so i was in the library after latin for some stress relief in the form of frivolous books (given previous entry, this is definitely not going to be anyone's idea of good girl behaviour) and possibly some counsel from bob reeder. bob reeder turned out to be grading papers, so i went away after he comforted that he hasn't bought a spatula yet. (a spatula? i asked suspiciously. for the splat in the carpark, he explained. oh, that spatula! nono, i assured him, now's definitely a good time to put in an order.) just before that i also had a sticky and short-lived affair with a cinnamon bun, which was not worth the trouble and needed a lot of tea to wash down, and a narrow squeak from alison milbank, with whom, although i have a friendly pact not to wield whips before april 11, i avoid assiduously anyway, in case the temptation comes upon her to inquire about you-know-what. i do my best to discourage people but you can't trust anyone not to ask these days. even nohrnberg got in an email this evening, ostensibly offering useful information (on samson's riddle) but really a far-off and anxious prod at my conscience. do not fear, from your frazzled thoughts pages of deep thought will emerge, consoled bob. it will be like alchemy. i reflected that alchemy hasn't, after these hundreds of years, actually worked, and besides, i'd just read, in feet of clay, where it says that there are two kinds of good alchemists, they being the athletic and the intellectual sorts. the athletic alchemist is one who is able to scramble for cover before everything on the bench explodes, and the intellectual alchemist knows when to do this. i did feel quite ill last night, but it turned out to be nothing more promising than your run-of-the-mill fever and it went away this morning. perhaps i could bribe someone to run me over with a car. jpa is getting quite dangerous nowadays, i hear.