Slow motion.

Supervision today in which it became increasingly likely that "threesomes" will be a theme of my dissertation. Apparently semi-involuntary menages à trois were something of a thing in Victorian England - you couldn't just get a divorce, so men would occasionally just move their mistresses into their homes. Or have parallell families, like Wilkie Collins. I don't know why I ever thought new historicism was boring. Also I get to write about His Dark Materials! I said something incoherent about daimons, and my supervisor was all "YES! Pullman in relation to Paradise Lost!"

So I'll have to reread that, as well as a ton of fairy tales. I have no idea why I'm reading Northanger Abbey instead of anything useful, but it's the most soothing book ever. More so at least than Forster's "The Longest Journey", which Sam got me to read and which is basically about how your life will never again be as good as it was at Cambridge, especially if you go to work at a public school.

Things are at least good at the moment; I'm spending a lot of time in the faculty library and in rehearsals, and being very tired in the evenings. Yesterday we became exasperated with our sedentary lives and went to Samba at the Kambar, where Becky and Ollie went into whirling-dervish mode and the rest of us wished we had such a dance-tastic relationship with our college spouses. The live music was so loud that everyone wore earplugs, and drifted about in speechless cocoons. I danced until the early hours, actually got to sleep at the slightly later hours, and am now tired as a sock. Tomorrow is a glamorous day: the premiere of Reece's film at the short film festival, and then an Old Court attic party, for which we are all elevating our expectations unreasonably. Vicky, Reece and Alex have promised roomfuls of balloons that we will dance among in slow motion.