Do you have any idea how long I spent trying to think of a title for this journal entry? No, I expect you don't, so I'll tell you. At least five minutes. Five minutes, and look what I came up with! It's apt, yet understated. Appropriate and meaningful yet quixotically pointless. It has an intensity that belies its brief two syllables while its relaxed, easily comprehensible quality makes it readily accessible to a generation brought up on sound-bites and game shows.
Yeah, I couldn't think of anything else, and the internet was about to shut down.
But I am so going to be an art critic if I grow up.

Yes, so, back to reality. Actually I'm back at school which bears as much resemblance to reality as I do to Brad Pitt (i.e. I try to pretend, but we all know no-one's fooled). I had quite a nice short leave in the end. First half was a bit depressing due to my mum being in India and my dad being stuck in Milan airport under five feet of snow. Still, it seems he made some good friends during his 36 hours in the terminal building. I suppose that having made a career out of dealing with stressed people about to have nervous breakdowns probably made him quite popular out there. He made it back half way through Saturday at which point my weekend picked up a bit (if only because I was no longer making all my own food). On Sunday I went back to Eton early to spend a few hours with Henny before she had to go back to school. After that, with several hours to go before it was worth being back in my house, I decided to explore some Windsor pubs and make use of actually being 18. So I hooked up with various different people at different times (including Tom, in a brief break from rehearsing for his play) and decided to find out which Windsor pub had the best Guiness. I can't remember the result though because, of course, the nature of the experiment makes remembering anything much slightly problamatic. In the end I think I went back to DMG and watched family guy.

Another day, another week, another ergo. I think I might take up boxing. It's strange, but being pummeled in the face by a big, half naked bloke seems like a significantly more attractive prospect than spending any more of my time on the stupidest sport ever invented (I speak, of course, of rowing). About two weeks until selection, and my 1st eight prospects are about as slim as they've ever been. Still, I'll let you all know whether I get in or not. Either way, I'm going to be getting very very drunk, so you're all welcome to join me (assuming I know you, and you're not some randomer who's just surfed in and found my journal).
Time to go. Hope I might see some of you at LL.