A little bit of Devon, a whole lot of baloney

Ufff, February. Where were we? Oh yeah - we were back in 2015, heading for Devon, where brown with mud to the rim, my mid-shin gumboots almost went under on more than one occasion––a fine line I won't risk again–– upgrading to knee-highs before I next venture to England's soggy lowlands. While we were all seriously enjoying our holiday––wine and cheese in front of the fire––occasional bracing walks into the wilds of the moors, I got seriously started on the reading for my first two essays. Nico proved a good sport, answering questions concerning castration and the phallus while he made the morning's coffee. There were days Al stayed in bed for fear I'd ambush her with gender identity questions like, what is a woman? for which she has no time, and on which once finally pressed, I was availed of comic relief from the pyschoanalytic, her comments making their way into my final drafts (which may or may not go down well with my professor as 'legitimate' research).

Those two essays have now been submitted, with one featuring a cheeky critique of Lacan, the other a celebration of the 'tomboy' or all things 'periphery' in a reclamation of territory available to 'woman'. If anyone's interested I may try and post them at some stage. I haven't solved anything yet (world peace?), but I think I made some small points worth making. Baby steps.

Celebrities. A topic on which I usually say little. But, in the space of a week, I found myself taking coffee alongside, first––Kiera Knightley, and second––Sienna Miller. Where? A girl doesn't tell... Also in the last week, I've acquired a live-in boyfriend (rather KR has acquired a temporary live-in couple) having left my place in Dalston to commence the hunt for a small square-metreage with very high ceilings as B and I take on cohabitation. No more share-housing for me. Quelle surprise!

Ah, the French...