Yes, further to my post earlier today about This Is Fake DIY, the music website I write for, I've achieved one of my goals in life: I've worked Genesis into a music review.

You'll catch a bit of the Field Music approach to vocals in any early Genesis you care to listen to. Try finding 'Cuckoo Cocoon' from their album 'The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway' (this is pre-Phil Collins, don't panic), which somehow manages to be shorter than 'You Can Decide'. You'll realize Genesis' Peter Gabriel wouldn't sound out of place in Field Music. [source]

Also, I see one of the editors has changed 'realise' to 'realize'! You have no idea how angry I am about that. The version with an S is perfectly good English, none of that American spell-things-with-a-zed nonsense.

OK so after a hectic day in IKEA (6hrs of it, no less), do I really want to open my post in London to this:

a) Remember the Barclays change of address saga both here, and here? Well, the most recent billing address now reads "Far Fairfield Bow". What does it take for them to get it right? I speak in clear English over the phone, and last time when it said "Sairsield", I simply told them to replace the "s", with an "f". How can it go so badly wrong? Mark my words, Barclays Customer Complaints are getting an Amy-email.

b) The Parking Permit people at the London Borough of Tower Hamlets. So, I applied for both a residents permit (for the Clio), and some visitor scratchcards. For the former, I needed to provide a council tax or utility bill (I provided a council tax) and also the insurance document stating that I was either policy holder or named driver. For the latter, I needed to provide a council tax bill. I have received two separate letters back. The good news is that my residents permit has been granted. However, they have refused the application for scratchcards saying that they have someone else registered at that address, and can I provide details that I am the sole occupier. Why, when both applications went in the same envelope, to the same department, do I get two connflicting responses? Bonkers.

Luckily IKEA was successful, so I'm not too annoyed. I am puzzled by my 3rd council tax calculation though - all have been different. And I'm a CAB advisor! Also, contents insurance forms are a bitch.

I'm staying with my Fairy Godmother in Suffolk for the next couple of days.

Somerset County Cricket Club won the Twenty20 championships last night with a fantastic display against first Leicestershire, then Lancashire. My dad, a paid-up member of Lancashire CCC, texted me with the result, to his chagrin and my delight. Honorary Lancastrian though I may be, the cricketing heart lies with Somerset - I used to get training at their cricket academy from Somerset all-rounder Graham Rose, so I feel attached to the club, if only slightly.

Despite the enduring appeal of Twenty20, it's having difficulty changing some wider aspects of the human condition. On the Somerset CCC official forum, there is a thread entitled 'Twenty20 CHAMPIONS!!!!' which has, at the time of writing, had seven replies. The thread next to it, entitled 'Girls Aloud At The Oval!' (they entertained the crowd in between matches, The Oval being a cricket ground in London), has had nearly thirty replies. Cricket? What cricket?

From the BBC's Editorial Complaints Unit quarterly report, April-June 2005:

Complaint

The Chair of the British Committee on Romani emancipation complained about a link on a Radio 1 webpage to a session track called “Gyppo kids ate my hamster”, on the grounds that the term “Gyppo” was offensive and pejorative.

The ECU's response

The Unit ruled in March 2005 that the inclusion of this title on the webpage was a mistake.

Further action

The webpage has now been deleted.

This is what I spend my nights doing whenever I say 'working on the music website' to people. This Is Fake DIY is the small news/reviews site in question, which I like to think punches above its weight and has a fantastic look and feel, considering not one person working for it is a paid employee.

This weekend sees the launch of the DIY Guide, a new weekly feature where DIY previews the music being released in the week ahead, as well as gigs that haven't sold out yet. The idea is that DIY will take the hard work and wasted money out of finding good new music, be it live or on CD.

The reason I'm commemorating the launch of the DIY Guide on Dayorama is because I came up with the idea and wrote the majority of this week's Guide - you can read it here. The screengrab above shows the link to the Guide from the main DIY front page, the first time I've scored the DIY equivalent of a front page byline.

I spent yesterday in Thetford playing an Idiotchild gig in a garden, which was interesting if not spectacularly successful. Photos and a full account will follow (I'd threaten you with audio but it's my usual off-the-back-of-a-digital-camera trick and no doubt sounds just as rubbish as whenever I tried it before).

A quick text from Amy, the first thing I've heard from her all day:

"Agh to ikea!"

Quite.

Today, Amy and I graduated from Oxford University. It was a very enjoyable experience, but so very complex, old fashioned and Oxford-esque that words can’t really do it justice. We started off in College, dressed in sub fusc (which, if anyone is interested, includes your commoners gown despite the fact it is not listed as part of the items you should bring in the letter they send out to you), where we had a briefing from our Dean of Degrees. Since there were more that just undergraduates taking part, we all had slightly different parts to take in the ceremony. These differences manifested themselves in the number of times we had to bow to the Proctors and the Vice-Chancellor, and the colour of our hoods. Ultimately, no-one left very much the wiser other than the words “follow what everyone else is doing”, which proved wise indeed.

The ceremony itself took place in the Sheldonian Theatre. I hadn’t been in there since Matriculation – very Alpha and Omega – and had forgotten how small the place was. At least we got to go there: the Sheldonian was out of use for repairs last year, meaning that a lot of people graduated in Schools using video links, which isn’t really the same. The ceremony was led by the Vice-Chancellor, except it wasn’t the Vice-Chancellor, but someone standing in for him from the University who I didn’t recognise. He gave a solid speech about the formality of the ceremony, and what it actually meant to get a degree from Oxford, which I’m sure Amy will describe in a bit more detail. It was just after this that, unfortunately, I started to get the giggles, which my parents could spot from way up in the gallery. Part of the ceremony involved the Senior Proctor reading out some statements in Latin, and then listing people’s names. If you have ever watched the Fast Show, you might remember a sketch involving a foreign fake Spanish news programme, where the presenters said something along the lines of “Efff eff eff, eff eff, Boutrous Boutrous Ghali. Eff eff eff Scorchio!” This was not dissimilar to Latin followed by a list of names, but thankfully I’m not the only one to think so. The use of Latin was a nice touch. Not only did it reinforce the Oxford image, but Oxford is one of only a few places where one could guarantee to have a number of dons who were effectively fluent in it (and could probably translate it to Attic Greek on the fly if they so wished). While everyone who took part knew their words off by heart and was very slick – our ceremony was the first of three today, which happens ten times a year – it suspect the Junior Proctor was a classicist, so neat was his delivery.

Following a lot of Latin, bowing to various people and ceremonially getting our hoods and being re-presented, we left the Sheldonian and had a lunch in College. I should add at this point that we had a vast number of photos taken liberally throughout the day, which I should be able to post tomorrow. Perhaps the highlight was when Amy and I were walking back to the Sheldonian to have our official photographs taken, when we were stopped by tourists who wanted their photos taken with us. I counted five Italian teenagers, and two middle aged Japanese ladies. Unfortunately, no-one wanted my autograph, but the time shall surely come.

And that’s it. As the opening speech noted, the graduation ceremony is a very proper way to close off your career at Oxford. Amy now has no business left with College, other than me and some money that they owe her. She is no longer an Oxford student. Closure indeed.

So, here’s a conversation between OJ and I earlier:

OJ: Thanks, dear
Amy: Don’t call me “dear”, it makes me sound like I’m a big antelope. And whilst I have a red, cold nose in winter, that’s no reason to liken me to Rudolf.
OJ: Do you know what you are? You’re a very clever antelope.
Amy: Really?
OJ: Yep. And now you’re a really thick one…
OJ covers Amy’s eyes with his hand
Amy: Why
OJ: Because you have no idea (eye, deer)

Oh dear.

One of the things about broadcasting is that if you get good enough at what you do, people get to recognise your voice. I've achieved this a little early though. I got a text message at 2:34am this morning saying:

I knew it was your voice.

That was it. It's from a number I don't recognise and included no other information. I replied saying how impressed I was and asking who they were, but nothing.

Maybe it was meant for Paul Davies, the engineer who had my phone number before I did. I frequently get answering machine messages left on my voicemail asking for Paul, including one which wanted him to fax some blueprints for a hydro-electric power plant over (I was tempted to send my own version instead). This would be the first time I've had a text meant for him though, and if it is for him, he's doing something a bit kinky with someone who doesn't know his phone number changed two years ago.

Well, I'm back here for OJ and I's graduation tomorrow. I've just arrived into College and the whole place is overrun with Americans. Currently, I'm camped in OJ's room. It's very exciting. He has lots of new tecnology things for me to fiddle with - like a new keyboard, monitor etc - and of course what screen saver should I chose...? ... what settings can I fiddle with....? ... how should I arrange the icons on his desktop...? Oooh the fun.

Oooh. Due to the late-night opening of DFS, I've just purchased a brown ("Mocha" actually) two-seater leather sofa. Rather exciting. However, it's not so fun when you have to pay the deposit yourself, rather than your Father, who is sitting beside you, paying!

Thankfully I am back from my Aunt's (pearl necklace in tow). Naturally, I must tell the reader about my train journeys:

Travelling from Euston was fine; the train arrived on time at Crewe. However, the journey? I have never felt so travel sick in my life – and that includes the time on the Hovercraft in gale force winds when our boat was the last to dock before the closed the port of Dover due to severe weather. Anyway, I digress. First, I was sitting facing the way I was travelling. I prefer sitting the other way, but I doubt it makes much difference. Second, I was towards the back of the carriage (Coach D – reserved seat – airline – but nobody was next to me). The seat had no window. I was thoroughly blocked in by a screen of Virgin plastic. Therefore, to look out of the window, I needed to stare at the American couple next to me. I was reading my book for the first 45mins or so, and when I looked up I felt terribly queasy. Travel sickness often has a root in your body feeling the motion, but your brain not seeing the motion. Without the window, my eyes couldn’t see I was moving, and consequently I felt incredibly nauseas, as well as slightly claustrophobic. I think I would have been able to throw this off, and just make a conscious effort to look out of the window more, but then the ridiculous occurred. A woman changed her baby in the carriage. Yes, that’s right. Nappies, baby wipes, the lot. And all of a sudden the carriage reeked of shit (sorry to be vulgar, but it did). Poo smelling air-con. Lovely. That was enough for me. My rucksack and I upped sticks and spent the remainder of the journey in the corridor, next to the open window.

Travelling back today, the journey was slightly delayed due to something on the line. But, since I had got on an earlier train in the first place, which had been delayed originally, I actually arrived back 1minute before I was scheduled to, despite leaving 15mins earlier. For some reason my seat was in the quiet coach. The couple next to me began to talk. Loudly. About train spotting: it transpired he was a trains potter, and looked like one too. Woolly hat and all, I kid you not. Honestly, this guy could narrate the whole scenery from Crewe to Nuneaton in great detail – that is so and so, that is the B352 etc. He also discussed the type of railway tracks with his partner (who looked enthralled for sure, not) and the style of the new virgin trains (not enough toilets btw). Anyway, I was getting a bit pissed off by this and was about to text either Ollie or OJ. As I picked up my mobile (which was on silent, naturally, and I would have only used for a text) the gentleman trains potter started to say to his partner: “You know, this is a quiet coach. You’re not meant to use mobiles. But people do. They just don’t care these days. It’s like a lifeline. Glued to them they are” (I can only assume “they” refers to the youth of today!). Clearly this jibe was aimed at me, so I retaliated. In my poshest, sweetest voice I simply said: “Sorry Sir, I was just going to send a text message to my Mother to let her know I was safely on the train. With the problems in London lately, it is good to let her know. I don’t expect that I shall be making much, if any noise that will disturb you. But, Sir, may I remind you that this is a quiet coach and that speaking loudly is incredibly intrusive and disturbing”. I think he got the hint. He didn’t utter another word until him and his partner disembarked at Watford Junction. Victory.

And now I am home. I walked home, wearing a baggy jumper: I left 13.5’C this morning and torrential rain, and returned to Kent to 26’C and sunshine. Just my luck. Daisy is currently chasing a mouse around the kitchen, so couldn’t care less about me and my Mum is at the hairdresser. I now need to plan the rest of the evening e.g. packing/washing/sorting for travelling to Oxford tomorrow. All far too much!

I went to close my bedroom window before bed last night, only to discover the following intruder on the wall next to the window sill:

Quite how a snail managed to ascend to the second floor of the house and consequently negotiate its way in through the open window and up the wall is beyond me. It was going at a fair old whack - for a snail - as well, leaving a nice little trail on my beautiful wall as it went. It also shed some form of slimy substance on my bed, which may require some explaining at a later date.

On an unrelated note, I dislike wireless networks intensely. I'm at my dad's office and have just failed miserably to coax one into life (it looks like a problem with the phone line, although the operators of the phone line insist it is fine). Meanwhile, the network at home is struggling to reach all parts of the house and I can't get the spare hardware I had knocking around to do the job of boosting it. The next comic book superhero will be Wirelessnetworkrepairman, mark my word.

I was back in London today for more meetings, this time on the South Bank. This is one of the areas that has gone under significant renovation in the last decade, and as I walked along the Jubilee Walk, I passed three of the jewels of the area. First was the Millennium Bridge, which as you may remember, had slight issues regarding swinging in the air. I nipped up on to the middle to take a look at what London was like from the middle of the Thames. The answer - very wet and misty from my point of view; enough so that the top of the Gherkin was shrouded. Off from the bridge, I headed into Tate Modern. When I mentioned this to Amy, she gasped and thought it was a bit cultured for me. Well, it was. It's very arty - shock - and the exhibitions didn't do anything for me, although I accept I only popped in for half an hour. But what I grasped today, which is one of the many steps that come from visiting central London more and more often. For a tourist, London is brilliant. I've always compared London to my other favourite cities - Chicago, Toronto, Vienna - using the wonderful clean tourist parts of abroad, compared to suburban north west London. Unsurprisingly, London did not come off too well. Going to the Tate, however, meant that I was effectively a tourist, and boy has London come on since I remember it when I was aged 10 or so. Friendly staff, clean exhibitions, modern and exciting architecture, well designed themes - it's quite extraordinary. Perhaps there is more to the city in the City.

Following Tate Modern, I passed by Shakespeare's Globe, which I didn't have time to stop at, and reached my destination of Southwark Cathedral. It's a gem of a place; it seems almost sunk in the ground, because all the buildings next to it, as well as London Bridge, rise above it. It's a clean, well tended building, with an attractive extension that houses a shop, visitor centre and excellent restaurant, where I had a spot of lunch. Well worth a visit.

The new Doctor Who is, of course, housewives' choice David Tennant. You can find lots of photos of the man in his new role over here.

You can even download desktop wallpaper, no doubt a source of comfort to Amy Jones, who pointed me in the direction of the photos in the first place. "Pinstripes! Converse! The hair!" quoth she. "Mention me, and the fact that I almost passed out when I saw the photos." How can I refuse that sort of demand?

Amy, who is currently hidden somewhere in Cheshire, wanted me to post something about the NHS. Unfortunately, she didn't give me the BBC link, so the post wouldn't make much sense. Instead, let me point you to this BBC report about a piece of modern art, in the shape of a chilled bottle of water, being destroyed by a thirsty tourist in the gallery. The poor man drank the water, which is dubiously valued at £42,000. Brilliant.

Click here for a depiction of the emotional torment behind the daily struggle to bring you intriguing, laugh-a-minute, earth-shattering Dayorama posts.

Happily, the forum at the music website I write for (DIY, for future reference) has received a shot in the arm with about twenty new members tonight. DIY operates the forums for the bands Kaiser Chiefs and Duels, and some form of technical fault has sent both those forums plummeting to earth tonight. So the DIY boards are suddenly taking in refugees by the dozen. Of course, any Dayorama readers feeling board are welcome to head on over to the link above and get talking!

Oh and for those who care, I am off to my Auntie Jacqui's for a few days. Internet access will be sporadic.

I haven't packed or really thought about going yet (don't want to go!) - I am in "de-Nile" . And unless you are my Mother or OJ, that will not be funny, but nevermind. (In fact, I doubt they find it funny now either)

I've decided that I'm going to have a go at learning chinese (title of this post). Not sure how I'll get on or how long I keep it up, but whatever I should emerge with a deeper understanding of the country and its culture. Afterall, it is set to be the next world super-power...

In this post, Mr Williams commented about the presence of an M&S Outlet at Paddington. Yesterday, I drove with my family to Yorkshire. It turned out to be a nightmare drive: we left home at 8.00 and arrived at our destination 7hrs later. The journey was only 220miles. From home to the Dartford Crossing on the M25 was fine. The M25 was fine... until there was an accident between Junction 26 and 25. We were between 27 and 26 at the time. And there we stayed. For just over 2hrs. We crawled along the 3 mile stretch, watching the minutes tick by. I got fed up of stop-start after a while, so Dad took over. Then, I returned to the wheel to complete the diversion around Junction 26 and 25 - which took a further hour - before we could rejoin at Junc 25. And as Sod and his laws will have it, just as we had cleared the diversion, they re-opened the motorway. Ho hum. Anyway, I took us to Toddington Services, the first on the M1 North. Expecting the usual greasy spoon, hetty the hen cafe (or whatever it is) and little chef, we were pleasantly surprised to find an M&S Food Outlet. Full of lovely, non-service station-inflated priced food and healthy to boot. We grabbed a sandwich and a drink, and then sat on a bench outside in the sunshine. Lovely. Clearly M&S are branching out into the world of service stations and train platforms. Good on them, I say. Luckily, the rest of the journey was univentful. Dad's leg to Nottingham was fine, as was mine into Rotherham. Then on the way back, it took 4hrs (1hr me, 1hr my Dad then 2hrs me) and no problems - and we were just in time to grab a quick G+T in the pub when we got home!

However, my Mother who spends her life in the back of the Clio (it's ok: she is only 5'1/2" and tiny) has now decided she would like a DVD player on the back seat - just in case we get stuck for 3hrs again. What is wrong with the newspaper and endless games of eye-spy and spotting Eddie lorries? You just can't get the children these days!

Here's a link to an edited tube map showing the tube lines available to myself and OJ on Thursday, when we were in central London following the failed tube attacks.

If only I'd had a copy of that at the time!

And I have spent the last hour or so playing with some Japanese spinning tops. They're fascinating. So simple, and yet so fun.

A van belonging to a scaffolding company, seen today in Stokenchurch:

I went on a bit about slogans earlier, but that takes the cake. Or maybe it takes Viagra.

I, too, cooked some chicken tonight, with considerably more success than OJ (see last post). But then I was decidedly unadventurous with my Birdseye chicken fillets and at no time tried to involve egg or coconut.

Eurgh.

Tonight I was meant to cook chicken curry with rice. Instead... well, read on dear reader.

The problem came with the chicken breasts, which turned out to be out of date. By 5 days. Not wanting to waste £3+ worth of food, I valiantly thought I could do something with them. And then I opened the packet. They went into the bin quickly afterwards, and had I not thrown them there, I'm sure they were quite capable of walking there themselves.

Perhaps the real mistake was made by starting the rice before I looked at the chicken. And being unable to judge the quantities, it turned out I had three man sized portions of brown rice cooking. And nothing to cook them with, because the fridge was bare.

Decision time. Could I salvage some form of kedgeree with tinned tuna? A possibility, but unlikely. With hindsight, I should have just stopped right then and cut my losses. Instead, I carried on determined to make something. And then inspiration! I still had curry sauce - perhaps I could make flavoured rice? In I tipped some korma sauce into a pan, to start cooking with it. But that was still not really a meal. I then decided to use the eggs I was saving for breakfast to make an Indian version of egg fried rice. Actually, I was going to make an omlette, but as I was rushing, I forgot to whisk the eggs and, well, I just cracked them straight into the frying pan. Fried eggs it is then.

I managed to see those three items through pretty well. I fluffed the rice, enough to feed a family six, and then mixed it with the korma sauce, which gave it a gentle orange glow. I then added the fried eggs (cooked easy over - I decided it was time to experiment) to the top. And I've just finished eating, gosh, about six mouthfuls. Anything that involved the egg, which at least I can cook. But the rest of it. Suffice to say my flatmate has just come back from Pizza Hut. I'm going to wash up the many pans I've used, and then head off out to find something with some nutrition that doesn't smell of eggy coconut.

Lesson of the day: always, always check the sell by the dates of your produce.

What with all the terrorist incidents of varying descriptions taking place around London, it's not been very far from my mind for some time. Yesterday was certainly the closest I've ever been to something like that, and I'm back in central London tomorrow.

In these circumstances, it's odd where my mind drifts. It occurred to me as I was doing my hair into its normal style this morning - the one where people feel compelled to crack jokes involving the phrase 'electric shock' - when on a whim I checked the ingredients of the products I use. Between them, the two products contain substances such as alcohol denat, petrolatum, paraffinum liquidum, propylene glycol, phenoxyethanol, and amino-methyl propanol.

I'm no chemist (dropped that subject at the first opportunity at school), but there's a lot of substances there that sound like they're either oil or alcohol based. The sort of thing that's highly flammable, in other words.

My concern is that if by some horrific chance I end up on something that gets bombed, my hair is going to go up like a bonfire in the immediate aftermath. It's practically a molotov cocktail waiting to happen! Admittedly this might not be my first concern in the circumstances, but it's probably not in anti-terrorism best practice to have intensely flammable hair about one's person.

Happily, there is now breaking news that someone has been arrested at Birmingham Snow Hill station in connection with yesterday's events. I still think the police and other emergency services are doing this country proud in the fight against terrorism, both in response to and in anticipation of incidents.

One of the topics of my lunch conversation with Ollie yesterday was Physics. What does it say now that I'm waiting for a pan of water to come to the boil, and in my head I'm shouting at the molecules to agitiate more quickly (although in stronger words, perhaps)?

Seen outside Greenford tube station yesterday:

Look very closely at the small writing in the black box. It says 'don't bother if you can't read Polish'.

This is a fantastic slogan to append to your newspaper's title. New York Times: 'All the news that's fit to print'. Sunday Times: 'The Sunday Times is the Sunday papers'. The Daily Telegraph: 'Read a bestseller every day'. Polska Gazeta: 'Don't bother if you can't read Polish'.

Of course it also begs the question of why this warning is necessary. Are gangs of miscreants going round trying to read Polish when they can't, scattering newspapers everywhere in frustration?

We love Dr Zoidberg.

We don't love him this much.

'I could do that' was at the forefront of my mind every time I met someone working at the BBC in White City today.

Producers, presenters, studio managers, you name it - they were all doing jobs that I recognise from student radio and that I enjoyed doing.

Sheila, producer of the Analysis programme, is responsible for shaping the programme, editing it to make sure it hits its allotted time exactly, gathering contacts and audio and timing the show as the presenter records it, among a host of other activities. I did something similar when I pieced together the audio interviews for the Oxide Election Special back in May.

Actually controlling the quality of the audio and getting it cued up is the responsibility of the studio manager, effectively a sound engineer, who prepares audio clips for broadcast. Drew was the sound manager this afternoon and was very enlightening, talking me comprehensively through the software he uses, which has features recognisable from the basic freeware I used to do the same thing, but which is of course infinitely more powerful. All the time he was talking, I was staring at the equipment laid out in front of us and inwardly pining to be set free on it all afternoon.

The presenter in the studio simply reads the script - I say simply, but that's just the culmination of devising, researching and compiling the entire programme in the case of presenters of the Analysis half hour. This programme had taken a few months to come to fruition from the initial concept, which started off with a trip to India (trips to India seem to be in vogue with people I know). Even minor vocal errors can't be tolerated, so delivery of the script needs to be perfect. This afternoon things like the pronunciation of 'when' and what to call the World Trade Centre (New York Trade Centre was abandoned in favour of the former) were both causing problems.

Just sitting there taking all this in was fantastic. As the presenter read the script, the studio manager played audio clips on cue, so you do feel like you're listening to the show on the radio if you tear your eyes off the script for a few moments.

I also learnt the trick behind trailers for programmes. I had always wondered how it was that a trailer for a programme a week away could be "tune in on Thursday at 9:30" early in that week, then "tomorrow at 9:30" the day beforehand, then "tonight at 9:30" that same day, etc. It's simple: the presenter just records one after the other, like so:

"That's the Analysis programme, Thursday at 9:30pm. Tomorrow at 9:30pm. Tonight at 9:30pm. On Sunday at 9:30pm. On Wednesday at 8:30pm."

The studio manager simply leaves the desired date in and then chops the others out of the trailer as he or she sees fit. Which was probably self-evident, but listening to a presenter delivering the trailer and then tacking six or seven dates onto the end in succession is mildly surreal.

Plenty of security at the BBC as you might expect. One gentleman tried to leave a video cassette at reception, but they were having none of it. Nor would reception allow us through the security gates before the producer had come to collect us - the presenter could have picked her bag up 'off the street' and could therefore be a security risk. No chances being taken here, especially with coverage of today's explosions causing me to feel a tad shaken as I sat down to wait in reception.

BBC White City also has its own Starbucks among many other conveniences, and generally seems like a very nice place to be able to work. I can assure you I'll be doing my level best to make that a possibility, and the people I met today were prepared to go out of their way to help me - even if one of them had been on the panel that turned me down for sponsorship from the BBC earlier that year. The producer, who had been responsible for shortlisting candidates for sponsorship, started to sell the idea of the sponsorship programme to me and asked if I had heard of it. Yes, I replied, I had sent in an application but been turned down. I received a look of awkward horror followed by some hasty compliments, an expression of surprise and the insistence that it was 'very competitive'.

To be fair, it was a far less uncomfortable moment than you might expect, and I'm not kidding when I say people were going out of their way to improve my potential future with the BBC. The same producer spent a good half an hour talking me through ways of getting work experience in BBC Current Affairs programming, recommending people to email and offering to email others on my behalf. In fact I don't think I've ever met anyone chirpier or who smiled more than this lady, who reminded me a little of my aunt and did not stop being pleasant and amusing all afternoon. If those qualities are replicated throughout the Current Affairs unit, then this is the place for me.

Finally, I accidentally forgot to return my BBC Visitors' Pass. This means two things. One, staff are probably combing White City looking for me; and two, I've got something really good to stick on my wall.

As Ollie said below, we had the novel experience of being in London today. Funniyl enough, when we were setting up a time to meet for lunch this morning, we both commented on how we were going to have interesting days. Boy, did we get that right.

I was in London to have two meetings, both in Middle Temple. This was exciting becuase I'd never been to the Inns of Court before; my reaction is that it's a bit like an Oxbridge College for grown ups. The atmosphere, in a sunny day, was most congenial. The same could be said for the lunch with Ollie, despite the poor service.

I had waved Mr Williams goodbye as he descended into Oxford Circus to make his way out to White City. Then, with three hours to kill, I made my way to the Apple Store on Regent's Street, which as well as being very cool and very expensive, has free internet access as long as you can work out how to use a Mac. It was while checking my email that I first saw the BBC ticker mention incidents on the Tube (although Ollie had mentioned something about White City being shut much earlier). I noted it, then headed to Starbucks to read the rest of the papers and get a coffee. Then the calls started - Ollie, Amy, parents. I finished up my coffee, then returned to the Apple Store to catch up with the latest news, which suggested nail bomb attacks at three stations. Well that was that - cabs for me. And since I still had time to kill, I went back to Starbucks, which was pretty safe, and has some water. I phoned work to check in, and then decided to get to my 4.30 appointment with plenty of time, so I left at 3.15.

It took me 50 minutes to get a cab. I must have seen over two hundred go by, all full. I walked around Mayfair, and ended up getting one by Hyde Park. By this time I was sweating like made, frustrated, and late. I rang ahead to say I would be late, and sat back in the taxi. What should have been a ten minute ride tops took half an hour. I arrived late for my appointment, though only just, and it was eventually a very productive meeting. Just as I was leaving to get a cab to Victoria, a member of staff said she had just been evacuated from her building. I walked up Middle Temple Lane to Fleet Street, but when I got to the door I came in by, all I saw were people climbing over walls to my left, and someone waving their hands, who told me to turn around as there had just been a security alert called in. And then I got to Embankment, which is not the best place in the world to catch a taxi. And so, having consulted with Amy, I walked to Victoria, which took about 45 minutes in a very warm rush hour. Thankfully I had bought a mini A-Z earlier in the day, having gotten myself lost in Holborn. (Some of it looked familiar - then I remembered that the last time I had been there was 4 years ago when I took a look at LSE.) And thus I made to Victoria, and onto the Oxford Tube, where I promptly, and much to my surprise, had a very quick ride home with no traffic. Odd how those things happen.

And so here I am at home in Oxford, and as Ollie mentioned to me, normality is returning - England are going to lose the Ashes, despite a fantastic first session of bowling. Still, I have to return to London at least twice more, once next week. For the moment, I think I'll stick to taxis...

It's been a very long day.

I was up at 6:30am to start with to get into London, and then I had a nice relaxing morning. At about 1:45pm I was on the tube to White City, going through Shepherd's Bush. When I got off at White City and walked into the BBC's White City centre, the radio in reception told me there'd just been a terror incident at Shepherd's Bush. That's pretty damn close compared to last time.

The main problem for me was getting home, but thanks to Liz, my dad's very kind friend and colleague, I was able to use the one tube line still running at full strength (Central Line) to get out to where she lived and then home. At 5:30pm, stood in the middle of Tottenham Court Road with people roaming the cordoned-off road in their hordes, I had the novel experience of not having a single idea how to get home. It was quite scary.

Still, the rest of the day was great. A very nice lunch with OJ was followed with a fantastic afternoon at the BBC, observing everything that was going on during the recording of a programme for Radio 4. I also got to meet some very friendly people who might be able to help me with things like work experience, so I'll be following all of that up.

This post is really just a summary of the day's events - I'm too tired to go into much detail and I've still got a lot to do tonight. I'm sure OJ will add some other things though he's probably equally shattered. Stress all round but some bright points that made today worth the hassle.

I don’t suppose it is really appropriate for me to talk about sheep massacring, but there you go. I’ve just spoken to OJ (who is London, along with Ollie), and at the last count they were both ok.

So back to these sheep. Earlier today I had a dire case of road rage. I was driving from the gym into work this morning (in Maidstone). As you get closer and closer into town, there are several sets of traffic lights (about nine actually) and for each one I followed a female driver in a Vauxhall Corsa. In the back of her window, facing outwards, was a sheep. Shaun the Sheep from the Wallace and Grommit sketches. All the time it stared at me with its sheepish grin (no pun intended) and bobbed its little head along. Up and down, up and down, up and down. As you all know, I am a patient and tolerant person (ha!), but this silly sheep really got my goat. Bob, bob, bob. Why do people have these things? Do they think it will cheer up other road users? No. I think they incite road-rage. If there had been a catapult handy, this sheep would have been my target, no questions asked.

And in other news, I went to a Teddy Bear’s Picnic today: my Mother retired from full time teaching!

I'll be spending tomorrow afternoon at Radio 4 in White City.

The rector at my old Oxford college (I've only been gone a month but it's my 'old' college now) is going in to be interviewed for Radio 4's Analysis programme. I have no idea what about - chances are it won't be 'The Theology Of Terror', being broadcast tomorrow night, unless she's been hiding a dog collar behind her economic credentials. It might be for the next week's programme or even further into the distance. Either way it will be nice to have a miniscule amount of involvement (i.e. sitting and watching things getting done) at what has been a flagship radio programme for over thirty years.

Got my doctor's appointment (see earlier post) sorted and went to it this afternoon. You'll all be delighted to know my blood pressure is 'boringly normal', which is not what the other doctor had said but is in my humble opinion a far more accurate assessment of the situation. Panic duly averted.

Remember this? Well the bill arrived yesterday with "Sairsild" not "Fairfield" road. Grrr!!!

Unlike Amy, and my mum, I don't have an eBay habit, although I do use the site. However, whereas they tend only to buy through it, I have only ever sold through the site. The last time I sold an item through it - my old laptop - was about a year ago. Since then, eBay has grown as a company, buying and integrating PayPal. This seems to be reflected in the website itself. What was once a very easy click and point process has now become a form filling nightmare. Every step seems to have five verification steps. It's combined to make my current attempt to raise cash infuriating. Wither the dotcom ethos?

I know I'm probably about the last person to notice this, but bless Google, they try so hard. Today, you can get a Google Map of the moon showing off the Apollo landings. Lovely stuff.

In other news, if you know anything about football, please do go to Guardian Fantasy Chairman, http://guardian.fantasyleague.com, and register. It costs £6 but email me afterwards and I can add you to the big friends' league we're trying to set up. Dayorama FC is raring to go for the new season...

For some reason I have ended up watching Al Jazeera, which for those who might not know is the Arabic equivalent of CNN. In times of conflict in the Middle East - i.e. all the time - Al Jazeera gets newspaper inches in the West for frequently appearing biased in its coverage, depicting prisoners of war on television etc. CNN, the BBC et al are no doubt similarly suspect in the eyes of the Arabic world.

This is not my complaint with Al Jazeera. My initial complain with Al Jazeera is that I can't understand a word of what is being said. That is not their fault.

My second complaint is that there are adverts very, very frequently. And I can't understand them either.

The third complaint is that the noise I can't comprehend coming out of the TV is constant and extremely heated. According to the Sky TV guide, I am watching 'Opposite Direction', a show it says 'frequently becomes a heated debate', and it really isn't kidding. There's fists slamming on tables, raised voices practically all the time and faces red with rage wherever the camera looks.

It does make very good background noise for getting things done though. My mind has blanked out to everything around me except what I'm doing, with just the distant hum of distressed people arguing in the distance. And it's not even the neighbours for once!

In other news, I forgot amongst all the festivals, whisky and beach volleyball to mention that my tutors have put me forward for a college prize at uni. The thesis was good enough to earn me a share of an award along with Dan and Michelle, two other historians who also got 75s with their dissertations. A small cash prize is promised. Hurrah.

So here we have my results:

Administrative Law 60
Company Law 66
Contract 60
EC Social etc Law 65
Jurisprudence 61
Land Law 60
Principles of Commercial Law 60
Tort 63
Trusts 66

An average of 62.3. Not great, but certainly a consistent 2:1. I needed at least five marks of 2:1 or above, so with nine 2:1's, I was certainly in there! I may not have beaten either OJ or Ollie's average, but at least I didn't slip as low as a 2:2 :p

I would have liked Admin to be higher (but I know I messed one question up badly) and also Juris. Trust is a shock - it was in trusts where we had the stream of 55's, "micro and macro" and "your knowledge of the law in this Collection is skin deep". Good-ho! I am pleased with Company, and all the rest are pretty much as I expected. It is comforting to know that even if the four 60s would have been 59, I would still have had a 2:1. It's all over now.

In other news, I received my first Council Tax bill today. Excellent.

Hello. Remember me? I used to post here, then I started working, and it turns out that work takes up lots of time. That, and I've had very little of interest to write about recently. I too was in London last weekend, and went through King's Cross on Saturday, and was struck by the memorial by the station. I should also note that when I came back up to Oxford on Sunday evening, Oxford Street appeared to be closed up by Marble Arch, although nothing was mentioned on the news, so I expect it was just an alert.

The weekend was spent with Amy in sunny Kent again, and for most of it we managed to stay in something that looked like countryside. It also gave me the opportunity to read the latest Harry Potter, the Half Blood Prince. (I have no doubt that Ollie must be intimately acquainted with it by now if he's in Stokenchurch.) It was actually pretty good, being the penultimate in the series. No major spoilers here, but suffice to say it does set up events nicely for the final book. That said, the plot could have been more integrated. The first half of the book was very different to the second. Usually I would scream loudly at this, but both plots were very good, and there was some integration. But... it just didn't flow as it could have done. And the ending, while not altogether shocking and unexpected, is enough of a curveball to just make you sit back and think how much of a departure it suggests the structure of the final book will be from the current six. Still, a good quick read, and worth the very cheap price that every store has discounted it to.

Seen outside a pub in Stokenchurch:

Outside a pub in Stokenchurch. In Buckinghamshire. The hub, it would seem, of passion for gaelic sports.

Actually I love hurling and I'd really like to go, I'll make a point of it sooner or later if I get the chance.

I'm getting bored with trying to book an appointment with a doctor here in Stokenchurch.

The last time I needed an appointment here was about a year and a half ago. I rang up and was told I couldn't be seen until eight days from then, but that was fine so I confirmed it and all went well from there.

So this time round, I thought I'd call whilst still in Somerset and then chances are I'd get my appointment a week later as before. I rang up last week and asked to make an appointment, and was told to my surprise that I could have one the next morning. Alas I was in Somerset and had to explain that I hadn't been expecting to be seen so promptly - could I make it for next week instead? Sorry, said the lady, they couldn't book that far in advance - ring back on Monday.

I couldn't call yesterday because I was too busy either getting home from London or sorting things out at home, but I just tried to call now. The lady said she was sorry, there were no appointments free for the rest of today. That's fine, I said, I wasn't expecting one until tomorrow at the earliest. Sorry, she said, she couldn't book anything for tomorrow even though she was sure I could get an appointment. I'd have to ring back tomorrow morning to do that.

What? I'm surprised enough that suddenly my local surgery has bags of free time going when eighteen months ago it took me over a week to be seen, but I'm staggered that I can't book an appointment for a certain day until that day has actually arrived! That is nonsense.

Is this what the lady who grilled Tony Blair during the election campaign was complaining about? It certainly sounds like it. A survey reported here says that only 1.6 per cent of practices 'restrict bookings to two days ahead' - so what percentage restrict it to the same day?! Bizarre.

When we were all doing our exams, one thing that Ollie noted was how much he enjoyed my “Be An Oxford Student” posts. Finally he had found out what I had been doing for the past three years of the degree! Tonight, I went to the Maidstone Citizens Advice Bureau Annual General Meeting/Annual Public Meeting. I don’t usually discuss what I do at the CAB: for confidentiality reasons, I am unable to. However, I was rather enthused and motivated following the meeting, and therefore I think it is about time I wrote a little bit about it.

To start with, I’ll tell you a little about my day in the Bureau. I arrived about 9.25am after going to the gym for an hour or so. I read a few “Bureau Updates”, collected my notepad and folder, and then went downstairs and waited for the door to open. In our telephone we all have a good chat, and people asked me about my degree results (yes, they had remembered that I was finding out last Wednesday). Then the bell went, and I took the first client: a gentlemen of about 50yrs old, with over £40k of debt. he was near to tears. That took over an hour to sort through, photocopy documents, arrange follow-up appointments, and on he went. I wrote up the case-sheet (record of enquiry, facts, options available to client, advice give and then client action) and then went to take my next client. I also type my case sheets, as we are gradually moving over to a fully-electronic case-recording system. My second client was quite straightforward, but my third client (enquiry involving immigration) demanded over two hours of my time in total, and four pages of case-notes. I then moved up to the telephone (we divide our day between face-to-face and telephone: it’s a bit much to stay face-to-face all day) and my first call was from a gentleman who had lost his wife a week ago, and I seemed to be the first person he had spoken t o about it (he actually needed information about probate). he was almost in tears, and given the nature of the questions I had to ask, it was quite a hard telephone call. On arriving home this evening, I was drained and emotionally shattered.

However, the delights of the AGM lay ahead. After a brief report from our Chairman (the Mayor of Maidstone), the main Trustee and our Bureau Manager, or guest-speaker, the Chief Executive of the CAB, gave a short (25min) speech. This gentleman had been in our Bureau through the afternoon and had spoken to all the volunteers about or work, or problems, our likes and our concerns. For a Chief Exec he was down to earth and seemed to know what was going on in “the real world” of the Advice Bureaus. The speech he gave was probably well-used, but it didn’t lose any impact. He mentioned some staggering statistics: over 2,750,000 last year used the CAB; over 96% of the population know the CAB exists, and over 75% of the population (MORI) say that they “trust” the CAB (I doubt Blair would get such a high figure). The Chief Exec them mentioned some of the key values in the CAB: we are all volunteers, and impartial from the government/government services e.g. the Council; we give “generalist” advice – this doesn’t mean the advice is superficial, but simply hat we accept that if someone has one problem, this probably means that they have two or three, and we can advise on all; we restore ordinary values in people; we can be trusted; and we monitor social policy issues (we released a report re. the Working Family Tax Credit problems, for example). The volunteers at each bureau count. We mean something. We do help people’s lives and peace of mind. I may had had a relatively unsuccessful day, but no doubt I did help people.

When I volunteer for the Duke of Edinburgh’s Award, the results are evident: the young people’s faces on achieving their Awards are all I need to keep going. But, with the CAB I don’t see those rewards. It takes a speech like this evening’s to restore my faith in the fact what I am doing is worthwhile. I do enjoy it, and I will do even more so after this evening.

In addition, after the meeting about 15 volunteers/paid staff went out for a drink. The age range was 21-66 yrs. And yet we all got on. We may have been rich or poor, or from the north or south, but we all work towards the same cause, and we can all have a laugh together and respect each other. It’s a wonderful environment and I do feel privileged to be accepted and part of it.

What a strange weekend.

Friday night was lovely, playing volleyball on Dunster Beach back in Somerset with my mum's friends from her workplace. They were all very nice people and it was great fun. I even got to try barbecued veggie fingers, which are a treat indeed.

Saturday was spent at the Ashton Court Festival in Bristol, which is a small festival that still attracts thousands of people despite a relative absence of known acts. Super Furry Animals were headlining, but my friend Becky and I concentrated on the acoustic tent, which had the likes of Gravenhurst, a small band we've both liked for ages.

We also saw Mr Bennett, who is essentially Bruce Springsteen Lite. His ability to rhyme was second to none and he has the same kind of gravelly, world-weary voice as The Boss. I dubbed him The Deputy Sales Assistant.

You can download 'Bad Life Day' by Mr Bennett, one of the tracks he performed at Ashton Court, from his website for as long as he keeps the link there. Right-click the download link below and select 'Save Target As':

'Bad Life Day' by Mr Bennett
[mp3 | 3m 30s | download]

Saturday was lovely. Sunday was crazy. I got dropped off at Newbury by Becky's family and made my way into London, where I got to King's Cross and recorded an audio post (or 'moblog' for mobile phone weblog, thus 'Dayoramoblog' for such posts on here).

I then met up with Lindsey, Karis and Becks - the first two work for the same music website that I do (they're both editors, I'm just your average staff writer for now!), Becks had come along for the ride from the Kaiser Chiefs' message board, since DIY and the Chiefs have a fairly intimate relationship.

We got to the hotel room Lindsey had sorted out, and I was offered a choice between normal Coke or Diet Coke. That's an easy one then, Diet Coke. What I did not immediately appreciate was that the choice related to which beverage to water down my Famous Grouse with. I was thus presented with a mug of whisky and Diet Coke. We soon ran out of Diet Coke since I had been frantically diluting the whisky in an attempt to stay sober, at which point everyone else progressed to neat whisky, and I, having drunk enough to have forgotten how to say 'no', did likewise.

So at 3pm on a Sunday afternoon in central London, we started out towards the venue for the club night that our music website had organised. I had very little clue what was going on. I remember buying a ticket at King's Cross Thameslink station only to discover that access to the underground line we wanted had been cordoned off. So we wandered over to King's Cross itself and I somehow drunkenly talked my way through a series of barriers at various stations across the capital with an entirely invalid ticket.

We ended up near Tottenham Court Road in Frith Street, where Karis, equally as drunk as me if not more so, met up with an ex-boyfriend of hers. The other three of us who'd come with her as 'support' for this occasion got bored and went in search of food - surprise surprise, when we returned, she was gone. So we waited for fifteen minutes and got her back (she'd wandered into another club), then made our way to Islington for the club night.

It was great fun in there. I got to meet lots of people who I've worked with online for ages but who I hadn't properly seen until now, including the site owners, who are very nice. There was quite a lot of tension in the room between certain members of staff, but I'm not going to go into that here - it didn't really affect me, I was too busy enjoying being at a club that plays my kind of music instead of the usual dance rubbish, and meeting all the lovely people there. The night ended at midnight, which was about the right time for me, and I felt really happy.

I then walked all the way home with a good looking, 5'10" woman on my arm, which also made me quite happy. I'm not entirely sure how that came about, but it wasn't unwelcome. Whilst we were walking back, some gentleman shouted out after us 'that's the finest pair of legs I've ever seen!'. I thanked him. I've been working on them a lot recently.

Edited: 12:32pm, Monday July 18, 2005

At last, an audio post that works and that doesn't involve me sounding like a schoolgirl.

On Sunday I went to King's Cross station en route to meeting friends (of which more in a post I'm about to write). I left a little audio report, which you can find at the bottom of this post, describing what it felt like to be on the tube for the first time since the bombings earlier this month.

Whilst I was there I also saw a choir singing in front of the railway station near to the flowers, 'We Are Not Afraid' banners and books of condolence:

I came to my senses a bit and stopped worrying so much about the tube later on Sunday (alcohol helped with this!), but I found myself back on a tube platform at King's Cross at precisely 8:50am this morning, the time that the bombs were detonated. I wasn't so nervous about this, it was just odd, and it really was extraordinarily quiet wherever you went on the underground.

Use the audio toolbar to play the clip:

OJ is coming to Kent again this weekend. He was planning to have lunch in London today with a friend, and then travel to me to arrive about 3-4. He sent me a text at 12ish to say he had arrived, and then I heard nothing. At 3.40 I began to get a bit twitchy. Why was his phone on answer phone? Why hadn't he sent a text? Was he ok? I then tentatively checked BBC Online to check that anything horrific hadn’t occurred in London again.

I wouldn’t usually be concerned to the same extent: OJ and I are both good at keeping in touch and he would have called or sent a text when he thought that it was necessary (there’s no point over doing things: my phone bill is bad enough as it is!). But today I was worried. I thought about the consequences much more than I would have done in the past. I don’t want to begin texting my every move, because I feel this is a bad thing for the times when we do forget, or when circumstances are such that we can’t let somebody know where we are.

As it happens OJ had to trek from Farringdon to the Barbican and then onto St Paul’s, because the former two tube stations were still closed, on his attempt to get back to Victoria. His phone was off because he was underground and he didn’t send a text earlier because he was intent on reaching Victoria first. All common sense, but how the imagination can wander…