Och, c'wa, Catullus, stievlie nou. Be sweir.

There's a part of me that would love to be fluent in Scots just so I could read Douglas Young's Scots translations of Catullus. The above line, by the way, means "Catullus, stop this, stand firm, become stone" (in the English), and I'm kind of inclined to make it my mantra - you know, the poem's about trying-not-to-fall-back-in-love, but muttering "Och, c'wa, Annie, stievlie nou. Be sweir" while getting trampled on on the bus might be quite a good anti-stress tactic.

On Monday I saw a neurosurgeon about the Spine Of Doom. It was a waste of time. He made me walk up and down for ages, poked me with a needle and spent ages asking me where I was applying for university. Then he stared really intently at the MRI scans for ages and slagged off Russian medical technology ("We were getting these kinds of scans in the EIGHTIES!"). His final verdict: "Hmm. It's strange. Hmmm. I don't know. Call me in three months."

Tomorrow is Oliver's annual bonfire night extravaganza: food, drink, fireworks, sparkler fights. I've been writing a poem recently that isn't about fireworks, but in my mind takes place in November, and so it features loads of really quite obvious references to GUNPOWDER and SPARKLERS and stuff. I need to straighten it out. Anyway, tomorrow should be good. I shall wear my red beret for the first time this winter! It's really sad that that actually makes me excited.