Passing Uni and trip to Kew

So I got myself a Masters in English Literature…by 1%! The module where I had to write 2 essays I concocted in a day without even reading before submitting got me a higher maker. 
I guess all those intelligent students who did dissertations on Sherlock Holmes and Pride and Predjudice will go on to have careers. I morphed into the exhausted aftermath of Vivienne Eliot while trying to write that, yes she was quite ill, but her writing is about her experiences of crap doctors and bodged cures and of course, sitting with flu in the Bodleian Library squinting, I was doomed to get a low great. 

So I don’t feel too ‘yay’ about a masters too poor to get a PHD, a joke to intelligensia. 
Vivien/ne Eliot goes back to being a much disliked ‘mad’ and of little interest. I go back to being unemployable, braindead from my druggy neighbour and of little interest. 
I started writing about my 10 year string if mentally ill neighbours heard but not seen. I was going to call it ‘The Ceiling Women’…
Unable to entirely shake of literature I bought Virginia Woolf’s ‘Kew Garden Book and ‘Bee Journal’ by Sean Borodale at Kew Gardens today. My life dream is to keep bees and grow olives in Italy. 

Below are some photos of the gardens including the new bee hive installation. My favourite place is Kew Palace it has such a surreal cartoonish look to it and is open during summer along with the Kitchens. 

Gift shop plant called Polly

Spot the bee

Damsel fly

Allum’s my favourite flowers 

Music manuscript in palace

The Hive. It buzzes and vibrates and lights up the more the bees work hard. But I never saw any real hive. You can climb to a glass platform. 


The end (of uni) is nigh

The End (of uni) is NighI don’t do things by halves. I tend to do many things all at once at the last minute with no signs of making any of the good enough. This is why my deferred uni deadline is on Moday and I’ve still not finished reading for a 5000 word essay on Hollinghurst and Waters, a dissertation tk revise- it was meant to be 1200 and I thought it was 1600 so wrote half a book on Vivien/ne/Vivie/Feirron/DooDah Eliot which could end as a set of encyclopedias for all I have to say about her. 

Then there is a 2000 word essay on…on… Interdisciplinarity and Talbot?
I’m screwed. 

Aside from my tutor having to point out to me today that Plato was not God of the underworld, the biggest problem aside from lack of intellect is the same old problem. The same ‘you’ve won a prize!’ That turns out to be a scam problem. 

Noisy neighbours who are entirely nocturnal from the Thomas Pocklington Trust. 
Going to bed at 11 but not sleeping until 5am regularily is not productive, not even livable. Of course the Trust dent it, ignore or encourage or like one manager say I make it up. 

After a brainswelling phonecall on the ineptitude of the noise team at the council (who tell me all my previous calls never happened) I scream my lungs out in a shrill gargling cry at 8a.m. 

Now all of posh poshdom Brackdnbury village must find councelling for their miniature dogs and children who never grow older than 5. Maybe they will burn me on a stake in Chiswick while Morris dancers circle their Bentlys. Yep- I’m now the noisy neighbour, great that. 
I wish I good phone Vivien Eliot, tell her the f#%^#r is driving me mad again up all night. I need a friend like her with large cloche hats and the ability to find humour against the shitty people they leave you too exhausted to be who you strived to be. 
I have only until Moday. 

As always with typos- typed on mobile unable to read screen.