Things to note: Elections, BAAS and Friends

Election: god I want to hit things already. Look, the country is NOT broken, NI increases will NOT mean lost jobs, and the LIberal Democrats could promise the moon on a stick - they're STILL NOT going to be in power (at the very best, and it all depends on the vagaries of our voting system, they will have some roll to play to prop up whichever ailing government elected by a minority gets in). Am heartily sick of the slanging matches. I'll be voting Labour, okay. We have a good local MP who is responsive and fair - Nick Palmer - and I would like him back representing us come the day after the election. We're a straight Labour v Conservative seat at the national elections and there are a lot of small parties standing: not good. So I'm not going to faff about 'protest voting'. There are plenty of things I'm not wild about in terms of current policy, but ancestors died for my right to vote and I will use it as I see fit.

BAAS: away in Norwich for the next few days. This means I miss the next episode of Burn Notice on Fiver, the next Red John episode of The Mentalist on Five, AND 'The Beast Below' (aka the next great episode of the Moff-era of Doctor Who). Boo bloody hiss and thank heavens for catch-up TV. However, on the upside I hopefully will enjoy socialising with colleagues and listening to some fancy academic speak for 4 days. Woo!

Friends in need: I owe Helen L for her lovely gift of a new iPod cover, I owe George and Sonia a LONG overdue box of goodies, and I owe my precious friend Chrissie my endless affection for keeping in touch despite things being tough.

I'll get on the case on my return, honest.

Love ya guys.

Stratford-upon-Avon visit: what friends are for

It wasn't as planned in terms of my weekend as a whole: weather predictions meant my 2 night stay in Stratford was abandoned for on-the-day return train journeys (and even that was oh-so-nearly replaced by a last minute 1 night away, thwarted by ill health). There were minor hiccups on the day: three of our number were temporarily separated into a pair and a wrongly boarded train single, with an unusual lack of mobiles making reassurance impossible (thankfully, the three were reunited and progressed to our meeting). And then the leading lady was indisposed, creating a shuffle-up effect on the cast similar to that imposed by Tennant's back injury last winter.

But it mattered not a jot because we managed it. Nine of us made it to Stratford, as planned for not just an annual reunion but also a significant cultural activity. We came from across England: the north-west, the south coast, the entire sweep of the west midlands and beyond, and from the east midlands.

The sun shone - not too unbearably. And we were all happy.

When I was at Wolverhampton Uni, first as an undergraduate and then as a temporary lecturer, I felt incredibly lucky to meet and befriend such wonderful people on the teaching staff. The class that I first ran on my own, Romanticism, in the 1994/1995 academic year, included a delightful cohort of youngish to older mature students. In subsequent years we kept in touch and my former tutors, now colleagues, saw them through to graduation and subsequently on to further studies, other qualifications and lives. And we still meet each year for conversation and culture.

This year we planned and plotted a trip to Stratford for a play and I have to say it feels like a resounding success with even skeptical RSC visitors delighted by the production of As You Like It. Full review in next post, but thank you everyone for making it so wonderful.

In the name of friendship... I give her David Tennant

A signed programme from David Tennant for my friend's birthday. Sure, she would have liked actual David Tennant but I felt getting that was pushing it a bit - even my witchy powers don't extend that far - but hey, for a little humiliation and pleading, I'm more than happy to obtain this for her. [I have got the lovely Helen's permission to post this here: though I have been squeeing all day since yesterday morning]

HL has her birthday next week, and though she proclaimed she was 'not bothered' about not having got something signed at the stage door last week, I knew at heart she was a little sad inside [the unexpressed term 'gutted' would probably cover it].

So, throwing caution to the wind I took my last shreds of dignity and organised the deed (no laughing at the back: I'm maintaining the myth that I had some dignity before doing this whatever you may say).

When I got the package back it was definitely a case of cue SQUEE!

I confess I did do a big dancing jig in my nightwear, screeching to the ceiling 'thank you!!', before plotting how I could oh so casually drop this around to H's.

I went for the classic 'dropping your birthday card off early' technique [since our Stratford trip had effectively been our presents to each other]. I put the card into a carrier-bag, carefully making sure that it covered the centre of the programme where the signature was written. I passed the bag on, mentioning as calmly as I could 'there's your card, and I think that also belongs to you' before turning away silently squeeing in advance of her response. I sensed her puzzlement. Pause.

Squeal: 'oh MY GOD!! - how did you... what did you do?!'*

Needless to say, she's a bit chuffed. And so am I on her behalf. Is it wrong to feel self-indulgently virtuous?!

* Cloud said I should have said 'David stayed over and I got him to sign it before he left this morning'. Hurrumph. Honestly, the things my boy says to me...