"Someday this war's gonna end. That would be just fine with the boys
on the boat. They weren't looking for anything more than a way home.
Trouble is, I've been back there, and I knew that it just didn't exist
anymore. If that's how Kilgore fought the war, I began to wonder what
they really had against  Kurtz. It wasn't just insanity and murder.
There was enough of that to go around for everyone."

That film is going around and around in my head. But it's something
 about the music which makes it cling to your brain. I couldn't find
 you the clip, alas, but it's worth a listen. And I'm adjusting from
spending 12-out-of-13-hours on my own, back to living  in close
 proximity with three other people. Not an altogether unpleasant
experience. But they do think things like Scrabble are a good idea.

It's not nice being back in my house though. Without getting too paranoid, it has a bad thing going on. It's freezing in winter and boiling in summer. Plus, the showers don't really work - and I thought student accomodation was going to be dodgy. It's not small, by no means - but it feels very, very claustrophobic. Partly because my family are quarrelsome, but you get it when you're on your own too. Which might be the knowledge that you're 20 minutes from anywhere interesting, literally trapped as much as metaphorically, but I'm convinced the house has something to do with it. In addition, I don't dream well here. I'm a great sleeper - I drop straight off and am dead till the morning - so living somewhere I frequently take ages to sleep, have nightmares and wake at weird times feels particularly jarring. Especially when you consider I'm closer to a regular sleeping routine than I ever was in Hampstead. I did briefly consider that the house may be a bit haunted, but dropped that line of reasoning instantly because I didn't like where it might lead.

There are good things too, of course. Parents who forget you're vegitarian and get you taramasalata and your favourite brand of duck pate specially. At which point I couldn't let either to to waste. This was genuine forgetfulness - they are pretty supportive and, unfortunately, won't forget again. A massive, massive TV with a sound system which makes the room vibrate - Top Gun instantly became a favourite film, when watched with the volume up. All the stuff I'd been missing, although that's not as much as one might expect. Naturally, I left Planet of Fire in Hampstead, and naturally I am already regretting leaving it there. They have to release it on DVD! That way, at least it'd be practical for me to carry it in a small bag over my heart just in case I neeeeed to watch it right away, which tends to happen on a daily basis when I don't have it to hand. My piano! Sweet beauty, my wonderful piano. Five months with that Hampstead monster had actually convinced me I couldn't play the piano as well as I'd thought, because it's so muzzy and out of tune that it's only fit for pop/rock style slamming the keys. Now I'm home, I can play Beethoven, and Grieg, and my wonderful wonderful Chopin again.

So I've spent the afternoon reading "How Not to Write", and it's a very funny book, but also frustrating. I'm going through the comments and thinking - "but Dickens/Ian McEwan/Victor Hugo/Jane Austen does this ALL THE TIME". But, Doctor Who authors really do them all. Including the appalling ones. I claimed that Doctor Who books have done more for my appreciation of literature than anything else, and I stick by this statement. Doctor Who is the television equivalent of music's "variations on a theme": Doctor + Companion land, there's something funny going on, but they can solve it in under 45 minutes using only a vegitable, their wits, and some sickening faith in humanity. The books have an even harder time - starting in the 90s, they'd already endured some 40 years of this plot in its infinite variety.

It's like the world's most strict art competition, or one of those contests when you have to finish the statement in under 100 words. The result is seeing over 50 authors write identical scenes in their own style, and it's this comparison which I regard as so valuable. Doctor Who novels can be boiled down to elements. There will almost certainly be a scene of the TARDIS landing. Most go for a "wheezing groaning sound as reality was ripped, and with a flashing light an unusual object materialised to the surprise of only a single seagull as he flew on his way". Yaaawn. Compare that to, say Matrix - and I'd type the passage out, had I not lent the book - where the appearance of the TARDIS is made completely terrifying to a random bystander. It's an awesome piece of text, to convince the audience that this familiar, loveable item's appearance is as genuinely unsettling as it strictly should be. Same goes for "let me explain my nefarious plan!" scenes, introductions to Fred the extra marked for death, and transparent excuses to get companions naked. And all of these things, crap as they may be, can work. But getting to experience them all on a regular basis really does give you an acute appreciation of what works and what doesn't. Some Doctor Who novels are the literary equivalent of the airport novel. Others have genuine literary merit - see Lawrence Miles, Paul Magrs or Lance Parkin if you fancy an experience.

And I've been having fun with my Tarot cards. Lets get this straight: no, I do not believe just by shuffling a pack of cards, however prettily they be decorated, I will recieve an answer from the god of lucky guesses. Yet I still do it. I love the "ooh, occult!"-yness of them, and the history and art. It'd also be a great party trick. I used to be very good at palm reading, and although it's another pseudoscience I'm pretty sceptical about, that doesn't stop it being harmless fun. I did it for a charity fair a few years back, and spooked my Technology teacher so much that she still mentions it when we meet. I must have touched a nerve. The problem with palm reading is it's really, really non-specific. My life line intersects my head line, which indicates I am a dependant person. And it's true, I really do depend on other people - I tend to get very rubbish sans friends and conversation. Yet if the two lines didn't meet, indicating I'm independant - well, you've seen my dress sense.

My point is, I believe myself to be a paradox - and I think a lot of other people are too. I am dependant (in some ways, in certain circumstances), as much as I am independant. I can be very emotional. I can also be markedly unsympathetic. Tell someone a fact about themselves, and they'll squidge their own life to fit, ignoring the bits that don't work and adapting those which do. This is either a sign of wanting to believe, or that humanity is too multi-faceted to be boiled down to single character traits.

Tarot is a far more convincing mode of divination, as far as predicting the future can be convincing. And I do find it genuinely helpful. There are two ways of looking at this. The first is with blind faith, that like or not I'm channelling some higher power. And the second would be Rorschach's response - it's just humanity seeing patterns in a completely random structure. Still, you are sitting down and clearing your head, and dedicating half an hour to thinking soley about an issue. For me, it doesn't matter whether this is "putting yourself in a ritual state" or just calming down and being rational because it does work, on whatever level you choose to take it. The interpreting process is just a formalised way of thinking through a problem from a new angle. I would never, ever go to a professional Tarot reader for sincere advice, because you'd lose that introspective experience. I would, however, certainly go once were it reasonably priced.

And besides. It's very, very cool. So hopefully (along with two glittering essays) I'll bring a new talent back to Hampstead.

Now, if anyone wants to see my thoughts on the Planet of the Dead trailer (or, by the time you read this, perhaps the episode itself - it's out on the 11th), pop over to Malcassairo for my enlightened thoughts.