In which puppies are rebuffed

Last night was the ball, and I had a lovely time, although I'm not sure the weeks of practice were entirely justified - in some of the dances I thought I knew I ended up having to be flung in the right direction by my partner and assorted bystanders, and ones I'd never managed successfully, like Strip the Willow, suddenly made perfect sense. At dinner I ate my first haggis, which was spicy and not at all bad, probably because I purposely didn't stop to think about what it was made of. Around midnight the entire hall was bellowing the lyrics to "God Save the Queen", including me. I like to think I still have Norway loyalty and was merely swept up in the moment.

Most importantly I didn't have to change from my heels to my less-attractive back-up shoes, and my dress held up well, at least until I arrived at the staff after-party and two puppies of indeterminate breed launched themselves at the lacy hem. I *think* it survived. (The hem. The puppies were fine, and we spent the rest of the evening petting them and drinking g&ts.)

Today I woke up very slowly, watched Gilmore Girls in bed, had a bath, and went to seek out coffee and glossy magazines. I also took one of history's worst passport photos, which I will nevertheless have to use so I can get a new travelcard tomorrow. Never again a photobooth when I haven't had much sleep.

Everyone is finding out the results of their PGCE interviews (the postgraduate qualification for teachers); suddenly it weighs on me a little that I probably won't know anything definite about my future for months. I dreamed about interviewing at Oxford (which I won't actually have to do), but rather than either of my chosen colleges I'd ended up somewhere called "Iffley College". I had huge difficulty imprinting this in my mind, and kept thinking, God, I can't even remember the NAME of the place. Then suddenly I was at the local university in the town where I'm living now. It seemed oddly idyllic in the dream, all golden fields of wheat and bridges over streams, when in reality it is essentially a construction site.

Less than a week until Short Leave. Very much looking forward to Vicky's avant-garde play, the probably slightly less avant-garde party after the play, and Sunday and Monday in London with my mother. I should buy an overnight bag.