He then texted me to see if I fancied watching the second to last movie we have left on History on
Screen.
Gone with the bloody Wind.
Professor Pilchard is clearly having a bloody laugh. There is no way I am watching that, not in
my present state of mind. Watching a movie about a demented woman who does not realise what she
has until she loses it . . . I don't need to watch that! I am living it!
I don't know what the last movie is. Pilchard is keeping it as a surprise and we all have to watch
it on the last lecture of term. We will then have two weeks to prepare for a one hundred per cent
exam. Yes, that is right; History on Screen, the single most depressing module ever experienced by a
history student does not have an essay / exam final grade. It is just all exam with no back up.
Saying that, I've just had a thought.
I am not going to be here next year, so who gives a shit?
Me: What do you think the last film will be? I'm not sure I can cope with much more emotional
upheaval. If you were here you would make me laugh about it, cook me Spaghetti Bolognese and play
me guitar until I fell asleep and forget about all the mess around me.
6th May
Ben: Nothing
What the fuck is that noise?
If you have any thoughts regarding where by and how to use website (Recommended Looking at), you can speak to us at our own web-page. It sounds like the Lilah Locomotive is back and giving rides to the world but I know it can't be
because I have not touched a drop of alcohol in weeks.
Nope, it is definitely coming from outside of my head.
Shit, it's only six in the morning. Someone must be having a laugh.
I march down the hallway trying to locate the origin of the incessant drilling. Tristan is standing
out there too, hands on hips listening intently to gauge the direction of the noise.
Standing there in silence, I adopt his pose. It seems the best for listening.
"Upstairs," we both exclaim at once.
"Hopefully it will stop soon," Tristan helpfully comments before shuffling back to his room in his
underpants.
Sod that. I am not taking the chance.
I march out the door to our flat and start to hammer on the door to the one next door. It's a bit of a
weird set up but because the flat is an old house split into a conversion, we share the external, pretty,
stained glass blue door outside but have our own internal doors on the inside of an extra hallway.
It's like living in the Tardis; I am cool with that. Normally.
After five minutes of dedicated hammering I hear the drill cease its eardrum-destroying noise
followed by the thud of heavy work boots.
"You all right, love?" asks the man covered in some kind of dust when he answers the door.
Is he mad?
"Do I look all right to you?" I demand.
He looks me up and down. It's only when he does I realise that I am wearing my fluffy Christmas
pyjama's.
Damn it.
Screen.
Gone with the bloody Wind.
Professor Pilchard is clearly having a bloody laugh. There is no way I am watching that, not in
my present state of mind. Watching a movie about a demented woman who does not realise what she
has until she loses it . . . I don't need to watch that! I am living it!
I don't know what the last movie is. Pilchard is keeping it as a surprise and we all have to watch
it on the last lecture of term. We will then have two weeks to prepare for a one hundred per cent
exam. Yes, that is right; History on Screen, the single most depressing module ever experienced by a
history student does not have an essay / exam final grade. It is just all exam with no back up.
Saying that, I've just had a thought.
I am not going to be here next year, so who gives a shit?
Me: What do you think the last film will be? I'm not sure I can cope with much more emotional
upheaval. If you were here you would make me laugh about it, cook me Spaghetti Bolognese and play
me guitar until I fell asleep and forget about all the mess around me.
6th May
Ben: Nothing
What the fuck is that noise?
If you have any thoughts regarding where by and how to use website (Recommended Looking at), you can speak to us at our own web-page. It sounds like the Lilah Locomotive is back and giving rides to the world but I know it can't be
because I have not touched a drop of alcohol in weeks.
Nope, it is definitely coming from outside of my head.
Shit, it's only six in the morning. Someone must be having a laugh.
I march down the hallway trying to locate the origin of the incessant drilling. Tristan is standing
out there too, hands on hips listening intently to gauge the direction of the noise.
Standing there in silence, I adopt his pose. It seems the best for listening.
"Upstairs," we both exclaim at once.
"Hopefully it will stop soon," Tristan helpfully comments before shuffling back to his room in his
underpants.
Sod that. I am not taking the chance.
I march out the door to our flat and start to hammer on the door to the one next door. It's a bit of a
weird set up but because the flat is an old house split into a conversion, we share the external, pretty,
stained glass blue door outside but have our own internal doors on the inside of an extra hallway.
It's like living in the Tardis; I am cool with that. Normally.
After five minutes of dedicated hammering I hear the drill cease its eardrum-destroying noise
followed by the thud of heavy work boots.
"You all right, love?" asks the man covered in some kind of dust when he answers the door.
Is he mad?
"Do I look all right to you?" I demand.
He looks me up and down. It's only when he does I realise that I am wearing my fluffy Christmas
pyjama's.
Damn it.