I have seen three people reading The Da Vinci Code on the bus in the last 24 hours. Am I right in trying to avoid this book in the way I do Leprosy, the Black Death and Foaming Dog Fever? Or is my Attempt to Evade the Bestseller (with apologies to H. M. Bateman) symptomatic of my being a horrible intellectual snob?

I don't know, but something about that book sure as Hell puts me off. Maybe it's the cover. Maybe it's the assumption that the name of the author and the title alone will be enough to sell it to me. Maybe it's the fact that the author revels in the delightful name of Dan Brown. Why Dan? What's wrong with Daniel? Doesn't that sound accessible enough? Is Dan really the guy's full name? I mean, in the unlikely event that I was ever to get published and didn't stick to a pen name, I would not put an abbreviated version of my name on the cover. Am I thinking too hard about this?

Hm. If I think I am, that probably means something.

'Seuche' is accumulating again, something which is due in no small part to the commute. I really need to get in the habit of typing that thing up more frequently rather than waiting until I have a goodly pile of pages demanding transcription. I currently have something like 8 pages of fic to type up and that's beginning to get intimidating, partly because my handwriting is so goddamn abysmal. With my scrawl, I could make it as a doctor. Easily. It's seriously... not good writing. My mother says she likes it, but that is because my mother is insane. Blame the bus route on this scrawl of mine being even worse than usual.

I'm beginning to get annoyed with the commute being so short. I know, not a common complaint, but it's my fault for trying to write on it. It's irritating to have to break off a promising, or at least fun, bit of writing in its tracks for a simple thing like getting to college, and annoying to try and pick up the thread again on the way home. I want to get my action scenes done, damn it!

(Oh well, at least the writing for the Litmus test is nearly nearly finished.)

Speaking of the commute - I'm still so goddamn pissed off about the guy I got wedged next to on the bus on the way home last night that I have to rant about him here hours after the fact. His presence left me a seething cauldron of barely-repressed ire. In fact, by the time I had shared his joyous presence for around ten minutes I rather felt like strangling him, and the feeling only intensified the longer I was stuck with him. Maybe it's a girl thing, but there's something deeply offensive about being crammed into around half a bus seat because the asshole next to you has his legs apart, as if he were such a stud he couldn't close them if he tried. They don't do this when they're sat next to other men. Just when they're next to women, as if we like the sensation of someone else's thigh rubbing uncomfortably against our own, or really enjoy getting squashed against the wall courtesy of someone else's flamboyant groin.

(Being a cynical bitch one wonders if this means that he was compensating for something.)

As if that wasn't enough, this guy spent the entire journey on his mobile. One of two, in fact. The minute he got off one, someone would call him on another. And so on and so forth. I don't like it when, even with my music on offensively loud, I can still hear someone else's conversation. Okay - maybe I didn't want to strangle him. Maybe I wanted to shove his phone up his nose instead. Yes, there are worse places to shove things, but the nose is smaller. I wanted it to hurt, dammit!

Finally, so caught up in these phone calls was he that I missed my stop. I wanted to get off one early so I could buy crappy food and eat it but, in spite of putting my notebook away and collecting my shopping, the jerk didn't actually seem to realize I wanted to move until I actually tried to get up. Luckily I was getting off the bus at this stage - if I hadn't been I really do think I would have done something violent. Maybe I'd have tried to beat him to death with my bread, or stuffed an unopened tube of Pringles down his trachea.

[Insert four letter word of choice here.]

Why am I here at this stupid time of the morning? Well, thanks to a lecturer assuming she was delivering an hour-long session on wound care when she was actually supposed to be there for an hour and a half, I have found myself with an hour to kill. This goddamn university. There's something about this place which makes me want to scream. I mean, the faculty at Manchester were pretty disorganized but they had absolutely nothing on this place.

On top of which, the exam results which were supposed to be out today will not be published until Friday. Friday, for fuck's sake. All I want to know is whether or not I've passed - what's with the hold-up?

I'm still tired, too. I want to come online tonight but in this state I seriously doubt that'll be happening. I probably won't be out of here much before five, which will mean getting stuck on crowded buses in the rush hour again and no doubt will lead to my reaching home Way Too Late, falling into bed and sleeping until around about midnight, when I will wake up and actually have myself a bit of an evening - albeit a rather belated one. Anyway, better go. Class calleth. Again.

What joy.