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volleyball because he'd gone mad, or to stop himself going mad?
    Reading back, I see I haven't really talked about myself very much.  Me before here.  I'm seventeen.  Eighteen in February.  I have hazel eyes and light brown hair with just a bit of a wave.  It goes blondish if I stay out in the sun a lot – I guess it's probably blondish now.  Using a lake as a mirror isn't very accurate.  I'm 172cm tall, and usually feel a complete hulk around other girls.  Mum says I have good skin, but my acne keeps making her a liar.  I'm okay-looking; not model material but I clean up all right.
    I like The Killers, Gwen Stefani and Little Birdy.  Escher prints.  Orlando Bloom.  Surfing (badly!).  But mostly reading.  Sf&f, but almost anything really.  I was going to study English, history and archaeology at university, and hopefully figure out some way to turn an Arts degree into a job.  I'm an above average student, but I'm not brilliant at anything.  Partly because I'd rather read than study.
    My best friend is Alyssa Caldwell.  I like Nick Dale, except when I don't like him.  I have one brother, Julian.  My Dad left when I was ten, but we see him most months.  The thing I wanted most was to be witty and confident instead of just hanging about the edges whenever I'm with a bunch of people, thinking up brilliant things I could say if the right opportunity arose.  Guess I don't have to worry about that any more.
    Being here is amazing.  I'm on a whole new world, and the moonlight is wine.  Today it was rough, but I'm coping really well, honestly.
    And my period's starting and I hate this.  Hate it. 
    Wednesday, December 5
    Felt
    I'm now officially sick to death of wool.  But I have a blanket, maybe.  I'm letting it dry, hoping that it doesn't just fall to pieces when I try and pick it up. 
    Thursday, December 6
    Tissue
    Mum talks occasionally about the myth of the paperless society.  She means people printing things in offices, but I'm being hit hard by a lack of paper products at the moment.  With a choice of washing my butt in the lake or using leaves when I go to the toilet (not even mentioning that the toilet is a hole I scraped in the ground), I miss paper every day.  My history notes didn't last long and I don't want to use this diary.  Add today's blocked and dripping nose and the failure of my history classes to tell me what pre-industrial women used for their periods, and I really really miss the papered society.
    So anyway, since I wasn't feeling well, I spent the morning wandering aimlessly about, scaring the pigsies and annoying the cats.  There's a tunnel leading below the amphitheatre, deep enough that it's too dark for me to be keen on more than standing at the entrance peering in.  The cats, at least, behave just like stray cats – they watch you, and leave if you get near.  Even though there's a lot of them, they don't seem at all interested in hurling themselves at my throat or doing other uncatty things.  I wouldn't dare try and pick one up though. 
    Festering Bag of Snot
    The day's gone very black and hot.  I rescued my craft project, which fortunately was nearly dry and didn't immediately fall to pieces when I picked it up.  It doesn't much look like felt – more like a bunch of wool pressed flat and only just clinging together – but it's still much better than a badly woven mat of leaves.  A soft, clean (faintly greenish) piece of luxury.
    My blocked nose has turned into a chesty cough.  By the time the storm started rolling in I felt absolutely rotten, but made myself go hunting in the nearest gardens, bringing up as much 'trusted' food as possible.  I won't have to worry about water, since I still haven't managed to block the stair to the roof.  I've set some bowls on the stair to catch water, and positioned my bed against the wall without a window.  It hasn't quite started raining yet, but it looks like it will be bad.  Like my cold. 
    Friday, December 7
    Rain