My third year at University has just started. It's the penultimate one, and things are getting more serious. Everything is double-weighted this year, and I need to get a very high aggregate mark in order to proceed on to the experimental project in my final year.
Going back to Uni as a mature student – and having to pay my way out of my own earnings – was a big decision for me. This really is my last chance to get started on the career path I want. There's no room for screwing it up. I work 0.8 full time as well as studying for my degree. Free time is in short supply. I've had to weigh up my priorities – and this year, study has won.
I won't be writing as much, or reading as much fiction, or blogging as much. Although I will still do those things – because I know I will need a break. And also because I don't think I can stop doing those things.
The book that started it all.
I've been reading fiction like a crazy woman ever since I managed to read my first book unaided. (The Ladybird book of The Emperor’s New Clothes. I still remember my sense of achievement when I read all the way through to the last page without help from my mum – and the sudden, weird conviction that this was some sort of magic, this deciphering of code; that somehow I had unlocked the key to it in my head and now I could read anything. Wow. It's still probably my best achievement.). And I've been trying to write books since I was about seven years old and produced my first attempt: a few A4 pages, folded to A5 and covered with scrawl and pictures of ponies; the plot, such as it was, plagiarised entirely from Elyne Mitchell's The Silver Brumby.
Anyway. I just wanted to let you all know that I might be updating here less often, and when I do, it might sometimes be about (very misunderstood) science rather than reading or writing. I feel bad about that, as though I've drawn you here under false pretences. But I hope you'll keep reading.

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