This morning's lecturer was replaced by a hungover misogynist, still reeking of booze, and talking out of his arse. The one thing everybody learnt? He was once -and a long time ago, seing the physical state he's now in- a referee.

In order to stop rolling my eyes, I tried to keep my pre-menstrual self occupied.

"Young woman in the green top at the front?
-Yes?
-(to my cleavage) Do you actually think you're making the best of the lecture by sending text messages from one hand and drawing on your notes from the other hand? What was I talking about?
-Oh you were ranting about last week's match, should I really write that down?
-Erm...
-And don't worry about me. I'm a woman. I can multitask."

He left me and my cleavage alone, and I resumed my texting, while extending my general culture to his views on red cards.
On the bright side, with 99% of girls in my group I made about thirty best friends.


Oh, and Tarzan sent a text. Only took him four whole days to write the following literary masterpiece:
Hi Lilith, it's Tarzan- I met you on Saturday at [...] club. Are you free to meet for a coffee/drink next week?

To his credit, he makes up for the lack of originality and sense of humour by a perfect spelling.
I'll reply in a couple of days, since it seems to be the way it's done on this island.

Like I said, I'm pre-menstrual, so I'll fuck right off to spread the hatred somewhere else.