On Friday I decided that the mango juice had irreversibly gummed up my keyboard (see a reply to a reply on the last post for an example of the damage it was capable of) and plugged in my far too heavy old one again, so this post is being hammered out at double the force, but don't take it as if I'm shouting at you.

On Saturday, Whitney had her last class of her postgraduate degree ever, presenting a piece on T. S. Eliot complete with a frightening mask prop. And she's not nearly as ecstatic about never having to write another essay again as you would expect. In fact, her fellow students seemed to be unable to cope with the idea of it - and it's understandable given that at the end of a postgraduate you've had essay hand-in deadlines for about the last twenty years of your life.

She had got Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical adaptation of Eliot's "Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats" out of the library and used a bit of it during the presentation, so from the pub that they had gone to after the class they decided to descend upon our flat - after I'd gone ahead to scrape the giant pile of pants off the sofa and get the living room up to living standards. That meant that in the end I spent Saturday evening with a group of American lesbians, watching a musical about gyrating catgirls. I know, I can't quite believe it either.