Most of Saturday went on catching up with livejournal after four days away from it, but I spent most of yesterday writing. (My fiction-writing ability far outstrips my ability to write poetry with artistic merit, meaning and any sort of scansion in five minutes, honest!)

Int evening, I was going to see two fillums, but first I decided to see what my bank balance said. Sadly, it said that after I pay this month's rent, I will slowly have to starve to death, so I decided that seeing one fillum, "Frozen", would have to suffice.

(Gah, if only I didn't have a guilty conscience, or I could flog my spare Nightwish ticket for three million pounds!)

Sadly, it turned out, I would have been best advised to see no fillums and save £4. (At least the people at the desk believed me when I said I was a student. Well, I'm trying to be one, anyway.) It was a Recent British Film Festival film: if this doesn't mean anything to you, let it be known that the girl sitting next to me, who was clearly quite a connoisseur of intellectual cinema, actually started laughing her head off during the climax - a clichéd, stylised and meaningless sequence of supposedly disturbing images and sounds from throughout the film. "Oh my God!" she exclaimed the moment the credits rolled, loud enough for the whole audience to hear. "That was sooooo pretentious!"

On some level, I'm sure I went to see it to see how bad it was. The description in the cinema guide sounded pleasing enough, but I've seen far too much recent British arthouse cinema to trust even the most attractive of synopses. But somewhere, I think I am holding out hope that I will one day see such a film (or better still a French one) that I enjoy and think is quality.

Oh well. It doesn't do to complete one's quests too easily.

I still feel really naff and tired, but my voice is 50% back and I feel less dizzy than I have in recent days, which will do: to the Beercart I shall boldly go!