I'm jolly well well, thanks.

Hi, how are you? I'm jolly well well, thanks. I can't hardly believe I managed to get thirty thousand words submitted in time, but I did, hurrah, which meant that Friday night I could have some nice wine and a curry with the lovely R family and not worry about a thing. Of course, once they left, I had to get stuck into Madame Bovary (is she a superficial tart, or a victim of misplaced romanticism? I'm not sure, but I'm guessing there's an essay in there somewhere), and lots of academic essays on the history of 'the novel' and what a 'novel' actually is (yes, I also thought it's just a long story without any pictures, but apparently it's way more complicated...which I look forward to being asked about in my workshop tomorrow). I have one essay left to read, and I'm going to read it in the bath, yes I am. I'm going to set Bertha to work on the kitchen floor and call it a day because all that reading has made me quite tired. Oh, and also the scary circuit training session I went to at lunch time. We did skipping (not at all how I remembered it from my playground days) and boxing. The boxing was done with a partner, and we were trying to think of punching someone we loathed in order to punch harder. My partner, a colonel's wife, said she was imagining the pads were 'Les Dawson'. I was a little confused, because I can't quite imagine what heinous crime the late star of Blankety Bland and Opportunity Knocks had done to her. After a bit of her thrashing out and saying how he was ruining the country and thumping the pads so hard that I nearly fell over, she suddenly paused, frowned and said 'Oh, no, not him, it's the other one I mean, the politician'. Turns out she meant George Osborne. I guess they're easily confused, what with one being a Tory MP and the other being a dead comedian...
I'm feeling quite perky, despite the scary amounts of reading and writing I've got to get through over the next couple of months (they say it's a year-long masters course, but it strikes me that they fit the 'year' into the space of about four months, and it is a bit full-on). However, the perkiness is making me feel mistrust, as I know it can only be a matter of time until I degenerate into a hormonal old witch again.
Right oh, I'd better get the robotic hoover out and get cracking.
TTFN xxxx