madness in great ones must not unwatched go

By the time June Twenty Seven rolls around and exams for this semester end , and I pass out incoherent intoxicated and indecent on my bedroom floor, I will have completed my SEVENTH study of Shakespeare's Hamlet, and my NINTH study of the works of John Donne.

Never before have my academic commitment issues been so apparent.

If I get anything lower than a credit for English this semester, you all must beat me up and leave me by the wayside with a copy of the collected works of John Donne stuffed down my throat, and Hamlet stuffed somewhere else.

Although, maybe this time I'll be able to put forth my theories about Donne and Hamlet and be taken seriously. Last time I tried to suggest that Hamlet is all about food, my tutor's face went a funny incandescent sort of aubergine. Which was rather awesome.


What prompted all this was the arrival of my textbooks. The Metaphysics & Epistemology ones are massive and daunting clocking in at over 500pages each, whereas "History: The Human Web" is a piddly 300. And my International Relations book appears to be mostly Churchill and Stalin porn, which brings back fond memories of the year 12 history classroom, where I seceded from MLC and started my own Single Party State, known as "The Ultimate Party State Of Maddie." Anyway. Looking through the English Handout, I realised that I knew most of the poetry, that I could in fact quote most of it from memory and shout about how most of it was pompous rubbish. This occupied me for about five minutes before I grew bored, went and stood in a bucket and caused some havoc. No, seriously. Major havoc that then lead to a minor rebellion where we nearly threw my mother down the stairs. I don't know. It's a bit blurry and I blame the muffins I had for desert. It's all over now, and I'm now being distracted by the fact that I get to study Endgame (for the first time, how odd) by Samuel Beckett. This is my favourite Beckett play, and I'm trying to work out if it's a bit pathetic to have a favourite Beckett play. Still, I suppose I have a favourite William Beckett song, so a play by Samuel Beckett must be slightly less pathetic. Or something. Good grief Madeleine, how can you have verbal diarrhoea when you're typing???

Le sigh. Apparently my return to the hallowed halls of university means that I'm maturing. Like some sort of dubious cheese, I suppose.


x

My younger bother, Germ, is playing a techno version of the Star Wars theme. Which makes me want to go and steal a Millennium Falcon from somewhere and cause mischief. I'll settle for listening to The Robot Ate Me , who are rather lovely and make me want to drink the apricot tea that's been languishing in my pantry for quite sometime. Whilst wearing my lovely new dress from Arielle St Lawrence's line Fancy Clothing, which is available here. I'm currently coveting the Happiness Jumper, hint hint. And I'm still struggling with Nancy Mitford, who is lovely but one does tire so of silly women who are apt to faint at Gare Du Nord. They ought to have found the lovely little patisserie around the corner and had a madeleine or two. With hot chocolate. That cures all, don't you think?