shadows of echoes of memories of songs

I had a brainwave yesterday about where my tiny spiral-bound notebook might be, and there it was, in the front pocket of my small rucksack, so tiny it didn't make the rucksack weigh anything so I thought it was empty & just threw it into the back of the wardrobe. And it was on a yellow page, after all, a fragment of poem so tiny it didn't make the notebook weigh anything.

( garbage collection, unedited )

Today's subject line is brought to you by the (sadly, apparently now defunct) British Society for Scholars Wondering If The Line ‘These fragments I have shored against my ruin’ should have been ‘These fragments have I shored against my ruin’ (neither: it's 'ruins', plural, of course, as any fule kno), though if you hold it up to your ear you may hear a hint of a shell that sang too.

juggzy asked: So, this is a question for all the girls on my F-list, and anyone else who has tuppence to add. What are your stories. What made you apply for Oxford or Cambridge, or what made you not apply? How did you feel if you did or didn't get into Oxford or Cambridge?

So I started writing about this, and all the background and the side issues and everything, and somehow just didn't stop. This is going to have to be told in instalments, and it's probably only of interest to me, but hey, that's the self-publishing revolution for you.

( How I got to Oxford: Part 1 )

Part 2 to follow...