You'd better look out below.

Miraculously, I made my way to Victoria coach station without fuss on Saturday morning (although I did have a mini meltdown when the tube stopped at Westminster for more than ten minutes). Delighted that for once I had made the right bus at the right time, I was content to sit back quietly and read my book all the way to Manchester. Sadly it was not to be. Somehow, I had not banked on the alternative megabus conundrum: the uncooperative neighbour. My travel companion for the five and a bit hours that ensued was a boy from Pakistan, who was studying English in Manchester. He seemed nice enough and for a while I was perfectly happy to talk (with inexperience) about football and Lollywood movies and the places I had visited when I was in Pakistan five years ago. That was all very well and good. However, when the conversation turned persistently to co-founding an import-export business together and marital visas and running away to Paris in the Spring, Shudehill bus station could not come about quick enough.

After an hour of disorientation and a Christmas Market vs. heavy bag debacle, my family found me crouched on a wall, eating Swiss macaroni with a plastic spork. We ate a hasty pizza dinner before heading to the GMEX to watch two hours of Devandra Banhart (♥ "hey there little snapping turtle, snapping at at shell") and Arcade Fire (expecting every next song to be Wake Up). I am amazed that in a crowd predominately made up of eighteen-thirty year olds, I was knocked over time and time again by a group of middle-aged bald men, attempting to start a mosh pit. Oh the youth grown ups of today.

I don't want a lot for Christmas.

Just a couple of cross stitch kits and a camera and a super awesome teacake cushion and some dvds and some very hungry caterpillar cupcake cases and and and...

Peter Pantomime.

Where on earth did 8th week come from? One moment it's November and it's Bonfire Night and I'm off to Poland and the next thing I know it's December and we're decking the halls (we have a Christmas tree and his name is Barney ♥) and singing along to Christmas songs and I am off to Oxford for Charlotte's annual Christmas play.

I left London in the middle of a snowstorm and went on a festive bus ride through the Chilterns, arriving in Oxford full of winter cheer. At the park and ride I met up with my auntie and we went for lunch at a Lebanese restaurant in Jericho. It was colourful and delicious and extra wonderful because the waiter sat us down at a table next to the (warm, warm) radiator. After pitta bread and moutabel we went to the Ashmolean to see the 'Pre-Raphaelites and Italy' exhibition (because what would a trip to Oxford be without a healthy dose of Rossetti, Holman-Hunt and co.?), then I went to Mansfield to meet up with Charlotte.

We went to the Peter Pan rehearsal, while I waited for David and we had a massive Harry Potter outburst ("Hi, this is my husband Bill", "Hi, I'm Ron's brother", "He likes his steaks raw now, hohoho", "Oh my husband Remus, the joker" = SUMMED UP) and folded programmes. David popped up eventually and we went for tea at the Eagle and Child (tradition much). Then it was play time and as usual the (Peter) Pantomime was witty and fun and Charlotte played her part of Alfred ("I'm Dave...") the pirate with particular finesse.

In the evening we lay on Charlotte's big new bed in her big new room and we watched our favourites on youtube (plus the David Tennant look-alike and a disturbing Argentinian dance competition (shudder)). In the morning we had a lie-in and I went a-shopping and in the afternoon I went home again and that was that. Lovely.

Santa Claws.

SO TRUE.

Dzień dobry.

Well Poland, you've done it again (dispelled our weather-related stereotypes that is; no terrifying milk bar experiences this time around, thank god). I didn't go quite as far as Harry - to declare the need for gloves and scarves in the middle of July - but I did go armed with three woolly jumpers and a small hot water bottle. I mean, it's November and it's Krakow; temperatures are going to be Siberian, right? Hmm. Wrong again. Let it just be said that our trip to Auschwitz was warm and sunny to an inappropriate degree and I walked round Birkenau without my coat.

It was weird but wonderful to get away with just my mum and dad for a couple of days (in fact, had I not dreamt that my brother was all alone and posting forlorn, 'where are my family when I need them?' statuses on facebook, it would have been perfect). On Saturday we wandered around the Old Town (original UNESCO listing, don't you know), up and down Wawel Hill, in and out of the cathedral and across the river to Oskar Schindler's factory (now an amazing museum). On Sunday we went on a coach trip to Auschwitz-Birkenau, where we were escorted by an incredibly passionate and highly interesting tour-guide. The day was harrowing and surreal and insightful all at the same time - certainly an experience that defies words on a blog post. On Monday we went on a day trip to Wieliczka Salt Mine (another original UNESCO listing, don't you know), which - it goes without saying - differed greatly from the previous day's excursion. It was however, just as riveting and twice as fun; who knew there was so much to learn and to love about salt? Highlights included Da Vinci's Last Supper in sodium chloride, a large salty chapel and a fantastic tour-guide named Sebastian. After that we flagged a little; there was a nasty case of the cheese dumplings and a postcard hunt and before we knew it we were hemmed into our Ryanair seats and jetting back to cold, dark and windy London, where three times woolly jumpers and a small hot water bottle were undoubtedly called for.

Mr Postman.

The other day my Art of the Novel tutor told the class that the epistolary novel would no longer work in this day and age, because "nobody writes letters anymore". Well Mr Parnell, I am here to prove you wrong! One of my favourite university past-times is snail mail; writing letters, receiving letters, hell! even ordering course books and catalogues online, simply so I can appreciate the sound of something falling through my letterbox on a weekday morning. In my first year I had more books of stamps than I had hot dinners and even now I have a whole drawer dedicated to (read: overflowing with) writing paper and notecards. You've got to love the written word, particularly when it comes through the post on sushinery stationery. So, here's to you Mr Postman; thank you for a lovely letterbox week.

Scantastic.

Today I spent £15 developing film. Here's a quick photographic glimpse into 'Summer 010: the Lost Months'. Adrian Mole, eat your heart out: