Lessons began a few days previous. Latin Love Elegy is shaping up to be marvellous. We've got a whole stack of required (Latin!) reading, and I am getting stuck in. Our lecturer posed the two big questions "what is poetry?" and "what is love", and showed us some brilliant places on the internet. I keep getting the urge to write, which is a pity for the rest of the world because my poetry has always been appalling. The single downside of the class is the presence of Corydon, a fellow student with whom I am still uncomfortably in lust from last term. Unseemly crushes on rock gods or dead poets is a part of having hormones, but I am deeply uncomfortable objectifying another real and potentially obtainable human being in this way, especially one with no other redeeming qualities. I am reminded of the Elegaic Mistress, a stock figure from Roman love poetry - she is gorgeous but cruel, fickle, deceitful, ultimately belongs to no one, but inspires devotion from her enslaved lover all the same. Still, furens, I'll endure it for Ovid, Catallus, Propertius, Tibullus, Vergil, Horace and whoever else gets pulled out of the bag. And "what is love" is a fascinating question when applied to the Roman world. Their word Amor covers a different range of meaning than ours. I also think the power play inherent in Roman romance is interesting, but I'll expand on that with time.

I hope Greek will spice up. My mistake was probably teaching myself over the summer; all the same, one hour of learning what nouns, subjects, objects and verbs are seemed a little rich - especially considering the class is not aimed at beginners but people who already have a grasp of language. Still, after the trauma it took to get lessons at all, I still feel rather proud and peachy just being there.

World Cinema is this term's slice of Film Studies. I was trying to get it changed because the lecture, seminar and screening all come one after the other - giving me a day from 9 to 6 without a single break.

Unfortunately, it has since turned out to be interesting. I've managed to change seminar groups, so it's now just 9-5, but eating is going to be a problem. We get a five minute break in Love Elegy, so I dashed off to buy a sandwich. I'll think of something.

Last night, Vapilla arrived. It looks like the gremlins in the Administration have got her - you may now, if you wish, hum the theme tune from Brazil - but it was still marvellous to see her. She, Spirita and I nattered for ages, and decided to make brownies at 2 in the AM. They were delicious, especially with the addition of dark choc chips.

This morning I worked on World Cinema wk. 1 for a bit - the results of my musings can be found on Cinecism. My poor movie blog, long defunct. It's not like I have less opinions, or more people to rant them at, but I suppose there's a limited amount of time to blog. I'm trying to write more there. This week's film was Pather Panchali - the classic. I felt fairly meh towards it, but it is hard to care about anything when you've been in solid education for the five hours previous. For a break, I went on a trip around the Disney Haunted Mansion. It's a thing I do every month or so - there are several really good websites which make up for the fact I can't justify visiting it as often as I'd like. Sort of like being there. Sort of.

The plan for the afternoon was a trip to the British library with Spirita and Vapilla. Both looked like being late, so I took a luxurious amble. I found treasures along the way, including a Gay and Lesbian bookshop - no Dorians, alas, but a plethora of Wilde biographies in case I get bored - a second hand humanities bookshop - irritatingly pricey and very up itself - a charity shop in aid of Romania, because I really needed a new floaty scarf, and OH! a paper shop, a paper shop! A shop with stacks and shelves of paper, with folders of samples and ladders to boxes stacked roof high. Rolls of paper in corners, paper looped around racks on the wall. Hand painted Italian papers, hand stencilled papers from Japan, and that knobbly alligator-skin paper that they use to fold reptiles in origami books. Did I mention this shop thought it was acceptable to charge £6.25 for A4 sheets? Buy 10 to get a 10% discount, in case you feel like spending £60 on paper all in one go. Still, I know where it is if I ever want to produce something impressive.

I spent a long time in here, feeling up the merchandise. You've seen the way women shop, almost claiming things as they go along. It's the natural evolution of the animal urge to piss against trees. Apparently, if you pick something up in a shop you are more likely to buy it. I did have some justification, because this is paper I ultimately intend to fold with - not a qualification you can make without fingers. At that point, Davros and Sylvester McCoy interrupted me to tell me Vapilla had arrived at the British Library. So I hotfooted down the road, and rounded the corner to see the huge gates and huge city behind it like a red Minas Tirith rising out of the plain. As Gypsy O'Rouke and I entered, I felt I should take off my shoes or cover my head. They say the British library has every book ever written. What about Mills & Boone? What about my Dad's books? What about graphic novels? What about Doctor Who spin-off novels? What about James O'Malley's self-published book of essays? I hear it sprawls like an iceburg upon the land, with corridors 8 miles long underground and people on buggies to go and find them.

Rising out of the centre is a big glass tower filled with books - "Donna...stay out of the shadows..." - and all around just the whiff of books. Of course, once you wander around it all becomes quite cold and unfriendly. It goes against the principle of a library that you not be able to browse, to run your fingers across the shelves and pick things up on a whim. I understand why I passed so many bargain bookshops on the way - the desire to actually get my hands on a book was very great.

As we couldn't actually read anything, we took to ambling about (carousing, Spirita would later amend this to). We noted that everything was very small - we went up the thinnest elevator you've ever seen - so maybe it is run by gnomes. We found ourself on a cold terrace, with a statue of Mr Punch about Vapilla's height. After that, we discovered the conservation centre. I had a go at restoring an audio recording, and actually did pretty well. Reminded me of Whispers of Terror, a not particularly good Doctor Who audio with a cool central concept: the monster was a creature made of pure sound, and it was all set in the Museum of Audio Recordings. Not as effective as it should have been, but it was pretty innovative - including a scene where the sound monster is tortured using a lo-fi version of Audacity. The central premise surrounds a special exhibition on speeches which, curiously enough, was also the special exhibition in the British Library sound department. Rather creepy and synchronitous.

We discovered the Adopt a Book stand - give us £25, and it's as useful as owning a star, or square of the moon. It's a £1000 donation to pick your own specific book, and it looks like mine had already been taken by the Oscar Wilde symposium. Then Spirita arrived and pointed out the room which we should have been in - an exhibition of their favourite books in their collection, including star maps, the Magna Carta (King's Demons!!) and Oscar Wilde's copy of the Ballad of R G. We also loved an iron book chair.