Tonight I decided that the best way to spend my time treading water, as it were, while I wait for her child’s illness to subside and thus stop barring my departmental head of post-graduate admissions from beginning to register me was to get out some library books and pretend to begin conducting research. I was being dragged there anyway to watch a mad Englishman hunt for texts relating to the profession of librarianship and so I decided I might as well come home with a few at least peripherally topical texts. The problem was that when we arrived, while his External Borrower card allowed non-staffed hours access, I possess only my expired ID from my MA because of the gap between the conclusion of that degree and the delayed start of this PhD. I was stuck at the turnstile without a friendly but incomprehensibly broad-speaking Yorkshireman porter to aid my entry and so, despite a web of CCTV coverage that would surely put MI6 to shame, I got on my knees and slid under the metal bars. I am pleased to relate, Dear Reader, that my trench coat suffered no ill effects but I now live in fear that I will be hunted like the criminal I am by those very same porters, if they ever get the England score they so desperately sought. As to what sport this referred I cannot say. I was lucky enough, however, to experience the special and, I can only assume, prophetic thrill of having the lights in the stacks turned off on me while I searched among them. I continued to poke around in the dark until an above-mentioned porter discovered me, shook his head, and pointed me toward the light switch. I left it dark. Expect more of the same in the coming months.