Something that has been weighing on my mind.

Dear internet.

I have a confession to make, which may come as a shock to some of you. I am a big girl. I’m not talking the kind of big girl that can cross the road by herself or use joined up handwriting or can make toast without setting my hair on fire. I am a large girl, I should have said. The type of girl that Tyra Banks describes as “fiercely real” on Top Model. I have bras that could double as sails on a ship, I have a bum, I have a large stomach, I have flabby arms, Mika wrote a song about us, Queen had us riding bikes naked.

All of this was nicely rounded up and pointed out to me by a lady on a Chiltern Rail train to London Marylebone today as “a fat girl taking up my seat lol”. I happened to glance over to read this on the lady’s Blackberry and saw the f-bomb on an email to someone. I don’t know who she was, other than she lives around the South Buckinghamshire area, and I don’t really want to know, but there are a few things she needs to know.

Firstly, you didn’t make me cry.

I know I am big. I know I’m overweight and, actually, I’m taking steps to rectify it. I have always been big and it hasn’t been a problem. I’ve got on with my life and made friends and succeeded even whilst wearing tent like jumpers and avoiding walking into a headwind whilst wearing a skirt. There are times when I feel awful and want to sit and eat a tub of ice-cream or a block of cheese, but I spring back again and I feel ok. I like to think it is because the people around me value more what I am like as a person, or how I behave at work and how I value my friends and family around me, and none of this were to change if I suddenly woke up as a size 8. I don’t really give a hoot whether certain female Daily Mail writers think I’m not hot enough to get on TV. I am absolutely certain that I will never make the FHM sexiest woman list and I couldn’t care less, so anytime someone comments on the way I look I brush it off.

Secondly, the kind of language you used can really hurt people. I have built up a thick skin to this through years at school feeling under confident and lacking in self-esteem, but there are some who are hurt easily by what you say about the way they look and this can lead to disastrous consequences. What I’m about to say has been said a thousand times before but, honestly, we are all different. Some embrace it and are happy with the way they look, if you are bothered by the things people say about you then move on. They are not worth your time.

I don’t mind if the lady on the train never reads this, but she didn’t hurt me. I was more shocked that people were still immature when it comes to the way others look. I was mistaken, but you will not break me. I’ve put up with enough puerile and immature comments over my 22 years on this planet to let it start affecting me now. If the only thing you can say to me is that I’m fat then I don’t want your opinion. I’m not acknowledging your opinion if that is the best you can do.

So hand me some cake and stick two fingers up to ignorance. 

Ivy-covered professors in ivy-covered halls

The eager eyed amongst you will have noticed that the blurb for this blog title has changed. It reflects my new status as a graduand, which I will be for the next few weeks at least. I am still calling myself a student until the last possible moment, however, which will be when my ability to abuse a 20% student discount at New Look ceases to be. So that’s the end of August when my NUS card runs out. I imagine my Uni card will be prised out of my hands as well. I wanted to keep it, it has a duck on it. My results come out on Friday. Eek.

So here I am, three years older and £9000 poorer, on the other side of what is in my opinion the best three years and £9000 I’ve ever spent. University has been an eye opening experience and I will never forget any of it (although some things have been forgotten, like Roses Weekend 2009, but that wasn’t my fault) and I could not have asked for a more helpful and inspiring department to have been a part of. I have been incredibly lucky with the people who have taught me and the people I’ve met. I have made friends for life. University of York, Archaeology Class of 2011, I salute you. Whenever I see a group of archaeologists being made to dig through piles of mud I will think of you. And laugh a little too.

However, for some who read this blog, they will graduate from University a lot poorer than this and despite the governments best efforts to convince us otherwise, will also be unemployed. The Powers That Be seem to think they can decide what constitutes a useful degree or not, which makes me unbelievably angry. I chose my degree because I enjoy it, and having spent three years studying it I’ve now decided that I hate digging and feel slightly ill when I see a Harris Matrix, and this has ultimately led to my desire to pursue a career in heritage and museums. I think a lot of people see a degree as being a single, lonely road you must follow forever and never stray from it, but in my case and certainly a lot of people see that this is not the case and is almost impossible. I will take archaeology as a case study, because I have been through the system. A well paid job in archaeology is like the gold we allegedly dig for every day. Looking at the figures from last year’s National Student Survey, of the graduates in Archaeology from the University of York, 75% of them are in a “non-graduate job”, which apparently equates to “sales assistants and retail cashiers”. Taking another subject, such as Aerospace Engineering at Liverpool (which is what my brother did), 20% of the final year students in the survey are in a “non-graduate job”. It is no reflection on the degree or the subject. Archaeology and the historical arts is such a wide ranging subject that many use the degree as a stepping stone to another job, because we are taught vital transferable skills that let us do this.

For example, I remember in First Year being told about our assessed lecture/viva and feeling sick from fear of standing in front of a group of people and speaking about something for 15 minutes. I have now done this, and wasn’t nearly as fearful and I thought it would be, because we have learnt and grown over the three years that 15 minutes of talking about a subject we wrote 10,000 words about was nothing. I am working in a museum over the summer and leading tour groups around a site, and I can do this without any fear because I’ve done something like it before as part of my degree. My writing even now is more slick and understandable than my A Level work, and my computer skills have only improved since sitting through a whole two terms of computing and learning to use Access databases.

Any degree teaches you the values of teamwork. The literal practice of archaeology is teamwork in itself, and the reason why my year group bonded so well. You learn to work with people in difficult circumstances, and if you can come out of that experience at the end with a smile and a good feeling, you can work in a team. Participating well with others will get you a long way. All these skills I have learnt doing a degree which people immediately associate with miserable West Country people with stupid hats digging up Roman artefacts under the watchful eye of a TV personality. I may not be pursuing a career in archaeology in its purest form, but I’ve learnt a lot from it that can take me anywhere. I have confidence in talking to people, my research skills have improved significantly (beyond just Googling it) and I can argue pretty well. So, in my new status as a soon-to-be-graduate with that massive sticker of UNEMPLOYED PLEB stuck on my forehead I go into the big wide world and try to find someone who’ll employ me, and fend off the thought of jacking it all in and going on Time Team. Does this mean my degree is useless, David Willetts? ‘Cos I don’t think so. It was worth every penny.

So all those of you reading this who are about to step into the world of University: enjoy it, relish it, drink as much as you want, steal as many traffic cones as you can, and work damn hard. It is worth every penny of the ludicrous amount of money you'll borrow to pay for it. It doesn't matter if Whitehall think your degree isn't worthwhile, they can't stop you enjoying yourself.

An attempt at a book review, followed by a long overdue explanation.

As I’m sure you’re now well aware, I have a fractured wrist, and as my audio post from yesterday will tell you I had to go to hospital for another check-up and cast replacement. In the slight rush to leave the house yesterday afternoon to walk into town I forgot to pick up a book to take with me to while away the inevitable wait to be seen. So, instead, I swung by a bookshop to find something to read and picked up Aggers’ Ashes, which I have been meaning to buy for a while (initially as a birthday present for Dad which I would then later steal and read after he had, a principle that has been in place for many years now). I did indeed have a long wait in York District Hospital fracture clinic, but I quickly realised an hour had gone by between my checking in at the desk and being called by the nurse. I had been so engrossed in the book and reliving the five Ashes tests I hadn’t noticed the time. I am dealt with fairly swiftly at the hospital and am soon on my way home, arm encased in purple, slightly cheesy smelling rubber for another fortnight. I am now writing this less than 12 hours later and I have finished reading the book.

I will now divert from this veiled attempt at a book review to offer you the following, long overdue explanation. As you’ve also probably guessed from reading my various existences online, I am a cricket fan. The humble beginnings of my support of the sport beginning with That Ashes Victory in 2005 when I was just 15 having spent the previous decade and a half of my existence disliking cricket as much as I could. Anyone who knows me and has spoken to me in Real Life since then will testify that this is the polar opposite of my current state of mind. I sleep in my ODI shirt for goodness sake (don’t judge me, it’s comfortable) and I have a summer job at Lord's to look forward to.

And so, when November 2010 rolled around and the start of another Ashes campaign began I was quaking with anticipation. Over the coming weeks I would ruin my sleeping patterns and required extra strong coffee to stay awake in lectures the following morning. Wrapped in my many blankets and wearing a potentially record breaking number of socks, I lay awake at night listening to Test Match Special. I was checking the antics of cricketing personalities on Twitter on my phone, striving to complete chapters of my undergraduate dissertation, and trying to cope with a Yorkshire winter reigning down outside. I’d often fall asleep with the radio on and wake up at odd times to hear the voices of many TMS regulars in my head, which is VERY odd. By the time we won the Ashes in Sydney I was down South (where it wasn’t any warmer) and had access to Sky Sports. I was awake until way past 4am listening to TMS and generally getting excited about the fact we had won The Ashes on Aussie soil for the first time in 24 years. The excitement was similar to Christmas when, on Boxing Day morning, I woke up to the sounds of various family members gleefully exclaiming the words “98 all out!”

So reading Aggers’ Ashes I remembered all the excitement and high points of the 2010/11 Ashes series. From watching Swanny’s Diaries I can recall the moment The Sprinkler was unleashed and giggling like a child when Aggers performed this dance on the radio (John Cleese’s Silly Walk, anyone?) The astonishment and awe of Alastair Cook’s multiple centuries over the course of the 25 days, the disappointment when we lost in Perth and the frequent explanations of “No, we haven’t won them we just can’t lose now” after Melbourne. Reading the chapter on the fifth test and reliving the final day in Sydney brought a tear to the eye, and remembering that at the exact moment Tremlett took the final Aussie wicket, Radio 4 had cut to the Shipping Forecast. I urge all you cricket fans to read this book if you enjoyed the Ashes and the sport as a whole as much as I do. I have read, or plan to read, previous material by Aggers and his TMS collegues and this is as enjoyable as those, and being a penniless student I find myself listening to TMS more often than watching the TV coverage. TMS offers a highly informative and entertaining view on the days play, and Aggers' tour diary as detailed in the book provides some behind the scenes views and antics of the victorious winter in Australia touring with the media teams covering the event and his own valuable views on what's going on. All served with some nice picture pages at regular intervals in the book, incase you forget what The Spinkler looks like.

So thanks, Aggers. Can I get my copy signed at Lord’s in July? I promise to bring cake.

Another audio post, because I'm still a cripple.

I'm sorry for how fast I talk.

An audio post, because I am a cripple.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but shoes are much more deadly.

For once, this blog title has relevance to the actual content. In the breaking my bones bit, because on Saturday morning, in the middle of what would be a fairly normal activity in putting on my trainers for a day out with my family, I fell over and trapped my hand underneath me as I fell.

I managed to live with it/resist people telling me to go and seek medical help for a few days, but I eventually went today and I came out of A&E like this.

Fracture of the 5th metacarpal and the hamate bone in my wrist. Plaster cast on for at least a week, and a follow up check next week. Having to learn to use my mobile left handed.

Oh, the picture above is now out of date because Emma drew the symbol for Earth from Stargate and wrote 'Bartlet for America' in green on the smooth plaster.

I think, therefore I snap.

Oh my goodness me, this is the second update is as many days. Aren’t you all lucky?

This blog entry is the result of a conversation down the pub. Like many good intellectual debates, they all start there. Today, I am discussing a topic brought about by my undergraduate dissertation.

As part of my research, I had to visit parish churches and cathedrals in County Durham and Bedfordshire and photograph medieval brass monuments (if people want full details of this, I have a copy I can email you. It has dead sexy graphs and everything). Anyway, all the churches I visited bar one were incredibly welcoming and inviting to let me, a lowly archaeology undergraduate and her father with a camera, into their sacred building to take photographs of these bits of metal stuck to a wall or embedded in the floor.

Like I said, all bar one. Durham Cathedral displayed the most uninviting and cold response to visiting a church I have ever witnessed. I must admit, I am used to the kind and warm nature of York Minster, who not only allow residents of the city to enter the building for free but allow photography equipment and video cameras in their building no questions asked, but I would still expect a more welcoming atmosphere towards an academic situation from a cathedral society. I was told that had I asked permission two weeks previously and paid a fee of £15 to the Dean and Chapter then I would be allowed to take photographs inside and have the privilege of lifting up a piece of carpet in the Quire to see the largest of these brasses. I was, naturally, quite unhappy and had it not been for a helpful Steward my dissertation would have lacked an important part of the ecclesiastical make-up of County Durham.

The real kicker is the reason why I and the rest of the public are not allowed to photograph inside the building. A leaflet from the Cathedral which I read a few days later told me that photography of all kinds is banned from inside the building because it is disrespectful. Doing a quick bit of Googleing has brought me to another rant on the internet about exactly the same situation, the person was told to stop taking photographs and after a letter of complaint to Durham this was the response they got:

“The Cathedral's primary purpose is to be a Christian place of worship. As such, the Chapter feel that it is inappropriate for photography to take place within the sacred space itself. Many of our visitors come here as pilgrims and spend time in quiet thought and prayer. We do not consider that they should be disturbed by photography taking place. Equally, the Chapter believes that anyone who comes to the Cathedral should be able to do so in the knowledge that they will not be included in someone else's photographs....The Chapter have recently reviewed the policy on photography in the Cathedral and have decided not to change it. This may be, in part, because they regard the Cathedral as a place of worship not as a means to improve a photographer's skills."

So it appears I am not alone in my experience in Durham, which is really sad. But it has got me thinking, is photography disrespectful in itself? Cameras are now widely available for less than £100, the technology in digital cameras has been around for nearly 10 years and the cameras are getting smaller and easier to handle. Anyone can take a photograph, put the camera on Auto and off you go. I have owned a camera since I was five, and I have taught myself the basics of film photography and, when the technology and the funds became available, I have now had two compact digital cameras and a new DSLR camera. I don’t want to trip my ego, but I am not just Joe Public with a cheap compact camera. I have always been taught that I must be respectful in any setting where I am taking photographs, don’t damage anything, don’t endanger myself or any others or take unnecessary risks or infringe any laws. So why is Durham different?

Like I said, I have taken so many photos of York Minster in my time at University, and I always take pictures of other places I visit when appropriate. Was it disrespectful for the world’s media to be all over Westminster Abbey for the Royal Wedding earlier this year? Is it disrespectful for journalists and photojournalists to be documenting the unrest in Libya and plastering it all over the internet? Is it intrusive to film episodes of Songs of Praise in places of worship?

More importantly, in my unhelpful visit to Durham detailed above, I was refused permission to photograph even though none of the pictures I would take would go on social networking sites, and would be used in an academic fashion only. My word as an academic was not gospel. I took plenty of the outside of the building, and they are on my Flickr page, but inside was a no. Not even from an academic view, I find it terribly sad that a building of such architectural beauty, and one unique in its setting as Durham, cannot be photographed for posterity and personal experiences of a family holiday or personal visit.

Apparently, if you pay £15 for a photography permit and are followed by a member of staff, it’s suddenly not disrespectful anymore. Sorry Durham, you’re just not as awesome as York Minster.

It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a supercar.

Right. This might actually be construed as a serious blog entry, here goes.

I’ve just finished watching the Culture Show special by the superb Sue Perkins on books and literary habits. In the programme, she discusses the merits and fan bases of thrillers, crime novels and romantic fiction, meeting people such as Ian Rankin, Sophie Kinsella and Ruth Rendall along the way. It was very insightful, well presented (it’s Sue Perkins, so…) and interesting, and has caused me to believe that the time is right to make the following admission, which may come as a shock to some people.

I, Liz Duncalf, am 21 years old, female and an avid reader. But, I have never read Pride and Prejudice. I’ve never read any Bronte novels and I have read no Jane Austen works.

…I’m just gonna let that sink in for a moment.

I can hear the female readers of this blog recoiling in horror. I am awaiting the gasp of shock from my housemate when she reads this (Steph – I’ll put the kettle on and we’ll talk about it) and I know I’ll get abuse for the next few days.

Consulting the BBC Big Read list, there are quite a few other books I haven’t read which puts me in a minority. From the top 20 alone, there are 13 books I haven’t read (the 7 I have include The Lord of the Rings, Hitch Hikers and Winnie the Pooh, just for the record…) The rest of the top 100 is similar, according to the majority I am not as well read as I thought I was.

It’s not that I haven’t ever had the opportunity to read them, anyone who has visited my home down South will realise that we have an extensive book collection courtesy of my Dad, and I even studied English Lit at AS Level. As part of that I read Frankenstein, A Streetcar Named Desire and Hamlet (and a lot of poetry.) Hamlet I love, Frankenstein I didn’t get on with and I have written essay upon essay of the imagery and metaphors of Streetcar (basically, she just wants to be loved and he’s a bastard). Earlier years in school I read To Kill A Mockingbird, Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet, Of Mice and Men and The Hound of the Baskervilles to name but a few. Love Baskervilles, hate the Shakespeares and am a bit “…meh” about the Steinbeck. Naturally, being a teenager of the Noughties, I’ve read every single Harry Potter book. I have never had, nor have I any inclination to do so, read anything by Stephanie Meyer.

I’ve also read half of 1984. I read half of it before someone told me what happens at the end, so I stopped reading. And I started reading The Phantom Tollbooth at primary school when a teacher took it off me for reading above my literacy level. My Mum told me to read it, what was I supposed to do?

The latest book I read was Thanks Johnners by Jonathan Agnew, before that were two more cricket autobiographies, and I’m reading James May How to Land an A330 Airbus at the moment. I’ve also been reading a Bernard Cornwell book for what seems like a lifetime. I will finish it one day.

I often feel I should read Pride and Prejudice just to say I have, but where is the fun in that? I want to read something because I want to read it, I want to be entranced by the characters and sucked into the world they’re in. I think of reading as being something you do to escape from Real Life for a few hours, not to tick off something on the list of classics to give you more kudos with your peers. Should I prove I am worthy of being a girl by being into reading P&P? I’m quite happy having not read them, and I’m not judging you if you have. I understand why girls love them (apart from the obvious wet shirt scene in the TV adaptation, which I have seen bits of) and why my friends soak up any period drama going.

I guess some people can imagine themselves roaming the grounds of a country estate and taking high tea and larking about in that manner. The character I most identify with from fiction, and I’m still not sure why, is Ford Prefect. I guess we’ll never know. I probably will read Pride and Prejudice one day. I might wake up one day and find myself purchasing the Downton Abbey box set. I’ll one day prove myself worthy of the female sex. Meanwhile, give me cricket autobiographies, science fiction and motoring journalism and I’ll be a happy person.

I’ll still never read Twilight.

I can taste the rainbow, and it tastes of tooth decay

I'm afraid this week's entry doesn't have much to say. I said I was going wedding dress shopping with my friend Vicky, but I sadly forgot all about it and stayed at home, so that's the bulk of this week's blog out of the window.

However, a particularly exciting thing happened on Thursday, in the shape of security of a house in York for next academic year. After about midday on Tuesday next week, I will officially be a resident of a gorgeous house on South Bank in York with Emma, Steph and Cath. We're off to Sinclair's letting agency with our deposits on Tuesday to sign the contract, and then probably head to the pub afterwards. I am quite ridiculously happy, because it's a lovely WARM house with ACTUAL WORKING WINDOWS and HEATING and A DOUBLE BED IN MY ROOM. Not sure what room it will be, secretly hoping for the attic bedroom, cos its cute and I like living in roofs. Having said that, any of the rooms would be lovely so I'm not altogether that bothered.

Literally minutes before I started writing this week's blog, I got a chunk of dissertation out of the way that has been plaguing me for most of the week. Unfortunately, I have to repeat the process of typing in a town name on streetmap, googling the church name, shouting at the laptop because the satellite view on Google and the OS map don't corrolate, eating more Skittles and then realising my mistake and writing down the grid reference. Its a lengthy process, but at least I get to eat sweets.

I had the joy of this house to myself last weekend, which was a mixed blessing. Yes, it was nice to have the house empty to spread my laundry all over the living room, yes it was nice to order a takeaway and not get judged for it (Viking pizza and chips, nom nom nom) and it meant I got a bit of work done, but on the other hand its very cold and lonely here. So I had takeaway, went to town on a bottle of wine and watched the Comedy Awards. It was good, and Miranda Hart won lots of things and I was happy (and full of wine and pizza.)

Also, on Wednesday night I decided to watch the National Television Awards. Let's just say I wish I hadn't. Sherlock AND Doctor Who lost to Waterloo Road, Outnumbered lost to something called Benidorm, and BBC Breakfast lost to This Morning. On the other hand, the highlight of the evening was some Unexpected Alastair Cook, presenting the award for the best magazine programme (which This Morning won, causing Holly Willoughby to launch her pregnant self at Cooky, and his face to do something like this - :O - poor boy.) Also, Top Gear won Best "Factual" Programme, and there was some references to microphones in the fronts of trousers and everything was good.

Speaking of the sexist football thing, I saw the Times headline about it on Monday when I was in WH Smiths (buying Wisden Cricketer, don't judge me, I had a migraine the night before). My immediate thought was that I pander to that stereotype of the woman not knowing the offside rule. I don't really care whether I know it or not, and there are two reasons why. For starters, football doesn't interest me. Why would I learn a rule to a sport that I don't care for? It's pointless. Secondly, and most importantly, I don't need to learn the offside rule because I understand the laws and rules of cricket. From spending time explaining to my housemate the ins and outs (*ba-dum-tssh*) of cricket, it's a lot more complex than most sports including the much lamented offside rule. Perhaps golf is a bit worse, but I get violent when subjected to a stunningly boring sport like that.

Rejoiced in the middle of the library yesterday when Andy Murray won his semi final in the Australian Open. As did quite a few people, which was good to see. It's better than being the only one in the library doing victory dances when the cricket is on, or walking into a lecture to be asked the question of the level of my love for various cricketers who played well the night before. The latter just confuses people.

Oh, and I went to the doctors last week about my knee. Nothing drastically wrong, just the injury over the summer is taking a long time to heal. Still very sore in the mornings in the cold, but that can't be helped. Been given exercises to do to strength the muscles around my knee, and when I remember to do them they are good.

Enough for now, TTFN.

"Not stupid enough to ask whether or not someone has brought in a replica cat"

Welcome to this week’s sermon. This week, we will cover many topics, including video games, mild sexism, exercise, wedding dresses, the property market, Graeme Swann's kneecaps and Stephen Mangan.

First things first, I have watched an awful lot of Green Wing recently. Sometimes, one needs a burst of surreal medical comedy in one’s life. For those who have never seen it, it’s like Scrubs but less sane and rational, more British and quirky. And it stars the excellent Stephen Mangan, known most recently for Episodes (with Tamsin Greig, giving Episodes a bit of a post-Green Wing finale Caroline and Guy married life where they settle down, forget medicine and write a hit British Comedy) and Dirk Gently. I have nothing much more to say other than he’s a GENIUS and I love him. Green Wing is wonderfully weird, and gives a nice break from having to work all week (although I’ve started dreaming about camels in a hospital, don’t ask). If you have never watched Green Wing, do. It’s marvellous, but your brain will be confused for the first few minutes.

Anyhoo, the main reason for this update was to talk about Tuesday evening, when I attended a CoD night. This took the form of a social gathering at a predetermined location where the women cooked dinner and the boys played Call of Duty and other such games (strike out video games and mild sexism from the list in the opening paragraph.) I am aware of the gender stereotyping of the evening, but it’s really rather fun. I helped with cooking Steak and Ale pie with steamed veg and roast potatoes, and pudding was a chocolate cake with Malteaser crunchy bits. Very, very tasty. And then Xbox games were played for the rest of the evening.

I did join in, and didn’t do too badly. The controls took a bit of getting used to, as my hands aren’t pre-programmed from a childhood of video consoles to know how to use an Xbox controller properly (a sheltered childhood, woe is me) but I did make two kills playing Black Ops (the same person, mind. He was quite annoyed.) I soon gave up once they moved on to Halo: Reach and I started talking sewing and medieval dresses with Vicky.

Vicky got engaged over the Christmas holidays, and is in the process of starting to collect information about planning a wedding and actually doing things about it. Like next week, I will probably do an update about going wedding dress shopping with her. Dead excited about it, as is she, obviously.

Dissertation is still slowly being thought about, am doing more data processing at the minute before the write up begins. The plan is to get most of the bulk of the writing done before the end of term, so put it this way – Its half way through Week 2 and I have a 10 week term. And assessed seminar stuff starts happening next week, which is FEAR INDUCING. We’ll see how that goes.

What’s next? Ah, the property market! I’ve been on a house viewing this week, looking at places to rent next year when/if I start a Masters course. Would be living with three other girls – Emma, Steph and Cath, who are all suitably weird/geeky enough to live with, and I live with Steph at the moment. We looked at a place in Fulford, which was adequate and had an EPIC attic bedroom, but we didn’t come out of the viewing singing its praises, so we’re waiting until another viewing on South Bank next week before making a decision. In addition to this, we’ve been having people yesterday and today viewing the house I’m in at the moment. Poor buggers, they’re interested in the place even after being told how shoddy the landlord is, how cold the house is and how broken my window is. By the way, the answer to all those is OH GOOD LORD VERY.

I managed to miss the first three today due to being at the gym. I joined Ebor Fitness in York last year, but my membership lapsed and their prices went up so I’ve gone to the University gym instead. I already have a Sports Membership from joining Archery club, so it costs me £2 for as long as I want to use the fitness suite. It’s very nice indeed, much nicer and more spacious than Ebor. I’m going for the health benefits of exercise, and to do my knee some good (more on Wounded Knee next week.)

Speaking of Wounded Knees, Graeme Swann is injured and can't play in the remaining ODIs in Australia. Can feel the pain of a "slightly strangely deformed kneecap on his left knee" (quote Andy Flower), although he got his in slightly better style than me. Batting for your country is a much better story than running after a mischevious groundsheet in a field in South Bucks. Get better soon, Swanny, your country needs you.

One last thing, and I still promise to stop talking about this soon, but CRICKET NEWS. The England World Cup squad was announced on Wednesday morning. Rejoicing for Stuart Broad hopefully being fit from the sore tummy muscles which kept him out of the Ashes, happy for Matt Prior being given more of an opportunity to be AWESOME, bit glum at the lack of Steven Finn and Chris “Newbie” Woakes, but they’re only young so they’ve got plenty of time left for another crack at it (six months older than me, SIX MONTHS. They play for England, I dig dead people. FML.) Luckily for me, and badly for my productivity, the Cricket World Cup and the 6 Nations are on at the same time. We’ll see how that goes.

I think I’ve covered everything for today. Until next time…