> 4 weeks today, I’m a civilian once again.

> In other news, I had my office broken into and filled with Christmas decorations last week. I’m still picking glitter out of everything.

My Dad graduated the other week - he’s been studying very hard on the open university for 6 years now to get a psychology degree and he finally got his handshake-and-a-certificate in June. We went to the Symphony Hall in Birmingham for the ceremony and then we went to the Big Wok in chinatown for some food. The Big Wok is hidden up an alley and is the best all-you-can-possibly-eat Chinese buffet I’ve ever been to.

The clouds lie high in the sky, wispy and aloof. The air warm and breezy, promising much but yielding little. The day starts much the same time as it always does, always has and always will - but it’s funny how some days feel different. The hours tick by, the inexorable flow of time.

I have just about 4 weeks left in Bangor: the beginning of the end, followed by a beginning. That’s the funny thing about the end of anything - as final as it is, it always seems to be chased by the beginning of something else. There’s never long to be sad or wistful as the end rolls by - perhaps the opportunity to sit down with familiars and friends, share a piece of cake and a glass of lemonade and think about all the things you’ve done.

The good thing about time is its capacity to ease; the memories of past failures, To Dos you haven’t done, twinkles in your eye that never came about - all forgotten. What’s left is the smellful residue of things you have done and the good you leave behind you. And perhaps, like footprints on the beach, the water will come and wash all trace away, but you know you were there and that’s what counts.

For me an end, for others a beginning, and for others it’s business as usual and my wist is getting on their wick.

ALBOWIEB gets a mild makeover and comes over all structurified as a new 10-week season of new features and old favourites is launched in the grand style of a puffed-up American television network but without any Pussycat Dolls…this will probably go tits up in a blaze of ignominy, but hey - let’s live a little!

The Scheduling and Innovation Committee have been working overtime over the past two weeks (meaning I sat down with a notepad the other day when I was supposed to be working) to bring a fresh and sexy line-up to one of the world’s Bangor’s most enduring and popular blogs. There’s really been no expense spared - or even spent! Such ‘programmes’ you can look forward to over the next ten weeks are:

“From my own eyes” - look forward to regular and exclusive photos each week - pictures that may not be worth a thousand words, but they certainly merit the odd blog post! See the world through new eyes; severely myopic ones that have required glasses since the age of seven.

“Questions I have” - this instantly forgettable and mildly long-running series continues as I air pointless questions that pop into my head at inopportune moments, shining the harsh light of scrutiny on areas that are barely discussed.

“What the sodding hell, a short series of things that make me angry” - man alive, do I sporadically and irrationally get quite upset about things. Instead of writing letters to the local newspaper, I shall be subjecting my loyal bloglings to my grievances. What fun!

“These are a few of my favourite things” - but I do try to be positive, and here I shall be waxing blogical about some of the finer things in my life. No whiskers on kittens here, but I’m sure we’ll all be in for a few surprises…

“The news at ten” - people often read things on here before I get to mention them in those regular conversations that normal people have, so I shall go the whole hog and save all exciting news for the blog! I need never talk to anyone again…regular, probably quite boring updates on the latest happenings chez moi.

And of course, the final six parts in the award-winning* series “Years of my lives”, the acclaimed series of posts where I demonstrate my disturbing lack of knowledge of my own life. I plan on fleshing these posts out in thirty years to form some sort of autobiography, but with more pictures.

So there we have it - ALBOWIEB, the new season, starting 1st July.

*this is a lie.

I’ve just added a new link to my blogroll that I’ve been hooked on this week - Bête de Jour won Post of the Week on Sunday for a post about his dead cat, but I’ve been reading through the rest of his stuff and damn, the chap’s good.

I had a haircut this morning, it wasn’t a good experience for me. I’m not complaining about the cut itself as such, it’s fine - no obvious missed patches of fluff, everything has been mostly chopped and changed where it needed to, I feel like a much tidier person. We just didn’t connect, me and the hairdresser. I’ve never really found that special someone, if I’m honest - I truly believe that there’s a barber out there for me, someone who understands my wants and needs, someone prepared to put the time and effort in to establish a long-lasting relationship based on mutual trust. The woman didn’t even touch my neck, for goodness’ sake. I had to pull out all those bits in the car. It felt perfunctory, a one snip stand, as it were.

You can tell the hairdressers that love their jobs, they have a verve, a flair - it’s the way they snip the scissors, or brandish a cutthroat blade to swoosh down your hairline and leave you with that almost-died feeling. You can tell when their hearts aren’t in it, and I don’t blame them - who wants to stand around chatting with old men and bits of hair coating your hands and arms, dandruff, liver spots, bald patches, pustules and ears.

I had a woman cut my ear, once, with a pair of scissors. It really hurt, there was blood and she never said sorry. I’ve been poked, prodded and had my head thrust this way and that, I’ve been pulled, cajoled and come within an inch of losing something or other no end of times. I suppose this is what you get when you’re unwilling to spend a good deal more than a fiver to have yourself trimmed - perhaps if I booked into a salon I’d get an altogether more pleasant experience. On the other hand I’ve no yen to sit in a pungent bistro-alike with a glass of red wine with bits of someone else’s follicular offcuts swimming about and the very real danger I may leave with a mohican and blue highlights.

Nevertheless, my quest continues.

I watched I Am Legend the other week, an apocalyptic Will Smith vehicle of apocalyptic proportions. Is it possible to contract apocalypsy? If it isn’t, then it definitely should be. It’s one of those odd films where the marketing chaps have decided for ostensibly valid reasons that they’re going to try their hardest to ensure that you don’t know what the film is about as you sit down to watch it. This feeling continues for perhaps 20 minutes into the film, oddly enough, but it’s an enjoyable wheeze. I would recommend not watching it in the dark; I don’t scare that easy, but I did drop off under the covers that night.

These films always get me thinking about how I’d far in a similarly improbable disaster situation. I find Poseidon an occasional happy yet numbing distraction, and I always come to the conclusion that in any such emergency I would probably snuff it before even the Token Black Guy, or the Smug Businessman, or even the Arrogant Naysayer, who tells our plucky hero that he’s doomed and it’s all to naught. I would in fact be one of the comical deaths - the guy who hits the propellor in Titanic (makes me ‘lol’ every time), or that news presenter who gets hit by the billboard on The Day After Tomorrow.

I have no particular cunning or guile that would see me through, nor any hidden skills, such as a murky past as a black ops mercenary (and even if I did, I would now have to hunt you down and garrotte you) or a humble background as a car mechanic, or perhaps even a spell inside, where I picked up talents from my witty and charming criminal friends. Alas, no, my goal in life is now to whittle my way up to a privileged position in society that ensures I get whisked to some sort of bunker deep in the Norfolk countryside with other similarly privileged but undeserving prominents.

It’s my only hope.

Academics, eh? Such wags. This bust is in the corner of the Council Chamber - a prestigious space, panelled in wood and history.

I was on the radio the other morning, talking about a HEFCW report saying that Wales universities have more non-traditional students that in the rest of the UK. I suspect Welsh students might be considered non-traditional. Anyone who chooses to go to Bangor or Aberystwyth is definitely borderline non-traditional. It was quite fun, I had to go to the BBC radio studio in upper Bangor, where the security man on reception showed me through to a little booth behind the post room. I was on for about 5 seconds and went to work. I realised as I walked back to the car that my flies were open, there must be OFCOM rules against that sort of thing.

I also had a cold sore, which is horrific. I had the dreaded Tingling Sensation on Tuesday evening, and within two hours the blasted thing had taken root and set up its own infrastructure. I always get the things when I’m run down and they’re life-stoppingly depressing. Children cross the roads, people point and stare, etc, etc. I also learn from a dentist friend that tea tree oil is useless against them - I always found the burning sensation comforting as I slather the stuff on.

Oh well, live and learn.

I won’t labour the point, but it’s my birthday. Congratulations to me on reaching 24 years of age, it’s quite the achievement, I think. I have of course been blogging for 12.5% of that time. How sad.

I’m away in the middle of Wales for the day, attending some sort of University of Wales meeting, it’s going to be desperately fun. And later on I shall be meeting my dad for dinner. More soon.