Ambitious little creature that I am, I am going to attempt to stage and direct Love’s Labour’s Lost in the spring term.

It will be set in the Roaring Twenties – because, let’s face it, things set in the Roaring Twenties are AWESOME.

I intend to play Moth myself, unless I find someone totally incredible who has “Moth” inscribed in their little thespian veins.

There will be NO Holo-fucking-fernes because he is a deadly dull BORE of a man.

WE WILL WEAR WINGTIP SHOES AND BE AMAZING.

As a result of my mad brain-racking, I have been trawling through samples of classic ’20s jazz hits looking for suitable musical accompaniment.

Also, today I signed up for both pole- and swing-dancing lessons at the uni. I am thoroughly excited, if a little unco-ordinated and, well, stocky. I blame my genes and my awful metabolism: since returning here, I’ve gained FIVE POUNDS. This isn’t at all fair, as I haven’t been snacking between meals or drinking anything more vicious than diet cappuchino sachets and occasional glasses of lemonade. The only things that can have contributed to this disgusting weight gain are:
– Two slices of birthday cake; no, I did not wolf them down in quick succesion;
– Three fun-size bags of Maltesers – again, not eaten one after another;
– A glass of wine.

…Erm?

Of course, I’m doing a lot of curling-up-and-reading for my course, but that doesn’t really account for anything – it’s not as if I’m normally leaping around lifting weights and doing cardio. Bah humbug.
…Or just the bah, the humbug contains empty calories.

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