Et In Arcadia Ego

And as a coda to that, I am in love with Ed Stoppard.

Well I woke up today
And the world was a restless place
It could have been that way for me

And I wandered around
And I thought of your face
That Christmas looking back at me

I wish today was just like every other day
'Cause today has been the best day
Everything I ever dreamed

And I started to walk
Pretty soon I will run
And I'll come running back to you

'Cause I followed my star
And that's what you are
I've had a merry time with you

I wish today was just like every other day
'Cause today has been the best day
Everything I ever dreamed

So have a good life
Do it for me
Make me so proud
Like you want me to be
Where ever you are
I'm thinking of you oceans apart
I want you to know

Well I woke up today and you're on the other side
Our time will never come again
But if you can still dream
Close your eyes it will seem
That you can see me now and then

I wish today was just like every other day
'Cause today has been the best day
Everything I ever dreamed

I wish today was just like every other day
'Cause today has been the best day
Everything I ever dreamed

Suitable for all sorts of reasons. Today, I saw Arcadia at the Duke of York, a statement which means far more to me than it possibly can to you. Today, they announced the identity of the new companion. Yesterday, I saw Moths ate my Doctor Who Scarf. Today, Phil Spector has been jailed. And I could explain why each of these things are relevant, how I feel about them, and why the song sums it up perfectly - but it'd take me several hours (my blogs always do), and go off onto tangents, and because it'd get angst ridden (have you seen my recent Twittervomit ?!) and because, well, sometimes it's just damn fine to be secretive and mysterious. Which rather goes against the mandate of blogging - but today, nothing could be finer.

Now I am just fed up.

I adore squalour. I live in a mess, but I choose to live that way. I find imperfection charming - I like things which are broken, it gives them personality. You probably agree with me, to an extent: which of you does not wax romantic over well-loved books? But I take it very far indeed, and so we come to the hallowed halls of the Dude in Brown. The taps come out cloudy, one of the showers is screwed, the kitchen is an unholy mess and one side of the room is always out of electricity - but it tends to swop around so you can never guess. I've never minded these things, merely enjoy grumbling about them. No sense of smell makes the kitchen situation less pressing for me, and I enjoy the morning gamble as to which toaster might work. Even the two occasions on which faulty equipment almost caused fires - did cause a fire, in one case - well, it's just student living eh?

Something snapped about a week ago. To begin with, I'm actually noticing the mess in the kitchen where I never did before. It bothers me that I can't have a glass of water from the cold taps, and that when I make ice it's filled with flecks of tangled grit. And now this. I'm mucking around on the web, when suddenly, the screen appears to flicker at me. It's like a vicious optical illusion, and I have to look away. I assume I've been on the computer waaay too long and start switching it off. And then the ceiling light starts flashing - not going dim and pfut, but actually gold and black in quick succession. Had it been a horror movie, the ghosts would have appeared then and staggered towards me as I ran down the never-ending asylum corridor, and with every flash the ghosts got closer. Just like Blink in fact. I assumed it was about to stop, but it didn't, so I switched it off at the wall and stumbled out into the corridor. I assumed it was the whole building, but apparently just my room. I was both rationally and irrationally unnerved by this. It was about 7 in the evening and getting quite dark, and I was still unreasonably edgy about my bad dream. It felt awfully like A Sign Meaning Something Or Other. And rationally, because my ceiling light had just majorly malfunctioned. I gave it five minutes, and went back in to try the light - everything else in the building was fine after all. No, crazy mad horror-movie flashes again - and this time it was sparking, SPARKING folks, and very pretty it was too. Oh how I love student living, eh?

So I switched it off, looked out my torch - a life saver, that torch has always been. I think I will name it. I deliberately took my Sixth Doctor coat to go and complain at reception, and as an afterthought, grabbed Planet of Fire as well. If I'd seriously thought my room was about to burst into flames there are other possessions I'd have put hands on too - sentimental jewellrey, some of my sketches, Aurinko, my Dorian Gray. As it was, I was pretty sure it would be alright, but it's an indication of how much the physical video of Planet of Fire means to me that I refused to risk it. Felt a bit stupid carrying it all the way to reception, but oh well. Reception can't do anything till morning. Which is fair enough, but I was still pretty irritated. I took the oppertunity to complain that they'd never replaced my broken anglepoise either, and thus had no light, and he found me a new one. Twas sweet of him, but frankly, I'm not happy sleeping here. But what can I say? Student living!

Sweet dreams to all.

Oh, today has been a little nuts. I had an appalling dream. Well, no - merely weird. It was coherent, made narrative sense and I was almost entirely lucid. Those three facts are very unusual. My dreams are always as organised as a Pollock painting. Most dump me into the "middle" of a plot, without ever providing me with an introduction or conclusion, and I am never ever lucid. This was dramatic, moving, and violent. And Flame related. It's the last bit which is making me worry.

Any regulars on the blog will know that a disturbing dream has the power to destabilise me for the rest of the day. This was very disturbing. I wrote all the details down, but daren't look at them. It reminds me of a time I accidentally killed a character off while doing a story draft. I'd just started this new chapter out of the blue, and then without my permission N. goes and dies on me, simply walks off and into the afterlife. I was a bit shocked. I do have some fairly romantic ideas about the writing process: I do strongly believe things tend to write themselves. But I love N. so, so badly that I saved the file, closed it and haven't looked at it since. Or thought about it. I refuse to admit it's happened. This is what the dream feels like: it actually feels like a piece of Flame continuity come to punish me. This other character, I haven't let die - I've thought about it, abstractly, but never actually done it. I was just intending to let the issue linger open-ended. God, I'm not going to think about it. It was merely a very stupid dream.

In any case, it has been bothering me. At lot. This afternoon, I went to watch some TV to get it out of the system. I've been saving Invasion of Time - Fourth Doctor plus Leela - for a day when I needed some Fourth Doctor. I don't have a favourite Doctor, but I do recognise they are all very different. Tom Baker's era is generally unworrying - something about the style and tone of the episodes, the confidence and mockery in his performance. This isn't necessarily better or worse, just convenient on days when I need something comforting. I only watch the Third Doctor when I feel like paying attention, Doctor Seven for atmosphere - the others I can't even define, it's too intangible.

I decided on a whim to watch Peeping Tom instead - nasty 60s serial killer movie, about a voyeur who likes to film murders. I was already on edge, and hoped it'd shock it out of the system. Well, it's wonderful. Terrifying, but wonderful. I don't really like scary movies because, unsuprisingly, they scare me. But it's a fun emotion in small doses, and this is a very artfully directed and challengning movie. Because it's a film about films, about watching, and it pulls that whole trick where you despise the protagonist but can't take your own eyes off the screen.
Calypso, next time you want an interesting, twisted movie about male gaze, this comes highly recommended. I was glad it was just me, though - I've mentioned before that I'm a fairly physical viewer. I flinch, cower, bounce, laugh, whatever is appropriate - I think I might have actually screamed in the last ten minutes. Damn fine movie.

And then I tried Invasion of Time which bucked my expectation by being possibly the least comforting, least calming Fourth Doctor adventure I've already seen. And dull and confusing into the bargain.

Tomorrow will be better.

Fortune favours the brave. And often, the mad. And she has a massive soft spot for those willing to wake up at 7 AM, to go out in a rainstorm, to sit in the cold for two hours on a chance of getting a theatre ticket.

Welcome to the world of West End crash-queuing. A bonkers system, but one I'm rather fond of. It seems that all mega-productions release about ten tickets on the day for the day's performance, at some ungodly opening hour. I don't understand why this system is fair, nor why the theatres think it's a good idea, but I am glad for it. It gives those with initiative and a taste for pain a chance to see productions they otherwise would have no chance at. I'm by no means hardy - put me through some proper testing and I'm positive I'd wilt away. But I am very easily distracted, which gives me an advantage over the rest of humanity when it comes to cold, hunger and early mornings - I don't think about it, and it goes away. They simply don't bother me if I have something more interesting to do.

So I dragged myself up at 7, and was overjoyed to hear a roaring outside - a humid summer storm. I like the rain, and consider myself hugely in its debt ever since an incident I will not elaborate on. It can rain every day of the year as far as I care: that's how big a favour I owe it. Furthermore, I regard Central London in the winter and the rain as simply beautiful, I don't tend to be too bothered by extreme weather (barring heat...), and I have a massive umbrella. It also occured to me that it might put some people off waiting. Waiting for what? Oh, you've no idea how upset I was that I had no one to crack the rather weak and obvious quip about waiting for Godot as we all waited for Waiting for Godot tickets. I'm fond of my existentialist drama, and it appears that this is the theatre event of the decade.

I arrived at 8, two hours before the box office opened. Yes, I know, but I queued for Hamlet last year and managed to miss it by being only an hour early. I got all nostalgic about those queueing experiences - listening to He Jests at Scars, getting a hot chocolate with Friend 4, and dressing down, trying not to look like a Doctor Who fan. London is exciting in the early morning when there's no one about - and the weather cheered me considerably. I'm a winter-and-autumn person, and London suits that time of year particularly well. I'd brought a bag of books to plunge into, and in the event re-read Neverwhere, a book which Neil Gaiman might have written for me perfectly. It's practically a love letter to London, combining my adoration of the city with an appreciation of grunge, decay and abandoned things. There are several extremely annoying elements to the story, but the sheer power of the ideas wins through. I got about 3/4 of the way through, which was pretty good for two hours.

I made friends with the people in the queue next to me - they were French students, apparently, who had studied the play. They offered me strawberries which I very gladly accepted, and was very put out by their friendliness. They had the most wonderful happiness I'd ever seen, kind smiles and an open way of speaking - so much so, I wondered what was wrong. You know in horror films, when you meet people with glazed smiles? Or Barbie and Ken from "Doll's House" in Sandman. Later, I offered Him an umbrella when He was going to fetch drinks. He turned it down, offered to get me a hot drink and I politely, regretfully, declined. Oh, hot drinks! I don't know how we managed two hours on the pavement in November for Hamlet, because even today it was freezing.

I liked the odds - I figured there was going to be about 8 tickets, which justabout included me. When we got inside, the leader of the group beyond me, Barbie and Ken said she figured there were 12 tickets. Which stunk, considering what happened next: because as a group, they were intending to pick up all 12. Now let's be fair: they had queued since 6 in the AM. They had been sitting in the wet and the cold for three hours, so more than deserved them. But you can surely understand why this was a little objectionable? You could certainly feel the entire queue rankle at them. Anyway, they snaffled up the cheap tickets and went out cheering and whooping. If I was being unreasonable before, then I hope you appreciate that this was in extremely poor taste in front of a queue of 25, some of which I knew were going to go home disappointed.

I'd been pretty sure of success all day, and indeed was given the choice between £15 for the worst seat in the house, or £47 for the best. I went for the former: I'm a student, I'm stingy, I'm intending to go to the theatre three times this week and two concerts the week after, and also I knew there would be people in that queue to whom the best seats really mattered. I'm happy and able to crook my neck - you get a different view, not a worse one. In case you were wondering, I intend to see stand up comedian Toby Hadoke do Moths Ate my Doctor Who Scarf on Thursday, and am trying to get Arcadia tickets on either Wednesday or Friday. If Wednesday, I might queue to see Jude Law in Hamlet on the opening night. If Friday, I might take advantage of the Spring Awakening Wednesday discount to see it again before it closes. Next week brings the Manic Street Preachers and Patrick Wolf.

I did not feel like cheering. I just felt awful for everyone else. I still do, though I'm not sorry enough to yknow surrender my ticket. I ambled off and found an adorably normal diner - the type of place ripe for a stick up, were it an American movie - and had a very ordinary heated cheese sandwich and a cup of tea. For £3.50, which is a miracle in Central London. That's the rough thing about crash-queueing - you have to wake up early, which makes you tired for the rest of the day. Rather takes the edge off the actual specticle. I'm blogging from the Maughan, where I've been returning books. Next task: Oxford Street for birthday presents. Oceanic has just become 17, and as I was missing her birthday anyway I semi-decided to wait and see if there was anything in particular she wanted and hadn't got. There wasn't. So I'm just going to go hunting and trust my luck. And then, only then, I'm going home for a nap...

Last night I had an amazing idea as I was drifting off to sleep, doubtless inspired by reading Gotham by Gaslight just before: a steampunk A-Team! Murdoch - the mad pilot who can fly anything - is in a good ole Victorian asylum, but periodically breaks out to fly the team to safety in airships, biplanes and the like. I've already got a great image of him in my mind, bowler hat and ubiquitous aviator goggles. John Smith, thespian - known has Hannibal for his greatest performance - well, you could keep his look and personality almost without changing anything. The key, I've learnt from Marvel 1602 is to keep the colours the same - hence a sandy coat and black gloves. He's going to have a lovely-o pocket watch. Maybe a cane as well. Or maybe give the cane to Face, who would be on the recieving end of my love of Victorian male dress - I'm starting to think, maybe plum velvet for him? He's obviously a dandy. Amy Adams is a secretary to a journalist, and I can already think of some costumes of hers I can adapt into dresses. I'm just having a timeline problem - because of the ex-army aspect, it has to be tied down to a specific historical period. And then there's B.A. While I'm positive his race isn't going to scupper the whole project, it does nevertheless need to be thought about. Even in an alternate steampunk world, it would be thoroughly anachronistic were it passed over entirely - interacting with the Victorian past is part of the point. It's not going to be a major part of the storyline, maybe mentioned only in passing, but it'll give me authorial peace of mind. The bling will be replaced with tonnes of brass machinery and homemade stuff. What I do know is the "Blue Peter" patch of the show - where B.A. constructs a handy escape route using only the things to hand - would translate perfectly to the steampunk aesthetic. As will the low-fi plots. I'm thinking of doing a masquerade episode first....

Watch this space!

A-Team nightmares. That episode must have worried me more than I thought. Ugh...

Today I intended to do all those things I didn't do yesterday. But today, I'm going to go now to return books, and spend those extra hours between me and Spring Awakening in the Maughan, watching Querelle. I'm just awaiting the arrival of my Graze box. Maybe I'll hit Forbidden Planet, and Orbital comics, and amble on the Southbank a bit too to say bye.

I did some Greek over lunch, and listened to the radio. My mp3 headphones have gone missing, so my mobile radio is my only portable music source. But joy of joys! Classic FM were doing Chopin preludes, and indeed are doing Chopin at lunchtime for the rest of the week. Oh my, it was like drowning: that's how much I love those songs. It's one of my unfufilled dreams to go to an actual piano concert, and I'm keeping my eye out for a Chopinful one frankly because it would be like death and heaven afterwards. That distracted me from Greek, in favour of air-keying and ambling around the kitchen with a honeymoon expression.

Because the concert was still on, I took three busses to Russell Square. While waiting on the second bus stop the fanciest car I have ever seen passed, a real look-at-me-mobile. I was amused to note the numberplate was "DG 3". If Dorian Gray did achieve immortality with his bargain (as LXG theorises), then that's exactly how he'd be existing nowadays. The second bus took a long time to come. The Chopin went away in favour of tone-poems, a form I simply don't get. And then a second interesting sight passed - three police motorbikes escorting two black vehicles, one of them a van-thing, and both with subtle blue flashing lights also. I didn't spot anyone I recognised, but it was still an intriguing sight.

In any case, they'd moved onto some truly awful Shostakovitch by the time we reached Russell Square. I headed off to Senate house library. It was passing some academic building, an Institute or something, when I saw three police motorbikes parked outside with the three riders chatting, and two more guards on the door. It occured to me at once that it was the same group - there were two black cars on the pavement, although my observation wasn't great enough to prove they were definitely the same. Weird coincidence, and I continued to the wonderfully Gothamesque building for the returning of books.

I went to the Maughan by a long route. I couldn't tell you where I walked. I missed two comic shops and an Oxfam, that much is certain, so we can be thankful for small mercies. Popped into Forbidden Planet, more to say "hi" than to get anything. I went back via the Seven Dials "occult walk", a series of about six new age shops stuffed with crystals, candles and all such stuff. Still hunting for my perfect pack. I spent a long time in one of them, and made a decision - only to discover the pack was £25. Didn't really feel like spending that much, even if the energies were right...

I got back to Aldwych eventually, and had just crossed the road when a very loud police motorbike came past, whistling for the traffic to stop. It was almost before I'd understood what was happening when that same motorcade passed me for the third time in a day. Different configuration of people, I thought. Still, very very bizzare. I returned my books to the Maughan, and took out a stack of videos for the start of my Movie Marathon Week.

Which began in the Maughan itself, as one of the films I wanted to see most was a Short Loan. I do see the point of the Short Loan collection - if something is in high demand, tho' the films I need never seem to be covered by it. Or the DVDs to prevent them being loaned, copied and returned. It's still frustratingly random, especially when you want to watch something like Lagaan which is actually a little bit over three hours, and thus must be renewed halfway through viewing.

WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME THERE WAS ANOTHER SHAKESPEARE PLAY AS GOOD AS HAMLET?

Dear reader, my relations with Shakespeare are tortuous and tricky. Were it a Facebook status, we'd both put "it's complicated". I still think he's overrated, some of his speech is aukward, some of my objections are merely personal, and I suppose most damningly, it sounds awful when studied on paper: it really has to be viewed. Hamlet is my one, my love, I think the first three acts are incomparable. I've problems with the ending, though, but ach who cares - it's just wonderful. I've always been fond of Macbeth. I probably should have had this Othello obsession two years back, when I went to see it at the Globe. But I felt very sick after the interval and the warden would not allow me to sit down, so I threw up on his shoes and spent the second act in the Globe toilets. That was a bad evening.

I'd not thought about it since then, mostly peeved off as I'd been enjoying it til then, and what's a fire risk compared to art? I ran across this version and was instantly struck by the cast: I have a serious soft spot for Kenneth Branagh, and his "eternity version" Hamlet which cuts not a single line is one of my favourite films I've yet to buy on DVD. How could I resist?

I'm in love.

Othello himself, for a Shakespeare hero, is suprisingly non-irritating. He's not quite up to Hamlet on the poetry, but makes up for it by being a pretty decent bloke (albeit with a huge tragic flaw).
I'd rather spend half an hour with Othello than Hamlet any day of the week. It certainly obeys those rules of Greek tragedy I was discussing last week: we feel pity for his situation, but also fear that such misfortune could overtake us. Lawrence Fishburne is actually very good, better than I expected, the poor creature simply disintigrates. He has that talent necessary for a truly great Shakesperian actor: looking damn great in swishy sleeves.

But seriously. It's hardly his fault he has to play second fiddle to the play's real protagonist, the man who gets all the best monologues and more lines by far. You can tell Shakes got a little too attached to Iago too. What a genius role. It is very hard not to love him, especially in this production. He is the only one who gets to break the fourth wall for monologues, or sometimes just to give the audience a cheeky glance, making you horribly complicit. The pay off is the moment all those slow-laid threads of story come together in a traincrash, and you realise that everything is about to go very nasty indeed. Hamlet does this too - Will gets to the last fifteen minutes, realises he needs to wrap up now, and does so by killing every named character left on stage, and some who are offstage for good measure. But it really works in Othello, or in any case this adaptation, holding back and raising tension then releasing it in one wicked blow. It's very exciting watching him weave his little web, very Mastery I think. He just stands there and takes him to pieces with a single scene. I don't know enough about the play to comment on whether Kenneth Branagh made a good Iago, but he's always worth watching.

And at the end, he's simply too cool to say anything. I think that's powerful. His motive is pleasantly obscure - sure, he's been passed over for promotion, but that's no good reason to destroy a man's whole existance. Nor does Othello personally seem the type of person to make someone that offended. Maybe it's a race thing, maybe it is pure envy - he's as much succeptable to the "green ey'd monster" as anyone else. I'm tempted to think there's a strong element of pure malice in what he does - I mean, he's evidently enjoying himself. There must be a better reason, however, to make that enormous risk worthwhile. I've seen Christopher Ecclestone play him as having a repressed and crazy love for Othello. While we don't want to demonise the gay community too far, it would fit well with the central themes of the play - everyone else is operating on pure lust, so why shouldn't he? This movie doesn't go that direction, but it is a theory I hold some sympathy for: he's taking the thwarted love he won't admit and is deeply ashamed out by ruining Othello's existance. Makes sense to me *potential dates and suitors cough and take a hasty departure*

I like Desdemona, she has some real spunk. People always try to reclaim Shakesperian heroines for a modern audience, and it rarely succeeds cos they were written as wallflowers. I wonder what the feminist reading of Othello actually is, with it's big "you must be punished!" message at the end, and with Emilia being the undoing at the end. Oh, I liked Emilia. Poor dear. And the guy they had to play Cassio was very nice to look at.

Other thoughts? Everyone was a little odd in the accent department, in that manner of costume dramas. I'd also comment that the direction was terribly ordinary: not bad, just unremarkable. I loved the music, and had forgotten how much I loved these lines:

"She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd,
And I lov'd her that she did pity them."

Not a great basis for lifelong marriage, but still beautiful. And Othello's last monologue is just lovely.

I do hate viewing in the Maughan though. The chairs are uncomfy, and you're surrounded by distractions, and the reflections off the screen are appalling. Which is particularly bad for something like Othello, which is basically sex sex sex, and thus suitably shot in deep blacks and sweaty reds, rendering it impossible to watch. True, you're meant to be studying films not enjoying them, but I argue the enjoyment of film is as valid a mode of study as the purely intellectual. If you're just surveying it as a dusty text then you've lost sight of what it was originally intended for. Your emotional reaction is as valid as an intellectual one. I particularly hate it because you're so exposed, and I'm a very physical viewer - I cry, shout at the screen, curl up when things get scary. As the body count mounted, I cared less and less about onlookers.
I'm gonna leave you with the quote from the back of the box, which made me chuckle:

"Promote someone else to the rank of liutenant? Over Iago's dead body! And more pointedly, over the dead bodies of nearly everyone ensnared in Iago's plot of revenge..."

The other films in my marathon are:

• Pat Garret and Billy the Kid (western + buddy movie + Bob Dylan)
• My Own Private Idaho (road movie + buddy movie + queer cinema)
• Maurice (just read the book + more queer cinema)
• Querelle (oh, Fassbinder! + stunning use of colour + even queerer cinema)
• The Third Man (a true favourite film I've been missing, and one not even remotely gay, honest, to balance it all out...)
  

Home again, home again. I meant to go via HMV, didn't, and ironically enough it turns out that Madness were playing there and I missed them. Oh well. I went to Sainsburies on the way back, to stock up on food and in particular cereal; bought everything but cereal, but at least the half-price cookies will be an excuse to eat up the vanilla ice cream.

And spent the evening doing eveninglike things, in particular a Chopinful couple of hours in the music room. I also burnt my finger.

I'm worrying that these two weeks are going to make my reintegration into normal life even tougher. Last time I returned home, I sulked for about four days because having to actually be polite to people and spend time with them was an art I'd lost in my wilderness existance. I actually suit this solitary life very well. I do get a little lonely, but that's the genius of the campus existance - I'm not living with people, but in proximity to people. There's always someone around for a chat, just to ensure you don't revert to rudimentry grunts and sign language. And there's "lonely" on one hand, contrasted with "the freedom to do whatever, go wherever" which cannot be beaten. It's nice to get away from the noise of other people too - you get a lot of thinking time,

So these two weeks are wonderful. I'm just a little concerned how I'm going to go cope when I go back to Real People. If my house was a Tarot card, it'd be the Five of Wands. There's nothing wrong, nothing major, but it's packed with mundane quarrels, petty disputes, arguments and anger for the stupidest and smallest reasons. The house has got in on the act too - you've heard me talk about places having personality before, and even though it sounds a bit nuts and new age, I do hold it to be true. I have never liked that house, and find it hard to sleep there. Usually, I'm off like a shot and am impossible to wake - it takes me ages at home, and I always wake up grouchy. I'm positive the bad atmosphere is getting grained into the walls and floorboards, swept under carpets, making the whole thing worse. Or maybe I'm imagining it.

"There's nothing purer and more unsullied, Madam, than the desire for revenge..." ~the Master

Nothing's gone OK today. I blame the dreams. I hovered till late, and by the time I got out of the house it was very late. I was returning my library books to coincide with Spring Awakening, remember? So it was 7 before I had lunch, and 8 before I got out of the house. I got as far as the bus stop before succumbing to lethargy and turning back. I'll go tomorrow. Ah well. Nobody's perfect.

Someone had the TV room, scuppering my second idea for the evening. All afternoon I've been sketching for my new Doctor Who project. I had to look up some screenshots from Unearthly Child for character references, and suddenly remembered how wonderfully intense the thing is. Not what you'd expect of 60s kids TV at all. It's dark, violent and edgy telly, with the odd downright shocking moment. And he's just wonderful.

At that point I returned to my delicately scented chamber and finished Maurice. Oh, the ending is just wonderful! I grinned for five minutes, so perfect a wrap was it. On the whole, it is a brave and brilliant book. Fanciful, but it works, and his style is always worth reading. It fits neatly with the rest of Forster's output, as its central theme is Man vs. Society, but here his damning of Society is not gentle but absolute. Apparently, it's also virtually the first novel of its ilk. I remain amazed at how frank it is, and am unsurprised that he did not want it published in his lifetime.

Then I got distracted by Sandman, in particular World's End. It exists a little bit outside continuity, and it's a poisonous thing, because there are stories within the stories and everything just spirals, then suddenly it's two hours later. The City and the one about Prez I particularly like. And Morpheus - man, he's just scary. On a second read, it's nice making the connections and following regular characters. Oh, Fiddler's Green! How we love you!

Then capped it off by watching me some A-Team. I've mentioned before why I love the A-Team - it's unchallenging, unworrying entertaiment. It does not have the power to upset me, because frankly it's not that deep. It's no secret that certain episodes of Doctor Who do upset me - it's horrible, wearing and, as for the Greeks, totally part of the charm. Planet of Fire has the power to send me off the rails for about three hours. It's also in my top five episodes. And choose any TV show you like, the tearjerker high-drama episodes will be the most popular. Because the higher the stakes, the further the characters are pushed - well, it is more exciting than them simply sitting down and sharing a coffee.

The A-Team never demands that sort of commitment. No one gets killed, fewer get injured. You are never in any doubt that the heroes will come out unscratched (physically and psychologically), unchanged and on top. The downside of such low expectations is that you are less prepared. There are episodes of Doctor Who so violent I can't watch, yet I adore my Tarantino and can watch it without blinking. It's all about expectation. "Violent" is not a fixed description, it only exists in terms of "the level". "The level" of violence in Doctor Who is frequent, but without detail or dwelling. Shockingly I-can't-look violent in Doctor Who probably doesn't approach the tamest Tarantino death, but remains alarming as soon as it passes that imagined "level".

A very extreme example. There are bits of The Two Doctors I find very hard to stomach - particularly the sequence surrounding a minor villain. It starts with him smashing the Doctor in the leg with a meat cleaver, which is weirdly violent enough as it is. So the Doctor staggers out of the building across the plains, and his pursuer runs close behind with the largest knife you have ever seen. The Doctor reaches a tree where earlier we saw a minor character hunting for butterflies, complete with a cyanide dish. He hides behind the tree, and when the villain comes past he pounces on him, grabs him around the back of the neck and whips this cyanide-covered handkerchief over his nose and mouth. Then he holds him there until the struggling goes away. If this was a James Bond film, it wouldn't bother me at all. Even were the scene three times as detailed, with swellings and gargles, I'd continue to happily munch my popcorn. Yet the fact something that downright unpleasant has happened in Doctor Who is shocking, much worse because the Doctor is the one doing it.

And the same goes for scary - there are episodes of that show which terrify me deeply, and it's all because it's just a kids show and I don't expect to be scared. Or sex: Maurice suprised me for its explicitness because it was written in 1914.

So while The A-Team is unable to sustain proper tension for more than 20 seconds, the problem of my ultra-low expectation has in turn given it the power to really, really rattle me, the moment anything looks a little bit edgy.

It was rather rattled, then, I left my room for food, part comfort, part to excuse the fact I'd had no tea. I almost burnt down the kitchen.

No, let's qualify. The horrible state of disrepair the Skeelings* have left the appliances in put me on the recieving end of a fire for the second time within a year. Last time, I innocently placed a microwaveable Christmas pudding in the microwave and settled down to do some washing up. I turned around a few minutes later, and thick folds of grey smoke had covered the corner of the kitchen. It was awesomely beautiful. I switched off the microwave at the wall, opened the door - then shut it again. I switched on extractor fans, opened windows and vainly tried to prevent the alarm from going off. I gave up fairly quickly. They're not kidding when they say that smoke is the killer in fires - even though there was no actual fire, it just felt awful and wrong. I used whichever scarf I was wearing over my nose and mouth, and very soon after that found I couldn't stay in the room. Then the alarm went off. I gave up, confessed to the front desk and explained there was no fire. They still had to call three fire engines, and everyone gave me sour glances as they trooped out the building. Or maybe I just imagined them. The firemen confirmed what I'd said: there was no actual fire. Then they opened a few more windows and went away. I consider myself free of guilt - all I did was put a microwaveable christmas pudding in the microwave. The pattern on the bottom of the bowl, scorched yellow and black with cremated fruit, remains as the trophy of that event.

I was pleased to see the microwave replaced a few hours later. So today, I merely put an oven-bakeable breadbun into the oven. A few minutes later, I hear this sound like a firework fuse: pshffffffffffffffff, and I turn around to see a very pretty sparkler-style spark buzzing on the hot-iron cooky part of the oven. It illuminates the oven a rather fetching shade of yellow. I did the mature and sensible thing, which at that point was to swear loudly and reach for my mobile. In a moment of staggering insight, I'd added security's number to my phone a few months back. I lingered there watching the sparkler til it went out, to be replaced by an ominous little burning flame still on the hot-iron cooky bit. Then it died as mysteriously as it had appeared. There are some who might attribute this to mere malfunction, others who could presume the cleaning lady had not wiped clean some chemical. But I'm fairly sure it looked more like an assasination attempt by the Skeelings...

*they originate from the Lower Skeel, and within the Halls of the Dude, take on effectively gremlin-like roles. They steal cutlery, spirit away food and cause malfunctions. If you sit very quietly, you can sometimes hear them laughing...

Ugh, I had another regeneration trauma dream. The good news is the Master was there. That's pretty much all the good news, however, as what he was doing was horrible - and the rest of it dissolved into weird vignettes involving the Sycorax, Lytton (deceased) and HUNDREDS of Raston Warrior robots. The worst thing about bad dreams is they make me wake up in a foul mood. I never really escape from dreams until lunchtime, so the tone and content of dreams tend to influence me for the rest of the day. I've had some dreams which have made me awake refreshed and brilliant too, so it's not all bad.

But as a result, I'm feeling miserable and grouchy for no good reason, except for the fact I had a rotten dream. Which is rather unfair. I'm probably quite tired too. Last night I was up too too late, arguing Trial of a Timelord with my Doctor Who blog, and then was distracted until about 3 because Vapilla has leant me her Sandman collection (I've traded them for a hairdryer, Marvel 1602, a beaver pelt and a few glass beads). Both these activities were very enjoyable, but it's probably contributing to my foul temper.

And over the weekend, I stayed up pretty late for Eurovision. Vapilla and I went to Roxana's house to see it and slept over. Great fun - we had a nice Iranian dish the name of which I forget and mocked the entries. I can't believe UK got that many points. It's meant to be a song contest, and whatever that was lacked structure, style, I couldn't even work out how many beats to a bar. Just weird.

It was bizzarely ordinary for Eurovision. There were three costume changes the entire night, and only five key changes. I was cheering on Medea and her sister from Armenia, Miss Doriana Gray of Russia with her changing portrait, and the only one I'd listen to a second time was Germany's, who you might recall featuring the talents of Dita Von Teese. But mourned the absence of the customary nutjob entry - where were the transvestite air hostesses? Where the appallingly misjudged 80s throwback? Where the postmodern piss take? I have rather acute talents at mockery, but the only one who actually deserved it was Mr Greece, the enthusiastic man-ho in white with the dance movies, and Miss Iceland - "Is this a dream? Or has it been a lie? What time is my dentist appointment? Did I leave the kettle on?"

Roxane was Ishtar that evening, and Vapilla Morpheus in the morning. I was just me, more or less, but I did do some excellent doodles. As usual, all efforts to capture the images in my mind - all L.A. Confidential. They weren't very successful, but I did a passable Sherlock Holmes and then some gorgeous profiles of Lord M. It was a fun evening.

Before my month's travelcard runs out, I'm going to return all my library books in the city and go on a hunt for a new Tarot deck. They're so beautiful and I want to get one which inspires me more. It's an associative art, so if the one you has doesn't inspire you with meaningful associations then you're a little stumped. I love my Lord of the Rings pack - it was a gift from a friend, I've had it for a long time and it seems to have "positive vibes" for me. But ever since starting learning, I've had to assign all the cards with Doctor Who associations - the type of memorable connections I feel their LOTR approach lacks. I'm actually working on art for it too, which is fun. Until that's finished, however, I want something which will trigger memory of the meanings easily, something with inspiring art, and preferably something all pseudo-mystickal. As much as I admire the Baseball Tarot or Barbie Tarot, they're not so great for impressing people with your arcane, occult majesty. Also, I want some of those Barbies...Having said that, I adore the Housewive's Tarot...I'm also tempted by the B.O.T.A. set. It comes in black and white, with colouring instructions, and in colouring them they take on more of your energies. Cute theory. Also, colouring in! I'm heartened by the fact all proper New Age shops will be sympathetic to my obsessive browsing: naturally, I have to find one which "speaks" to me, which will excuse the problem I have with making choices.

I'm trying to combine this in such a way that I'm on the Strand at 7:30, where hopefully I'll be able to find the Spring Awakening songbook for sale at the Novello. She's a huge fan of the musical, I just like the music, so we both want the music book. I'm buying it to coincide with her birthday. If it were mine, I could take it to uni and she couldn't prevent me. Were it hers, she could keep it at home and I'd be similarly powerless. Neither is wholly fair, hence why I'm not either buying it for me or her. I hope this approach kills any arguments.

The rest of the day will be dedicated to starting my A-Team essay, beginning to learn Greek, watching Batman and Robin and completing my mini-Rorschachs. I want to see that film because the worst film I've ever seen is Batman Forever. Yet more than one person, on hearing this, has responded "So, you haven't seen Batman and Robin...?" I'll finish Maurice if I feel up to it, but a tragic ending must surely beckon.

I'm sure no one will sympathise, but it's weird getting used to having this much free time...

The last two days, what have I been up to?

Reading, mainly. It's divine. You never feel alone with a good book. Here's some of the things I'm working through:

>> Maurice by E.M. Forster. He's one of my favourite authors, because his books are so real. It's easy to forget there were emotions in the past; much more, it is easy to underestimate their frankness. Yes, in general they were not open about sex, violence, bad behavior. But not so their literature, and it always comes as a wonderful shock to me when a "classic" novel is less tame than I supposed. A modern novel, film, comic can go anywhere and do anything, which takes away the suprise value. Forster is one of those novelists who always catches me out this way, because I anticipate Edwardian literature to be stale. Rebecca is another example - when it came to confession time somewhere in the penultimate chapter I was deeply shocked. It's all about expectation.

So while I was well aware what Maurice was about, I'd assumed it would be fairly subtle. I came across the film when revising for the Period Drama module of Film Studies. Heritage Cinema has been criticised as conservative, trivial, irrelevant, not engaging with social problems. Now actually, all the Forster adaptations refute this by their witty and harsh, if subtle, criticism of English mores, but Maurice goes further by dealing with the joys of homosexuality in the 1910s. If that's not putting a story in its social context, I'm not sure what is. In any case, I want to watch the film now, so am reading the book first.

It's depressing me terribly - I have a weakness for nostalga novels, and I know the ending must be unhappy. You know the type - all memories of that perfect summer of youth, happiness, love and blossoms falling in the May, which somehow got lost. The protagonist ambles around, a middle aged, middle class mediocrity, feeling vague regrets and bitterly wondering where it all went wrong. Maurice is Brideshead Revisited with actual shagging.

But it's also shocking. Granted it was never published, but all the same I'd anticipated more longing looks and pastoral metaphors, and less "I love you". That came out of the blue for me as much as it did for Maurice. Didn't anticipate the Facts of Life being drawn with a stick in the sand, nor the frank atheism, nor: "You could call your cousin a shit if you liked, but not a eunich". I mean, this is the same E.M. Forster we're talking about?

Our hero has just lapsed about halfway through the book, I look forward to reaching the end which will inevitably be soul destroyingly miserable.

>> Marvel: 1602. Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, get a copy of this comic book and do not budge until it's over. Do it now. I recommend it to everyone.

Despite becoming an increasingly large comic book fan, I've never read anything from Marvel.
This was actually a very conscious decision. If you've ever tried superhero books, you'll know that the continuity is appallingly convaluted. For me, that's part of the charm: I like the conciet that all the characters exist in the same world and can interact. It's still a problem for newcomers, however, so I did decide to pick on one company and ignore the other entirely. Hellblazer happened to be a Vertigo book, Vertigo is owned by DC - and I haven't read a Marvel comic since. It helped that my interest in their flagship characters, Hulk and Spider Man, was very low, and my interest in Batman huge. I stand by it as a strategy, but all good things must come to an end. Dammit, Gaiman.

Marvel 1602 is among the greatest things I've ever read, definitely better than Gotham by Gaslight. It places all the big Marvel superheroes in the context of Elizabethan England, and the results are beautiful. It's a joy to watch familiar characters reinterpreted, both visually and in story terms. Thematically, so many ideas overlap - take Magneto, a Holocaust survivor who sees humanity's rejection of mutants as inevitable, and his rival Xavier who believes they can coexist. In 1602, the mutants are seen as witches and that same dynamic exists, almost more impressively than in a modern setting. What is the role of Captain America, when America is a few pitiful colonies fighting back the Indians? Nick Fury, the secret agent, becomes Queen Elizabeth's spymaster; the scientists become Renaissance pseudoscientists. The Four from the Fantastick, it is noted by alchemists, actually correspond to the elements of earth, air, fire, water. Peter Parquagh spends the whole thing narrowly escaping a spider bite. And the joys go on and on, and this is from someone who probably missed half the allusions. It's a great story into the bargain, and I can't ignore Marvel as a company any longer. I need to go find the real Nick Fury!

This afternoon, I rewatched L.A. Confidential, one of my favourite films and potentially the greatest piece of cinema of all time, bar nothing. It's set in 50s, um, L.A. and surrounds three cops as they try to solve an immensely complex mystery mired in glamour, corruption and violence. It has it all: great music, great script, great dialogue, and a story so deep and layered that I still couldn't explain it to you after seven or eight viewings. But at it's heart, it's an actors movie - three great central performances. Good cop, bad cop - they're more like shades of grey. When I first saw the film - and that's a funny story in its own right. According to Cinecism, I was 14. All I know is that I was very young, it was the first 18 I'd ever seen, and I knew at once it was genius. Not sure how, because it goes some dark places, so I'm unsure how I even followed the plot. You do need to get an "ear" for crime cinema, to catch the slang and abuse, and at 14 the subtleties of "wop", "queer", "H", hell, probably even "hooker" must have passed me by. Which makes you wonder what I actually thought the film was about...

In any case, I loved it. Kevin Spacey became my favourite actor, and there are doodles of Jack Vincennes on my year 8 maths books. I was always a sucker for charming-but-angsty. Maybe it was in embryo responsible for my love of crime films full stop. On subsequent rewatches, I sympathised with Bud White more. Today, Ed had my full and undivided attention. Maybe it shows how my priorities have shifted, and I'm sure they'll shift again. I bought it on DVD especially for university, because I knew I would need to see it. It's a pity I remember the twists and character beats, if not the detail. Ah, terrific. If you are a fan of crime or clever cinema, or even good cinema, I implore you to watch it.

Final thought:

In case you thought I was joking about Torchwood prioritising character over plot to a criminal extent, compare the official press release for the three new novels:

Asylum by Anita Sullivan The story of a teen runaway called Freda who is brought to the attention of Torchwood by PC Andy. As Gwen, Jack and Ianto investigate where this troubled girl has come from, Andy finds himself drawn closer than ever before into the world of Torchwood.

Golden Age by James Goss Torchwood go to India to investigate the disappearance of hundreds of people. The trail leads them to an old colonial club which seems strangely stuck in the past as does its young and beautiful owner, the Duchess.

The Dead Line by Phil Ford A series of mysterious phone calls lead Jack into danger, and result in 'a very emotional moment for Ianto'.

Sorry, what's The Dead Line about? Oh, a thin excuse for angst and "character development"? It's only meaningful if it grows out of the story. That's why Boomtown and Journey's End failed at criticising the Doctor, because both villains made it clear their master plan was soley to make the Doctor angst. Don't they have something better, like world domination, to get on with? It works well in Warriors of the Deep, Planet of Fire, Last of the Timelords because the questions about the Doctor arise naturally from the narrative. Each tells a cracking story, which makes us then care when he is tested. Jesu, I'm gonna read that one. I'm gonna read it, then I'm gonna tear it apart.

Apparently my mama is concerned that I'm not spending enough on food. Now it is true I'm trying to live as cheaply as possible, partly because of a thrifty upbringing, partly because I'm horribly aware of the sheer cost of being at uni and it makes me feel martyrlike and undeserving - and partly because I'm suffering corset guilt. Not that I didn't do exactly the right thing by buying it, not that it doesn't look and feel brill - but it does make me unhappy in the brain-finance department.

So yes, I have been trying to live as cheaply as possible to compensate, at least in my own mind. But the comment has in turn made me worried about my eating habits. I'm not eating badly...am I? I'll be the first to admit my meals are irregular. I rarely have three big meals a day, and sometimes my appetite will swell or vanish entirely. You know what us absent minded geniuses are like, getting distracted and forgetting to eat - but I'm aware of that, and I was under the impression I was doing OK. So, for my own peace of mind even if not yours as well:

I always have breakfast, milk and cereal - and just last week I upgraded from "whatever Sainsburies have on offer" to looking for healthy cereal with oats and bits of fruit. Alternately, breakfast will be healthy, protein-filled homous on fattening, cheap crumpet. Until recently, this would be accompanied by a fruit smoothie comprising at least one, but normally two fruits, combined with fruit juice. I never miss breakfast.

Lunch depends on where I am, but I'm committed to cheap lunch because buying meals in Central London causes me miserly pain. If I have to eat in the city, then my first stop is Tescos - either I buy cheese and a loose roll, a box of strawberries/rasberries or if I'm feeling lazy, a cookie. Occasionally a pasta box, or if I've thought about it, Quorn sausage rolls. None of these are as expensive as, say, a wrap or packed sandwich or eating in a cafe. On Tuesdays, I eat courtesy of Graze, who send me a nice box of healthy fruits, nuts and organic oddities, both filling and healthy. If I eat at home, it's either a version of breakfast or of dinner - bread goes off too quickly for me to get it. If I spend more than £2 on lunch, it's a weird day. And now I'm worrying because Roxana always comments that I'm not eating enough when we eat out...

And then dinner - I tend to have a small snack dinner at 5ish, and then something cooked at 8 or 9. Usually, some combination of pasta/rice with tomato sauce, fake meat, and a piece of fruit. Pizza, sometimes. I worked out stir fry last week, and I've just discovered the joy of canned chickpeas. Sometimes there are carrot sticks with humous. If I'm lucky, Calypso or Sustenus will be cooking. Sometimes just cereal again. Dinner is where I get lazy, but it's OK because I'm the only one eating it - and I have great fortitude when it comes to eating the same thing every few days. And I don't tend to snack.

You only get to hear about my food when it gets weird - when breakfast is dark chocolate on weetabix soaked in Baileys, when I haven't eaten for two days, when I've slaughtered some of those who could not flee in time and roast them on skewers. The days you don't hear about me eating cereal with orange juice are the days on which I am eating normally. Honest.

Here it is, the whole thing. Read and enjoy. Or just look at the photos. Either is fine. Neither is not.

Getting to the convention

...began at 6.30 with descriptions of our own weird dreams. Hers involved us en route to the convention, being attacked by the Joker and giant chipmunks. I remember being at the convention, but not much more than that.

I was more concerned by how ill I was feeling - worse than yesterday. In addition, my voice was gone - I could rasp more or less well enough to do an awesome Rorschach impression, but no more.

We'd agreed to meet Palatina at Westminster, where the Jubilee meets the District, and thence onwards to Barking. It indulged my sense of adventure to arrange a meeting on a random platform, instead of somewhere sane. I was punished by the barstools at TFL deciding to shut Green Park, so we went on a crazy roundabout route to get there. The station was empty save for her when we arrived - it was unpleasantly early still. I was wearing my costume, and Caelia was dressed normally, save for the Season 18 scarf. Everyone who mentioned it at the convention called it that. Geeks.

I didn't really feel anything. I was helped by the fact I was ill, and my thoughts were on my various aches - and that one of the two was more nervous than me, the other more excited. I managed to cultivate a sort of calm, even though I'd stacked my bag with cereal bars. I'll explain that in a bit.

Arriving at the station reminded me of the Genesis concert at Twickhenam. That day, there was an exodus of fandom all trickling down the same route to the stadium. It was terribly exciting. The man ahead of us was obviously going there. I pointed him out - he had the trademark bags-of-stuff, vacant expression. So many Doctor Who fans, from my limited experience of two signings, are effectively tramps with tellies. They appear to be harmless, but you do kinda worry they'll go nuts out of the blue for no reason. Lets put it this way: he did not react to my coat at all. If I ever met someone with a Sixth Doctor coat, my first instinct would be to pounce on them and lick them (and once again, keep reading)



I wish I had the strength to do more conventions. Today was brilliant and terrifying in equal measure. It's a combination of the highest forms of fiction, with the very lowest, and a chance to meet some of the nicest and nuttiest fans, and those who are in between. I'm torn between doing this every day of the week, and never going to one again.

By the time we were closer, I'd spotted someone else who was also obviously a fan. Not a fan I wanted to see either - if any of you read my account of the previous signing, about four pages back, I mentioned "the final member of our group was another nutcase. Once he'd left, our American friend said she'd actually heard of him before. Apparently, he has a reputation for giving poor Nicola Bryant a hard time." I was positive I'd spotted him long distance. But we continued, following them, to the school where it was taking place.


Meeting Colin Baker again

We headed to meet Colin Baker first, envisaging nasty queues later. In fact, we only waited 10 minutes at the most. I was a little nervous, to tell the truth - it's not like I didn't have fun last time. But I did have this huge self-esteem slump after my 37 second brush with fame was over, and spent the next two hours comfort eating and feeling utterly miserable. I had actually brought extra cereal bars in case I needed food this time, but it was OK. I've worked it out now - he's acting. Which isn't to say he doesn't come off as a genuinely polite, genuinely friendly person - but in dealing with the autograph queue, he was wearing that persona like a hat. I can't entirely blame him. I'm taking part in this madness, but I don't wholly condone it. And it's partly what we've paid for, no one can deny, is to meet the Doctor - not an aging actor who hasn't been on screen for 10 years.