You're making things up again, Arnold

I'm extremely keen to see The Book of Mormon, from whence comes the title of this post. The reason for this title is that a student of mine asked for a story, and I was momentarily stumped. I enjoy telling stories enormously; give me a skeleton of ideas and I shall happily lay flesh on its bones - hardly a talent, as I'm sure anyone can do it.

However, to just make something up - to ask for creativity to suddenly rouse itself from slumber and behave in an orderly manner - is utterly terrifying. I applied for something at +Edelman, and have never been so thankful when they gave a solid and interesting creative writing task. I cannot feasibly imagine anything more terrifying than being under pressure and just being told to "Write something" or "Show your creativity."

All of this is by way of explaining that the high point of my day has been retelling a Norse legend about Loki and discussing the Theory of Forms which, to my eternal shame, I ascribed to Aristotle and not, as it ought to be, to Plato. I await with anxiety the displeasure of the philosophers who read this.

In the news today the shock that horsemeat has been found in burgers rumbles on, which I find very peculiar. A person who eats sheep and cows and pigs but is unsettled by horse is surely logically inconsistent. Either you eat meat, in which case you eat meat whether it be horse or pig, cow or cat. There is no reason not to. Alternatively you are a vegetarian, in which case you're probably pointing out the same thing as I am and, maybe, feeling a little smug and superior.

If you are a cannibal then I suspect you've no idea what all the fuss is about, but you might be interested to know that you are etymologically kin to Caliban, the savage in The Tempest, and that both spring from Columbus' rendering of the Carib's name for themselves.

Projects are coming in thick and fast now; a transcription, a video to be edited and more favours to beg of my brother as the move from my basement to an office with windows edges closer. For those teaching English abroad, are there any particularly good resources you can suggest for my new, 21st-century media center?

I'm on the road again

I have travelled back to the land of my fathers, where the place known as Hill Hill Hill can be found. Hill in Welsh is pen, and invaders who settled there called it Pen Hill, assuming pen to be the name of the hill. Before long, more invaders had arrived, and over time the hill in question had become Pendle. The same thing happened again, and Pendle Hill, or Hillhill Hill, can still be found in Lancashire.

I am back in these United Kingdoms until Monday and I'm really excited about the weekend ahead. Tonight my parents are making a lasagne, a treat without compare when you consider I have no access to oven facilities in my chic little studio apartment.

Before I left I finished all my work and actively sought out my supervisor to make sure she knew I was leaving - the last thing I need this weekend is a call about an urgent translation, especially as my phone is patchy at best here - and made some minor adjustments to the Student's Association's application for sponsorship to some local businesses.

We're off to a wedding tomorrow, and I've been requested to bring my camera - if I take any particularly good shots I'd love to share them here, but it means I shall have to avoid drinking myself under the table. Weddings strike me as an odd sort of affair, people being given away like presents and members of each party eying each other up in the hope of further strengthening ties between the two families - something that also apparently happens under the tables, so if I drink myself into a stupor at least I'll still have subjects.

I went into the local supermarket before I went home, as I've promised to bring my boss back some Marmite. At first she thought I said marmalade and turned her nose up; "Je n'aime pas des confitures," she said: I don't like jams. "Ah non", I said, "it's savoury, a British delicacy." So she agreed to try this spread, little suspecting that it is one of the foulest things we've ever invented. In any case, I went, I got in line, and after some light flirty banter with the cashier I made it home.

I like flirty banter, and I humbly suggest that more people do it in their day-to-day life.

I'm also going up to see an old school pal in Loughborough on Sunday, where I suspect I shall look entirely out of place amongst the über-fit and healthy students of the university. And then a swift journey back on Monday to London and then on to home and my oven-less studio apartment.

The scent of lasagne is calling me to the table, but before I leave, I ask:

Which character from the world of literature always smells like old, stinking tobacco?