I go through intense periods of loathing for this game.

Then I sit down to dinner one evening and am sucked inexplicably into the vortex of madness that is twenty-two men plus A BALL plus an audience bursting its collective vein plus assorted field people and trembling managers PLUS MAGICAL ROLLING ADVERTISEMENTS.

That whooshing sound you just heard was my brain. Oh, football.

That whooshing sound is not, as I would in my delusion dare to believe, the sound of a torturously stressful month passing finally by. I will probably be sixty before I can breathe. And then I'll go and ruin the fun by dying. Hah.

While waiting for my (splendid, majestic but all too rare to behold) tutor in the corridor today I was treated to delicious slow sunlight and free music. All right, they were playing Nirvana (I think?) and early Beatles songs, ergo yawn, but sunlight and music. So good.

I have been wonderfully gay for quite a while now. I mean 'gay' in a certain way, of course. I don't mean 'lesbian' or 'stupid' or 'maddeningly, poetically, archaically cheerful'. I do mean 'shamelessly, flammably campy'. It's interesting, because in temperament I am quite the opposite. I don't think I need to stop. Not yet. There's something liberating about a pose, a pose which is deliberately a pose and delights in that blatant deliberation. Poseur pose posy Bosie all roads lead to Wilde...