Last night I dreamt historians David Starkey and Simon Schama were in the middle of a blood feud. I was on Schama's side, but I wasn't really involved. That's not why I'm nervous.

When it's not dark at five o clock anymore it misleadingly starts to feel like summer's almost here. This summer I have yet another round of life changing exams, but this time they really, really do matter.

We had leek and potato soup for tea and everything. This was possibly coincidental. But my mum's Welsh so daffodils all round. The leek is actually a pretty shoddy national symbol, seeing as it's just a glorified mutant onion. At least the Welsh flag's got a great big dragon on it. That kind of compensates.

Stalin has stolen my brain. But I love this stuff, even if reading Beria's memos gets a little much after three hours. That's a lie, Laventry P can write as many memos as he likes. I love it when you read something and realise that it links together your whole argument. It's like being on a really, really boring adventure.

Well I just had a monumental hissy fit about my history individual study project (that for boring reasons) I a) incredably behind with b) have reached a dead end. Apparently no-one else finds the Soviet penal system post-1953 as riveting as (apparently) I do!

Not ever, mind you. I posted here before, very briefly, a long, long, long ago; back in the days of too much teenage angst, too much Nirvana and too much eyeliner. The Nirvana is gone, somewhere along the way I found Morrissey and the Pixies (by way of a God awful Placebo cover) and then the Indier than Thou scene stumbled out of MySpace and Drowned in Sound.