Last night, I made one of the greatest mix tapes of all time. To psyche myself up, I watched High Fidelity and ate chalk or something. The tape is for my sister-in-law, who travels from Dublin to Limerick every Sunday night and back again on Fridays. I named the compilation, rather imaginatively, "N_____'s Dublin to Limerick Tape". Boy, it's a good one. Honed to her exact personal tastes. She's my "Kristkindle" in my husband's family. That might well be spelt wrong, but I can't google right now to check the correct spelling as housemate C is playing CounterStrike and I'd cause his game to lag, ha ha. I also bought N some rather fabulous clothes but was worried that it didn't look like much of a gift, so I compensated with "the personal touch". Thankfully the personal touch is good for a deficit of at least ten euros in any given gift. Take note.

More winning:

Remember that TS Eliot essay I bitched significantly about in previous entries? I waited in line to get my paper back and get my criticism from the tutor today, sweating like begorrah in fear of the result. Thoughts of "God, I hope I pass" were racing through my skull. This is worth eight per cent of my degree. I veritably danced and broke into a celebratory rap when she told me I'd gotten an A. An A! In Honours English! It's almost as though I robbed an essay from a person who can write and submitted it as my own work. Cough.

No, I didn't. I must clear my name as well as my throat. I worked my hiney off on that bugger. Ooh the puns and innuendo are rife!

Speaking of innudendo, tonight, the Rev. Dr. Trevor Morrow (a legend of a man) is giving a talk in the Maynooth Christian Union entitled "The Four Step Guide to Sexual Ecstasy". I should probably be there, and in a lazy way I wish I was, but there is just so much to DO. Which is clearly why I am writing this journal entry.

I have a craving for chocolate that is reaching painful levels. Am I pregnant? I hope not. I spent yesterday at Blanchardstown hospital having my back checked out after that nasty tumble down the stairs (guh, I falled over) and my chat with the doctor went like this.

Doc: Ok, you look ok, but I think I'll send you down for an x-ray.
Me: Grand.
Doc: Are you pregnant?
Me: Nope.
Doc: Any chance you could be pregnant?
Me: There is always a chance I suppose, but I sincerely doubt it.
Doc: Hrm, those x-rays give the old ovaries a good frying. Are you trying for a babby?
Me: Ha, no.
Doc: Ah why not?
Me: Give me ten years.
Doc: Ah, babbies are great!
Me: Mmm, fried babbies.
Doc: I think we'll skip that x-ray. You haven't broken anything. If the pain doesn't go away in the next few weeks, come back, but I think it will.
Me: Ok, grand.
Doc: Go home now and make a baby.
Me: If I do, you can keep it.

He was a great doctor, if I ever fall down the stairs again I'm heading straight back to him. It'd be worth a tumble just for the banter. Apparently I'm to keep it moving (my bruised back, that is)...swimming, walking etc., and pump myself full of painkillers. You know something about those painkillers though, they don't heal the SEARING INNER PAIN, no matter how many you take. Although I wouldn't know, I don't believe in the use of drugs, I'm into caffeine enemas to cure cancer and so on, roots and zinc and what have you. Oat bars and soya flour, that kind of thing.

I have to mash together some kind of outline for my philosophy chocolate thesis so I shall say goodnight to you, my fellow chocolates. I wish you all a chocolatey chocolate-chocolate. Good chocolate/