Boxes

I spent a large part of my day packing things into boxes. Oh the joy. Actually, a lot of the time was spent taking files and ringbinders out of boxes, taking sheets out of plastic wallets, removing staples, and putting most of a good five years of exam work in a box to be recycled. It was a strange afternoon. It's funny to think how difficult so much of that schoolwork seemed at the time, and how pleased I was with a lot of my writing then. When I read it back it seemed so easy, clumsily phrased and, above all, kind of pointless. So much of it was things I never really understood in the first place, but have never used since. Mum is the type of person who believes that all GCSE and A-level work should be saved 'just in case' (because clearly I might need a diagram of the the water cycle for my History degree), but even she agrees that most of my unnecessary belongings need to disappear, so most things were thrown. Including all the A-level History, which really isn't relevant to anything I'm studying at uni. I kept a few vocabulary books, because you never know when you might need to speak some French (or Latin . . .), a couple of my best junior projects, for sentimental reasons, and (perhaps tellingly) virtually everything related to English Literature.
Yes, I did read all the essays marked by a certain sixth-form English teacher, and his comments still make me very happy, because they make me believe that I can write. Yes, however much I've improved at History in the past year, I do sometimes still wish that I'd taken the English degree. Especially now that there are no jobs anywhere anyway, so it hardly matters which is the more employable. I wonder when I'll stop thinking that way?

What else happened today? I listened to a lot of DFTBA music - one of the benefits of having a music-mad brother with a fair bit of extra cash. The Driftless Pony Club EP is fantastic. I vlogged about 'The Beach'.

Oh, and I thought a lot about Derren Brown's stunt. Either a split-screen with old feed taking up the left side, whilst somebody writes the numbers on the balls, or the white balls having special LED screens, either transmitting from the board he writes the announced numbers on, or keyed in by someone at the back. And that's my final answer. He'll try and convince us differently on Friday night - he'll come up with some complicated formula, and then sit back and smile when the nation tries to use it for next week's Lottery - but his phoney 'solutions' are all part of the illusion. Admire him from afar, but don't believe a word he says.