Yesterday, I met up with the TA at her bon-voyage tea party, which was amazing and I ate many many butterfly cakes (which I love. Grandma used to make them) and had strawberry mango tea. I had forgotten that I hadn't seen many of these people since the Big Crash (when medication ate my life, and I came down from uni early) and they told me how much better I looked. If this is better, I hate to think what I looked like then. I was feted for my skills at random conversation. Our mutual friend was not there (while she had told me that she was fine, our gracious hostess told me she was half past dead) which disappointed me gravely. TA likes her presents of cute cross-stitch and incredibly heavy book. The location was swish beyond swish (if you ever end up near the British Museum and are in want of the whole 4 o'clock tea experience, I heartily recommend them - just not here, because I reaffirmed my stance on linking your bloggery with RL). A good time was had, except for the incredibly tortuous traffic jam / diversion that took us through teeny tiny country roads as I got jittery and jitterier.
Woke up at 4am with "On the Inside..." considerably unstuck (this is good). Many many pages of plot notes regarding Vecchio and Stella. It boils down to the fact that this is an ensemble piece and I need to afford them the same level of coverage I lend Kowalski and Turnbull. Lord knows where this places me with the duck boys.
(I haven't read through in the cold light of day yet)
And my head hurts; it's a good thing I have the Stellonstein and his needles in forty minutes.