Tired. So tired. This whole lecture business is quite unnatural. Why am I not doing an Arts subject? Why do I have to trudge through rain-drenched streets and sit in a room listening to 150 chemists fall asleep?   Since food was becoming scarce in the flat, we visited Sainsbury's after waking up from the lectures. The scrum of shopping students gave the whole venture a sort of hunter-gatherer feeling, as we tracked tins of tomatoes across the desolate wastes of aisle 3.   Alas, this joyous feeling of fending for oneself vanished when we returned and had to continue with the tutorial work. Suddenly I found myself hankering for the excitement of lectures, the cut-and-thrust of writing notes, the thrill of learning. 'Paraphrasing' (copying out) textbooks does not add spice to life.   Chris still has no work to do. After dinner, I decide to go to a kendo practice, to get out of the flat and ease my aching mind. Kendo is the ancient art of hitting people with sticks whilst shouting. The hitter shouts something interesting and whacks his opponent who responds with the traditional 'Ow'. This response is not vital, but generally occurs on a regular basis. You do get to wear armour. This is a bonus. On my way home, I suddenly realised that, since I haven't practised for over a year, all my kendo muscles have turned into kendo bags-of-flab. I need a hot bath. I have a hot shower. It isn't the same somehow.
			The characters and situations in this diary are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happenings. Any resemblance to such things is coincidental, or just for humourous effect. All names have been chosen to implicate the innocent.