This morning I got a snail mail letter on gilded paper from the charity, and they wrote to inform me that due to unexpectedly high price offers from printers etc. the magazine will not proceed as planned. In fact it won’t proceed at all because their budgets can’t be amended on such short notice.

roadclosedMy days as a student paper editor is at an end, and I didn’t even manage to wiggle a clip out of the affair. The clip was the only reason I’ve spent all this time playing with Scribus. It would have looked so good on my CV.

Though my enthusiasm may have been quite lacking, I feel a little bit cheated. I have cursed the roof here in the office several times. The word ‘amateurs’ may have been uttered, along with other words of a more coarse and rude nature.

Not to fret too much because the level of my disappointment is limited, but the university has a very good media faculty, and they produce everything from television clips to radio and writing.

While I’m not very tempted to appear in front of the camera, I’m sure I can secure a place bringing coffee and writing things. I can be the script writer! Or the coffee maker.

I shall investigate the matter when I come home from South Africa and Cape Town, and there’s a guy I have been given the phone number to that I will have to ring for more details. Maybe I’ll even be able to offer some additional expertise because there’s one thing that I can’t find any information about, and that is web media. They appear to be focused very much on traditional broadcast methods, and not so much on new media.

And that’s actually something I could offer, if I ever get the chance to sit down for a week of interrupted research and tinkering with Django and the new server that I’m building. And besides, now I can devote all my time to my own project. In other words, I’m not exactly devastated by this news.

***

The whole idea of strangers sticking things into my bits is something that I don’t want to consider too closely, most of the time, but since it’s nearly September it is that time of the year again. It is time to go down to the GUM clinic and have the tests.

Middle aged women, like the last time, will fondle my bits and I will stand there and close my eyes and think of England. Then they will draw blood, and Mark and I can slink back into blushing obscurity while we wait for the results. At least, with women and the conditions, there’s not a risk for physical reactions. That’s always the most terrifying thing imaginable.

The test is one of the most embarrassing experiences imaginable, so I don’t know why we keep doing them. We don’t have time to be unfaithful, and we haven’t had time because of school work, and we’re not very likely to be unfaithful being just married and all. Besides, we’re too lazy to have all that drama which this would bring.

But off we go. It’s going to be bloody awful, as usual.

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