Seachain an duine a bhíonn ina thost

I did a stint on the minibuses last night. Today I am very tired. I'm staring at my screen but not really managing to do anything about the words written on it. I've just taken a delivery of a popcorn machine and a candyfloss machine with a jaunty pink raffia umbrella but I can't even muster up the energy to tidy it away somewhere so it's just sitting in a trolley in my waiting room. I am such a wimp.

I feel weird: Serendipity is ready to go. I should be running around like a headless chicken, crying, stressing, shutting my door. But I'm not. I'm sitting here with not a lot to do. My Protestant Work Ethic is making me feel guilty, as though I'm not doing my job properly. It's unnerving.

Sam is a corporate whore. Watch out for his blog on the merits of Toshiba laptops any day now (they're sending him one for a week so he can blog about it). This is the problem with having an ego as large as his: once someone feeds it all morals go out the window.

Look at the magical, mythical tree thing:



It's the most famous thing that's happened in Bangor for ages, probably even out-performing Prince Charles. Which is nice, because we like the Botanical Gardens, so the more interest people show in them the better. Radio 2, Radio Wales, the Guardian, the Daily Mail, the Daily Star ... the meeja have been queuing up to catch a glimpse at our SuperTree. Just a shame we've missed the chance to make Treborth Tequila.

Serendipity is approaching fast and I am having to tell lots of people they can't have stalls. It gets very frustrating how much people demand of you and how often they change their minds. The space we have to work with is definitely not big enough so I can't keep everyone happy and I've had to be horrible and turn away charities because we need the income from commercial stall-holders. But I think the worst thing is that all the preparation I put in doesn't really make a difference to whether the event itself is good or bad; that's down to the stall-holders and the effort they put in. All I'm doing is making their lives slightly easier in the run-up to the event.

In other news, I got my hair cut the other day. I had a good three inches taken off, and fixed the horrendous inch-long roots I had grown, but hardly anyone has noticed. I don't know why I bother.

You probably won't be able to read this properly here but look what I found in the staffroom in the school we were staying in during the Triennial:



It's this excellent spelling guide of words teachers might like to use when writing reports. It includes such gems as 'obnoxious', 'jeapordise', 'calamity', 'fiasco' and 'impertinent'. It's like playing with those poetry fridge magnets: I have an urge to cut them all out and write reports using only those words.

I have just completed Form 288a: appointment of director or secretary, effectively signing my life away to that mythical beast, Undeb Trading, Cyf. Is this really a good idea?

Why has everyone suddenly decided they're not interested in clothes anymore? Are people getting carried away now it has finally stopped raining? Five of Sam's friends and twelve of my friends "removed "clothes" from their interests" according to Facebook. I wish I had listed clothes in the first place so I could remove them in solidarity. And yes, I am aware that hasn't quite come out the way I intended it to.

Huzzah, my BT internet has finally arrived and now here I am sipping on my G&T (sans bouillon) and eating strawberries. I'm not sure Ian will be able to handle our sophistication.

And here we go again. Today is officially the first day of my second term in office. It's daunting.

The new start has been heralded by the arrival of my Service Level Agreement from the University, which we could almost claim is an entire year late since we didn't get sent one last year. Unfortunately I am now (well, once I sign it) actually bound to do some work. Good thing I'm so naturally diligent really.

I have also finally got a new office phone, one whose battery will hopefully last longer than one phone conversation. My final challenge with the old phone before decommissioning it is to listen to all the voicemail messages on it; the battery consistently dies whenever I try to do that so I've got eight people around the country thinking I'm incompetent and rude for not replying to their messages. Oh well.