I am Charlotte Simmons

University is appalling at the moment. I didn't submit a proposal, as my supervisor is just a bit rubbish. She went through the motions of helping and when then when I submitted it was told I hadn't adhered to the basic guidelines that she should have told me about.

Thanks. The deadline passed, and she just continued being chummy, as always.

I am meant to have a meeting on Thursday, but can think of nothing to say to her, and feel about as despondent and unsure of my research as it possible to be.

Let's not talk about it.

Getting to know you, getting to know all about you

My new flatmates are nut cases.

Two girls: one Slovakian and the other is French. They sit in the kitchen all day and discuss how disgustingly unclean the house is.

One boy: English guy, a bit posh and escaped UCL with a fleet of toff friends, who say ridiculous things like " I don't know why our good friend John doesn't just go for a 10 mile run." Erm... He has M.E., you insensitive buffoon. However, James's an alright bloke and we often sit in the lounge drinking tea and chatting, not about cleaning. We do however both agree this is the cleanest house we have both ever lived in.

In the course of their chatting they have developed a cleaning plan. They have divided the rooms each week between us, and spend each Sunday scrubbing their allocated room for over four hours.

This makes it sound like James and I are messy oafs, who don't clean after ourselves - we do. But still every week they expect us to adhere to the four hour allocation of cleaning time. this includes removing everything from all the cupboards in the house and cleaning the inside of the cupboard.

James and I simply do not have time for such a time wasting exercise, as we both work and study. This has meant that neither one of us can return home but to find purse lipped flatmates in the kitchen and a note pinned to the door, regarding something we have failled to do in obeyance with their stric guidelines... It's a bit like living in a mini Totalitarian state.

Inbetween Days

Sometimes the cure is also the poison.

I have lost and won, but what I can no longer really see. This is all a little criptic and not entirely helpful - so facts...

I am now emphatically single.

The Doctor has cut contact with me - for the foreseeable future - which is really sad, but I guess a necessary part of breaking up. I still maintain he is the greatest guy, and any girl would be lucky to be with him (just not me). In my quieter moments, when reflection is possible, and solipsism beckons, then I miss him to within a hair's breadth of picking the 'phone up and suggesting we try again. I always emerge from this mindset glad that the status quo remains and, to be honest, know that he has more much about him than to allow himself to be the victim of my whims.

Flatmate...

Well, you kiss a few Princes and you kiss a few frogs, and it's not always possible to know which is which... I am still not too sure... We met again the week before last. We had a great matey night chatting, taking the piss out of each other, grumpily discussing how life was one huge confidence trick, talking about bands we both loved - later, drunkenly, booking tickets to Wilko and The National in London in May back at my new flat- And, well, just being generally great together... He left, without any funny business and said, how he understood I just needed a friend and he was fine about that - it was just bad timing. When he left, I sat drinking a cup of tea on my own and thought about how much emptier the room felt without him.

The next time I saw him was St Patrick's Day: I am English, my father is Scottish and my mother was born in Cork, but would always describe herself as English - I have no right to celebrate this, apart from being a pisshead. We got very drunk in a large group - I invited a friend of mine from Liverpool, and it was a great night. Well, apart from the fact he didn't speak to me all night, got absolutely rotten drunk, kissed my friend from Liverpool in front of me, and took her home with him.


He slurred at me, as they left, that I had no right to be angry with him as I had made my feelings clear and didn't want him. Idiot. Him and me.

The following day, his angel of the morning slunk back to my flat to pick up her stuff before she got the train back to Scouseland - she told me they had both passed out and woke up glad that nothing more had happened. Much as I want to, I can't believe her that nothing happened, but do believe that I woke up with the worst hangover I've ever had.

Kate, the Liverpool friend, is well not a big hit with guys - she's a little overweight, quite short, poor complexion and, well, a bit mousey looking. I'm not Kate Moss, but I am always described as non-conventionally alright/good looking, have very pale green eyes, long goldish blond hair, high cheek bones, crap pale skin, teeth that look like they enjoy to hang out together at an interesting party and a shy smile. We did the same course at University together, and our friendship was always built on (I'm sorry, it's arrogant but true) that she had a mini girl crush on me. Four years younger not as able academically, she used to ask me why I was her friend and look to me for reassurance. It was a win-win situation, we enjoy each others company, and (this is going to show me as an egotistical arse) I kind of understand why she went to bed with Flatmate. The morning after, there was even a little light of triumph in her eyes that she had been with the guy I wanted - she had been somehow validated by the source that I had sought validation from.

So where does it go from here?
I don't know, I keep getting suckered into this confidence trick of life.

Time (The Revelator)

I have been avoiding flat mate, after the one single most romantic thing anybody has ever done for me. I sent him a text saying thanks for the song; it was lovely. Ended with an extravagant three kisses... There was no reply. This was a couple of weeks ago, so maybe he's avoiding me instead, and I have convinced myself of the opposite.

There has also been the matter of me falling off the social radar for a while, due to work rubbish, but still a reassuring text wouldn't go amiss. True, some of the invites I've declined have been offered accompanied with the words Flatmate wants to know if you are coming - It's a bit like 'going out' at school, but with less contact; well, except I slept with him, which wouldn't have happened at school and involved quite a lot of physical contact. Oh yeah, I didn't mention that, did I?

It's all a bit shameful and a while ago now. It was before I finished with the Doctor and involved vast quantities of wine, and bucket loads of regret in the morning.

The peasants are revolting.

Crap. Crap. Crap. My supervisor might as well say to me "You're becoming difficult, and I do not want to help."

There is now a question over the minimal financial help I get from the University for next year, as well as the grant from the last post. I have a feeling that, for some reason that is beyond me, my supervisor wants me out... Petty politics, no doubt. (It's not to do with my academic performance, as, well, I'm doing alright).

Okay. I would say we have an uneasy relationship. There is only a bare ten years in age between us and the boundaries are a little unclear. To be honest, I'd like a friendly, polite and professional relationship, with clear boundaries, but it seems to flit between this and overly familiar with undefined boundaries. I obviously do not hold the power in this relationship and the boundaries shift according to the whim of the academic. The supervisor also feels like they know me, due to little things I've said about my private life - there is no way they know how messy my life is at the moment, but still they seem to have formed a back story...

Oh I don't know, maybe this is a paranoid delusion caused by stress, but I hate it when people aren't being straight forward with me and that, somewhere along the line, I know I am being manipulated... Can't we just sit down like adults have a chat... No, obviously not.