I’m sitting in my room trying to work out what exactly I’m going to say to my philosophy seminar tutor when I go see him in about half an hour. I inescapably want to give off the right impression and I want him to like me. I’m considering, in some odd imagination, to take my iPod, play him and ask him if he likes this song. Some song, Made Me Who I Am, on some album […And Chuang Tzu Dreamed That He Was Me by Dustdevil and Crow] I bought in London at the weekend. Maybe, if he likes it, he will ask me where I found it and I can say I bought it in London, might even mention the exact retailer, Rough Trade, hopefully he won’t be so in-tune as to think cynically of buying stuff from Rough Trade. He seems really open-minded, I think that’s why I have this weird glowing respect for him, philosopher; i think his open-mind would like this music. This Nu-Folk slightly bizarre-sounding oddity that reminds me of music my Dad listened to, of old 4-track songs i skewed up in my bedroom come 13, a fragile falsetto, 60s-sounding acoustic lazing, stupid echo effects like exciting music machines discovered in pre-teens, auto-biographical lyrics, absorbing self; this is a song that will remind me of good things I can relate to, make me stay resolutely positive. Make me stay resolutely positive when [as I write an hour later] all my absurd aspirations for that inspirational interaction (particularly with philosophy seminar tutors) are reduced to a novel few moments of imperfection, incoherence and quite frankly, noise; unintelligible noise.