.

At our last uni conference, when we talked about our research projects, I met a woman from Palestine. God knows how she'd managed to get permission to attend. I'm ashamed to say I can't remember her research project details but I can tell you it was very serious stuff.

Again Gaza looms up like some great looping news nightmare where children die daily in rocket attacks, homes destroyed, lives ripped apart. Whether they are Israeli or Palestinian lives.

Why on earth do people still believe killing each other is ever going to solve anything? What hope is there for any peace when the Egyptian mediator cancels his visit because of escalating fighting?

Studying got put on hold for an hour while I went for a brooding walk along the river, slammed on the ipod, and let the wind blow me about.

And since then I've buckled down and stopped 'poor me-ing' about the amount of work I have to do at weekends. Because it did strike me, as I watched a moorhen flapping about on a path looking incredibly cute, that my lot is a very lucky one and my Palestinian colleague might not be alive this afternoon to work on her dissertation.