Well, I haven't so much read a lot of Proust so far as much as been too paralysed with fear to read anything besides 'Pick me Up' magazine.  However, I did muster the strength to read 'La Prisonniere' last semester, which I actually quite enjoyed (when I wasn't trying to scratch my own eyes out with frustration at the tiny, tiny letters). And now I'm back at the beginning of the whole novel, so lots left to be done. I imagine that by the end of this semester my pupils will have actually changed shape into tiny little Proust-heads, but it will be done and I'll be able to spend the rest of my life constantly mentioning about how I read Proust and how it was BRILLIANT - sample sentence 'oh, I like your new shirt.  I can't be bothered to buy new clothes anymore because I've read Proust so need nothing more from life.  Have you read Proust? No? Ah well, not everyone was made to read it'.  This is the thought that will keep me going through the dark, dark days that follow.

I actually had an experience last night that seems well-suited to the beginning of this epic read-fest; I went to a Very Classy Italian Restaurant (three courses for £12.50!!) with my new flatmates.  When dessert was served, the vanilla ice cream with strawberry sauce that I'd chosen came with one of those sponge fingers in that I haven't seen in years.  You probably had them for school lunches when you were a kid too; long, biscuity-sponge things with an oval layer of flat sugar on the top.  I think they were literally called 'sponge fingers'.  Anyway, it wasn't since I was a very small child that I'd seen one, and it was one of those things that you hadn't even realised you'd forgotten but suddenly you wondered how you'd ever made it this long without them.  So I related the 'madeleine' story to my new flatmates while pointing out the sponge finger in my ice-cream.  I'm pretty sure they now think I'm a bit of a wanker for discussing Proust at dinner in a Very Classy Italian Restaurant after we'd just been discussing 'Don't tell the Bride' or something, but I thought it was interesting at least.  So, the perfect beginning to the novel - a childhood dessert bringing back my own memories of dropping mashed potato all over my school canteen floor (I never liked mash anyway) just like good ol' Marcel. Hopefully this doesn't mean I have to write my own massive, massive novel.

The picture of Jessica Fletcher that besst describes my Proust - mood today is.... Ready to get started, but wary and more than a tad suspicious