Eleanor to cleaner: I think I lost my copy of 'The Catholic Life' here yesterday.

Cleaner to Eleanor: Ooh, I'll just ask Mary.

Cleaner to Mary: Eleanor says someone pinched her copy of 'Catholic Life' yesterday.

Mary to Eleanor: Eleanor, have you lost your Catholic life?

• ...I feel the hand of history upon my shoulder.

Yesterday Stuart and I went to York. The last time I went there, my dad and I walked around Jorvik together. I'd forgotten how picturesque, and small, York is. We went to many pubs, both old and new, and to a B. C. P. Sung Eucharist in the Minster. We drank too much, got the last train home, fell asleep thereupon, and Stuart threw up on the station platform. All good fun.

A Breeze (Another one I found on the floor)

A lovely breeze is coming through the window;

A breeze is blowing all my thoughts away.

The sun is set and night has fallen;

The moon is up at the end of the day.

Ode to Drake & Co (Rediscovered during sorting)

O Drake & Co,

We hate you so.

We'd rather you were dead.

Plumbers came

To do the wiring.

This is what they said:

"Shit."

On another day I would probably have agreed with him. But it is not another day, so I will take this moment to declare that Prince Charles' remarks on education are decidedly unhelpful. Nevertheless, he speaks some sense, mainly on examinations and the over-arbitrary national curriculum:

In a speech to teachers, Prince Charles claimed their job was now more difficult than ever because of a rapid succession of initiatives, compounded by the public examination system and the curriculum being "in a state of constant flux"

It's more or less universally acknowledged that there is too much assessment, for too many of the wrong reasons: KS1, KS2, and KS3 serve little purpose other than to provide figures, yet I have personal experience of Key Stage 3 kids getting worked up and over-worked by their parents because of them. GCSEs still serve a genuine purpose for the job market, and to a certain extent, for sixth-form education, and further vocational courses. However, A-Levels are more or less useless as qualifications, once one has obtained a university place. None of these facts would be particularly important if they weren't so disruptive, in terms of the amount of time and energy which has to be donated to the task of exam-sitting, where it would be much better spent going into more depth in the subject.

It seems to me that this, today, is the fundamental problem in education, from which others now follow, although this may not always have been the case. Examinations, and the tedium and stress which follows from their ubiquity, means that education more broadly is transformed into a tedious and stressful occupation. But the "faddish" teaching techniques which the Prince talks about are nothing new — and have had real success in drawing more people into mainstream education. Although more accommodating, liberal styles of teaching have their drawbacks in terms of disciplinary options, if it weren't for the examination and curriculum system fighting against them, they may well succeed much more.

I'm suspicious that these outbursts from members of the establishment have undertones of a "them" and "us" mentality; that Charles' comments on university attendance may not be motivated by an awareness of the need for balance and openness in the education system, but rather by a vision of university-going as an inherently elite activity. There is much to be criticised in the British education style, but I've a feeling that Charles is a little out of touch with why things have changed, who the changes have benefited, and why the changes must continue.

Reading this article this morning reminded me of a dream I had last night, where a helpless prisoner was argued into a position of silence, and where his silence was then used against him.

Everything seems to be in chaos. Stuart, Michael and I are all, gradually, packing up to leave the house in a week's time, and there is stuff scattered everywhere. There are bills to pay, there are thousands of pounds going in and out of my bank accounts, and somewhere I'm supposed to be doing some organ practice. I'm really not in the mood.

It's been a beautiful day today after a week of rain. Something feels in balance again, where previously the weather had been quite unsettling. It's remarkable how much environmental factors really do affect us, and dictate how our time will be spent; we know (statistically) that those living on the coast are more liberal, more easy-going, more sociable, though whether this is cause or effect is probably debatable.

There is something distinctly claustrophobic about Manchester at the moment, though. But in a week I will be back in Leicester and the long summer of choir tours and other musical exploits will be underway: Roll on, July.

I am now veritably like Toad of Toad Hall, happily parping away to myself, and drivey-driving all over Manchester. For lo, I have bought myself a used Fiat Punto.

When the rain falls
They talk of Manchester
But when the triumphant rain falls
We think of rainbows
That's the Mancunian Way

—Lemn Sissay

We planned to go out for dinner last night. "Is that wise?" I questioned my football-allergic boyfriend. "Why?" he replied. "Lo, England are playing France in Euro 2004 at 7.45," I answered, "and therefore there will be riots on the streets, and the rivers shall flow with blood." Of course, he did not believe me.

As we were walking back from Caffè Uno, a police Tactical Aid Unit van tore past us. "Lloyds Bar," I said, "bet it's a murder." Lloyds Bar it indeed was. A little further down the road, more police vans and ambulances came streaming past. "Footage," I said, "for sure." Although Stuart had assured me that the Footage would cause no trouble at all, it transpired quite clearly, when we walked past it, that there were seven police vans outside, one or two ambulances, a very definite trail of blood leading from the pub to the take-away, and some impressively broken windows. Going into our old workplace, the high concentration of police officers, flood of beer on the floor, stench of sweat, and upside-down nature of all the furniture, it seemed that, indeed, there had been something of a riot.

Never tell me that I gloat.

The Daily Relax...

The daily relax
When time slows,
And sounds grow silent;
Rooms fill with faint shadows;

All becomes still
And individual

Everything rests
While pressures seep away
Into the folds of covers,
Hidden till the next day.

Listen, just the distant drone
Of people on their way back home.

Cold comes;
All feels sharp
Yet refreshing. Cold tells us
To sleep embark.

I admit that if it were up to me, I would probably have started playing Mario Kart on M. G.'s N64 rather than watch a two-hour documentary about Tony Blair's life. However, I am glad that I watched it. It has given me much to think about, in spite of the fact that I don't really think it went very deep, nor tell me anything that I didn't really already know, save for a few details of Blair's formative years.

The documentary was full of what J. M. Keynes would have called 'wild facts' — I wonder if Blair might have benefited from looking a bit further into the reservoir of political economic history before making some of his key decisions. There are plenty of wild facts in Blair's life, as in everyone's: the suicide of a best friend at the age of nineteen, the death of a mother from throat cancer while Blair was still graduating, the conflicts of loyalty to friends and party — these are truly wild facts. Absurd, unpredictable, but highly powerful events. More powerful, undoubtedly, than anything rational by which we attempt to govern our lives. There are, too, plenty of wild facts in Blair's political life: John Smith's death, Kosovan ethnic cleansing, September 11th 2001; events with far greater power than events in the realm of political debate. I admired one thing in Blair that came through in this documentary: his determination to take these wild facts in hand, and to use them as means of mobilisation to action. And indeed, this trend has been around for hundreds of years now. It is the stuff of pragmatism, diplomacy: the stuff of reading situations from the ground up, of making the events, the problems, your starting point, and using the information they give you to form your resolutions to action.

Unnecessarily, and partially paradoxically, it seems that it is Blair's strength of faith which has got in his way, and blinded his sight, too often. His principles have been derived from his faith, rather than his faith being inspired by his analysis of the 'wild facts' of the events around him. And we need not look far to find problems when principles drive action without reference to context. Iraq is an example, though too sensitive an example. Too fresh. But there are different examples. What about when economic principles unrelentingly drove an unregulated market during the industrial revolution? Its consequences were disastrous, in terms of poverty, abuse, and intimidation, because the economists made no reference to the realities of the world, beyond the mathematics of economic theory. Yet at the same time, without his faith, Tony Blair would undoubtedly have done much less, achieved much less, and created much less good in Britain. Unfortunately, as with so many, the very same convictions which drive good decisions also end up driving bad decisions.

And so Tony Blair becomes another 'wild fact' of political history, as will so many like him in the future, making the same mistakes.

Looking out at the stationary houses, the immovable objects of life, the milestones of time, there seems to be a feeling of re-statement of power, even in the bricks and mortar. I never thought I'd be so glad to see the Conservatives succeeding in an election, but it seems like the British people might just be telling Labour Where To Stick It. Labour's losses mean that the stakes are raised significantly for upcoming local and national politics, such that the government might not feel quite so free to take its own MPs and electorate for a ride. It is a reminder that even having nobheads in government is only a transient thing, even if it is for eight years. It is a reminder that there are greater things in life than a here-today-gone-tomorrow politician. It has to be said that T. B. had it all, but got carried away and is now in his death throes. I'll give him another twelve months, at most. Probably less.

Well done Voters. Even though this crappy government didn't even manage to send me a ballot paper, its attempts to manipulate voting in the Midlands and the North have spectacularly backfired. And it looks like even Norfuckians have steered clear of UKIP. A brighter day is dawning, somewhere...

The incense smoke that lingered in the air following this evening's service diffused the setting sunlight coming from the west. So beautiful, so quiet, so natural — there was something in balance tonight. And all this in spite of a violent rape and assault which took place on the next road two days ago. Sometimes, moments of profound peace take place in the most inappropriate of times.

Saw lots of people yesterday. Being the end of term, we all went out, as we all must, to get sloshed. M. G. had drunk about twenty pints and four hundred vodka Red Bulls before 3pm, so he had to go home and sleep for sixteen hours. The rest of us, putting aside our alcoholic credentials for a time, stayed out till everything closed. Does that follow, logically? I care little. Stu and his coursemates were there, while T. E. B. ran off after the Chinese meal (*sigh*). H. came along as well (you remember...), and to top it all off, Stuart 'found' a German in Lloyd's bar, whom he carried around for the rest of the night, being sure to show him off as often as possible, stressing that it was another one from Hessen. All in all, it was a Jolly Good Laugh. I taught H. how to play pool. She taught me how to dance. Stu talked to his German. For some reason, I was drinking Bacardi Breezers most of the evening, which I haven't had for four years, after me, S. S., his (then) girlfriend, and a goon from our year bough about thirty of them after GCSEs (in a Scream pub promotion), got thrown out, and were violently ill. I stress that I was fine. No, really, I was: S. & L. vomited in an alley for some time, while C. J. passed out and had to be taken to hospital. I was left, annoyingly sober, to try to flag down a taxi. "Who am I taking?" (Points to those in the alley/on the floor) "Sorry mate." (Drives off). This went on for some hours. Oh deary dear, the errors of youth.

Exams over for another year. Second year over! God help us all. It's so hot. I've had six pints in two hours. I'm supposed to take my library books back today.

Until last Wednesday the only experience I'd had of Harry Potter was via the quasi-political criticisms of Tom Paulin on Newsnight Review. Partly to see if I could prove my ill-gotten presuppositions about the Good—Evil dichotomy which I thought the books and films would inevitably reinforce, much to the delight of our homogenising outlooks on the world, I went to see the third Harry Potter film with two of my housemates. And, I dare say, it was a Darn Good Yarn. It was nowhere near as bad as I thought it would be, and far from presenting a simple world, I thought that, for what is essentially a children's book, its levels of humour, emotions, and intellect were substantial. I really enjoyed the film, though I am a sucker for these fantasy type flicks. Anyway, I recommend it.

The evening. Night falls every day, but I never hear of night getting up again. How does it do it? M. G. and I went to the Contact Theatre for cocktails this evening, meeting up with some friends from lost year, of whom we've heard little for twelve months. In fact, the last time I saw them was in the Contact Theatre, with a freak-twat-tosspot who hung around playing the recorder. That was not a great evening. But this was better, chiefly because he was not there, and partly because I am now listening to French accordion music from the Bath festival on Radio 3.

I can't believe how much time has passed. Christ. It seems like only yesterday that I was sat in this same room with T. J., who had driven me and my stuff up to the new house. I seem to remember drinking three bottles of wine with my guest. Those were the days. How happily we all see the past. There is always some kind of ideal spirit embodied in How Things Were, always a feeling that something has been lost. I find it difficult to escape that feeling, because inevitably, for such a pessimist, when thinking back I always think first of the friends whom I am now away from, and the things I miss, rather than the friends with whom I had the pleasure of spending so much time, and the new friends I have now. Still, every now and then it feels a bit strange. The friends you make at university are totally different from those you make at school. It's so much more of a social exercise. At school, if you were shit and fell out with people, there was little avoiding them; you'd see them eventually, and therefore probably be made to move things on somehow. But out in the Big Wide World, relationships come and go, people shoot across your field of vision in the blink of an eye, and, due primarily due to the lack of physical immediacy or restriction, it is harder to make close emotional bonds.

This time last year I was getting ready to move out of Whitworth Park. What a place. Oh, of course, we go on about how wonderful it was now; but then I'm sure we were much more negative. Perhaps with good reason, because, undeniably, the roof leaked, the kitchen had no window, and the rooms were not really big enough to breathe comfortably. You always worried you would run out of air soon. And this time next year, I'll be writing, 'You know, this time last year, Dear Readers, we were saying "This time next year, I'll be writing..."'

• New house
• Defrosting freezers
• Bournemouth
• Peak District
• Estate agents
• Mice
• Religions & Theology and Classics Ball
• Modern Languages Ball
• More Landlord
• 37 Degrees Centigrade
• Stuart
• Anniversary
• Grade 5 Organ
• Grade 8 Organ
• Washing up left in sink
• Scouring pads left in sink
• Barbecue
• Melted stool
• H.
• Vomiting on the bed
• Non-terrorists being arrested
• Our mad Irish neighbours
• Klepto's car breaking repeatedly
• Passing driving test
• The gardener
• Long grass
• Varsity
• S. E.'s visit
• Kro
• Choir
• Christmas Carols
• Choir meals
• Snow
• Work at the pub
• Dry skin
• Essays galore
• Free scanner
• Trip to Oxford
• Trip to Leicester
• Dark chocolate
• Pizza Express membership.

I stepped out of the front door on Saturday night to the mingling scents of fish and chips, and bonfire smoke. Kids were playing on the piece of grass on our road which is there only by virtue of the demolition of a house some years ago. The sun was nearing its setting, creating a haze of foggy, diffused light. There was only one explanation: it must be summer again.

Warmer weather, more sunshine, and less rain changes everyone's outlook on life for a month or two. You can expect to be passed in the street and exchange either a smile or, perhaps, a word of greeting. I can even find it in my heart to say 'Good evening,' to one of those bastard kids who live down that terraced road round the corner when they start screaming. He was very confused. For a time, all the ills of the world dissolve away, parliament being in recess. From the last few summers the most serious news I can recall is that A-Levels have got easier and that this is leading to a rise in paedophilia, or something. So, really, nothing at all.

I'm going to sing at Wells Cathedral and Canterbury Cathedral, and also take my choir to Manchester Cathedral, this summer. It'll be a tiring one, I think. In fact, it looks like I'm going to be running up and down the country like a blue-arsed fly, whether by car, train, or foot, whichever seems, one way or another, more reliable. I'll be looking forward to IBO's unceasing stories, never-ending search for a 'proper' pub, and bitterness about the clergy; SE's most reliable mockery of the above; though perhaps not NCR's presence... hopefully there will be no such thing. Therefore, this summer, I present, in July, the Wells Tales and, in August, the Canterbury Diaries. I trust they will meet with your approval.