Saw Cold Mountain last night, one of those terribly graphic films which I had expected to be emotionally draining etc. but for some reason didn't weep a drop. Had been all prepared as well, had not worn eye makeup, had tissues in bag etc. Not one tear! Maybe I am a heartless mofo, or I'll never be able to cry again. Maybe since I was gypped (E's racist slur against gypsies, meaning ripped off) by the health conglomerate 'California Fitness' out of $400 a part of me has died? All plausible theories.

Thank god for dictionary.com because I have a 300 word French translation to do and it is deathly boring. To bore you all into sleep here's a little extract:

Cabell took a seat at the table on the pavement and ordered a coffee. The table next to his was piled with books and papers, and a stocky gentleman was reading one of the thick volumes. Cabell was watching him when a young Moroccan boy stopped before his table.

Gripping stuff, my friends. Gripping. Alas, coursework in both English and French calls (although with my ABB offer from Notts I hardly need work anymore, hee hee!) although I'm hoping that if I get AAC - the lovely C in French because I suck - I can still get in thanks to sheer gene(ass), wit and brains. Can't wait for the future and Uni, especially this summer as I will be bale to flaunt my lovely bod in a bikini and not have horrendous, gigantic tan lines, can put veils, sheets and the like away. Hooray!