Today has been horrible. I think this may be death: that's how rough I feel.

Woke up nice and early to finish my essay, then moved to the PC room to print it off - for want of a nail the shoe was lost - but my account refused to log in, and half the computers were broken. It was OK, once someone else left but then my files crashed at least three times - for want of a shoe the horse was lost - and then, when I tried to print, the printer sulked for ten whole minutes. Then I ran out of printer credits - for want of a horse the rider was lost - and after a kind donation by a friend, the printer ran out of paper - for want of a rider the battle was lost - and only then could I get on the road.

I hate the film studies department. Their room is five floors up, and hard to find - and they set their deadline at 12, not a minute later. I should have anticipated printing my essay and cover sheet would require some 45 minutes, leaving me only 20 minutes to get from Hampstead to the Strand. It can be done. Unfortunately, this work had left me no time for lunch and a very slight breakfast - so every time I launched into my Run Lola Run impression, my legs siezed up instantly due to having no energy. It was OK once I was on the road, as I couldn't control the speed of that except in the in-between bits, when I happily barged and trod on people to grasp back a few minutes.

I hit Charing Cross at 11:45. The plan was to run down the Strand, which again can be done, but not on a small glass of Honey Loops. So I hopped on a bus down the Strand, which for the first time EVER had a traffic jam - for want of a battle the kingdom was lost - so I hopped off before the stop, and staggered as fast as I could to the university. I wanted to die by this point: running was out of the question. I absent mindedly thought about Caves of Androzani, which I always do when something nasty happens or am required to do a stupid amount of running against a ticking clock, which happens tends to happen to me a lot. I can't explain how, why, anything now - got to get to the Classics department, not much time - save that it's an brilliantly cruel episode of Doctor Who, and in my brain, it's become a sort of subconscious litmus test of the last things in the world I want to do. You'll be amazed at the things which seem to me like a good idea in comparison. It occurs to me out of the blue at times such as this - "well, you're about to fail Film Studies - but hey! It could be worse! You could be rewatching Caves of Androzani..."

Mercifully, I didn't get lost in that maze of tunnels - by this point, running was out of the question - and made it to the film studies department - up those stupid four flights of stairs because the lift feels very dangerous and the emergency telephone is broken - and staggered back through the door, dropping my burdens to the floor in an exahusted slump, and then I checked my watch.

11:58. And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.

The Queen Bat who was overseeing the submissions gave me a very funny look. She said it was fine that I didn't have a word count, mercifully as I didn't have the time - or, indeed, strength - to go find it out.

Yes. I know. Never again.

It was comparatively relaxing getting my Classics essay in. I returned to print cover sheets at a leisurely pace, sweet mercy I ate something, which felt marvellous. I chatted to the nice receptionist who always takes in the essays.

And then I attempted to relax. Reason number 8 why I hate my University - nowhere to rest. London is tiring, and students keep unreal hours - yet it's unreasonable for me to go home between lectures for a nap. Yet in all that huge building, nowhere. I finally curled up in the Compass, on their lovely sofas, removed my shoes and attempted to recoup from the morning's stress. Sorry, no feet on the sofas. Fair enough. But I didn't appreciate being interrupted half an hour later, once I'd used my coat to cushon my feet. I wasn't dirtying it at that point, and furthermore, the Compass is meant to be a student support centre where people can go for quiet time. Sleeping should be within that, surely? There are plenty of other places to study. I got thrown out for some arbitary, stupid rule. So I asked - they are meant to be student advice - whether they knew anywhere I could rest, and they recommended Chapters. The cafe which throws you out if you don't buy their coffee every ten minutes. And they looked at me sympathetically, and I wanted to scream let me sleep here then!

Ultimately, I didn't get my rest. I stayed through to Latin, didn't pay attention due to exaustion and the niggling urge to watch Caves of Androzani (brilliantly cruel, but also brilliant full stop - you could watch it three times in a row and still be ready for more. If you hadn't topped yourself.)

The trip home was also pretty funny. The Tube carriage doors shut prematurely in our carriage. I'd just let a man with a bag go in front of me - he got trapped in them, struggled through and tried to hold them open for me and an older woman. No joy - but another group of men in the carriage, seeing what was going on, opened the doors between the carriages so we could move to one with open doors through those "DANGER OF DEATH" doors. We moved as quickly as we could, but didn't get through before they closed too. I thanked them. It reminded me a little of the doors shutting on Journey's End Donna: these things happen for a reason. So I assumed it was a sort of fate, as the doors worked perfectly well at the next station, from where I walked home via the library.



Last night my dad sent me an email entitled "if the flu panic takes off", then followed this "if" with a detailed 10-point email on how not to get it, which struck me as very strange. It was all sound advice, and thank you for it, but it struck me as weird considering he'd never thought of it before. Flus happen all the time, right? Until I typed "flu" into Google and discovered a

MASSIVE KILLER PANDEMIC AAARGH!!

about to conquer the Earth. I'm a bit out of the news loop here, and suddenly Richard Burton started rumbling through my brain:

"It seems totally incredible to me now that everyone spent that evening as
though it were just like any other. From the railway station came the sound
of shunting trains, ringing and rumbling, softened almost into melody by the
distance. It all seemed so safe and tranquil. Around me, the daily routine
of life, working eating, sleeping, was continuing serenely as it had for
countless years." (War of the Worlds, musical)

Suddenly, and I think it was point 6: try and come back to Eyam Guernsey as soon as possible, I anticipated waking up in the opening scenes of 28 Days Later. I've wondered before how it would be to live in impossible times, such as a world war. I'm not sure how anyone can comprehend Total War who hasn't been through it: the terrorist thing occasionally looked like turning that way, but I was always sure things would be fine. I'm pretty sure things will be fine this time around, but I'm following the list of paranoid instructions just in case. If things do get that bad, then I am guiltily looking forward to the fiction that will emerge from the experience (if I do, that is). The only noticeable difference in my daily activities is getting wrapped sandwiches instead of loose buns for lunch, and an urge to indulge in post-apocalyptic fiction. Anyone want to join me for a War of the Worlds-28 Days Later-12 Monkeys marathon and end-of-the-world party?

This includes 9: if you feel unwell, see a doctor immediately.

Now don't laugh. I wouldn't have dreamed of being so daft, if not for a chance encounter with Metro magazine this morning listing the symptoms of the beastie. Curiously, it turns out I've had almost all the symptoms of flu in the last week: I was hit out of the blue by a droopy, sleepy thing at my grandma's house, which at the time I put down to misery and stress, and then this weekend I lost my voice. Both of these were weird enough, because I get ill very rarely. The third symptom on the list was loss of appetite, which I do periodically get every few weeks, but I happen to be also having a spate now. I'm only missing fever.

So I did attend a Kings drop-in session about it, as I had three hours to kill. I was virtually positive that, had I a killer flu, I'd be feeling properly ropey, and she confirmed whan I already knew: it was just a nasty series of coincidences. And then she nagged me about whether or not I needed an MMR jab.

Tonight the, headline on Voice magazine read the End is Nigh...

...but fortunately, it was talking about the family unit. Phew. I think.

Incidentally, have you all heard the Jeff Wayne War of the Worlds? Narrated by Richard Burton's addictively velvet voice, it's HG's classic story - progged up. I'm reminded just how good it is on a relisten. "Forever Autumn" is the famous single, and NOTHING beats "The Eve of the War" and "Horsell Common". It does trickle in the second half, true, but "Spirit of Man" is also an awesome progballad to scream along to. There's a great album of remixes and dubs based on it too, thank you Spotify. Spielburg's adaptation chose, smartly I guess, to use very very little music. Unfortunately, the record is so iconic in my brain at least, that it kept playing over the images.

"No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century..."

The films are good, HG's a classic, and Welles deserves a prize for cheek. But this is the definitive version.

Dump-du-dump-dididi-dump-di-dump -UUUUUUUUUUUUUU-LAAAAAAAAAAAA!