My principal third year modules appear in university material as "Writing the History of Warfare", "The British Army and the defeat of Napoleon" and "Warfare at Sea from the Armada to Overlord". However, they appear in my calendar as (respectively) "it is cruelty and you cannot refine it", "YA BOO FRENCHY" (thanks, Louis) and "Rum, Sodomy & the Lash 1588-1945." I am, thus far, really enjoying everything.
I brought my dissertation plan before my replacement supervisor and he told me that, in short, my proposal was far too broad and far too ambitious, and that I didn't have a hope of doing it properly in 12,000 words. Options for continuing were a) a very much cut-down version of the original, focusing on Vietnam infantry tactics, and b) an alternative proposal that had come up in my initial research, involving a small-arms controversy in the early late 40s and 50s (.280 British). He gave me two weeks to gather enough material to justify it, and in the process of following leads, I was pointed at one Dr F, the premier small-arms man in the British Isles, who suggested to me a somewhat-related area of research I hadn't even considered. This, and the offer of some advice on the understanding that I'd send him my primary research in return, grabbed my interest completely, and I bashed together a bibliography and proposal for my supervisor, who went for it, and I think it'll be an even more interesting, rewarding and intellectually stimulating piece of work than the last two. So that's all right then.
Due to the relative lack of shariness in my flat, and the niggling feeling that I may have left some pots and pans in Reservoir Road, I've felt myself a bit short of various cooking items: no large saucepan, no chopping board, and no baking trays capable of flapjack. So, when the time came to make flapjack for the L4NL event with BPP, I visited Soraya to avail myself of her baking trays. Unfortunately, the flapjack still turned out too crumbly, and on the way home I experienced a syrup related disaster: the jar came open somehow in my pannier, coating all my shopping in a thick gloopy layer of Mr Tate and Mr Lyle's finest. I have been up to my wrists in syrup. I cannot see the word "syrup" any more without shuddering. I fear I am going to end up like Lady Macbeth, except with syrup instead of blood. The day after, my phone unexpectedly autocorrected "stripy" to "syrup" and I collapsed in a flood of tears.