You know, perhaps I should apologise for dealing out details of my utter health breakdown. I lost a hell of a lot of weight as well, which, when you're me, but still, nobody really wants to know about vomiting and diarrheoa strictly but God damn it I did so there we go. Well, I mean, I suppose I could get rid of them now, but you know I spent a long time writing and editing and posting so I think they can stay. I was very ill after all.
The Wendesday, just a mere two days ago, I went to the Hospital for a Chest x-ray, after having been woken on Tuesday by creasing chest pain. Of course my immediate reaction was that I was about to die of a heart attack...unlucky though guys, you can't quite get rid of me. I went to see the Doctor and he happily (and I do mean very happily informed me) that it could be potential lung collapse (WHAT THE FUCK) with a huge grin on his face. Suffice to say whatever the cause was, it has seemingly resolved itself, and I haven't felt any pain since. Looks like if you need a lung reinflating then I'm your man.
Anyway, I'm getting much better. I'm able to eat, drink, shit and breathe without causing myself any undue pain or discomfort. Super duper! Keeping my public updated. I've been too ill to cast a shadow lately. I've been too ill to see my best friends, my keepers. I've been too ill to leave the house! I miss my friends in Norwich though. Very much so now I'm well enough to as well. I've made some real solid links and genuine friendships this year, and I am pleased and thankful for this.
This is not a roll call. There will be no valediction. I must hurry back though; a week to wait. Then I get to bring my battered old suitcase to that Hotel someplace that is Nelson Court.
As we all know, earlier today, the marriage of Prince Willam and Kate Middleton took place. There's been enough internet commentary already, there'll be a ridiculous amount of post-nuptual editorials...I don't care. I really do not care. I got up to watch the service, and found it a distinctly enjoyable. As wedding services went, it was altogether flawless. Fitting, for such a well-planned event, no? Also, the Bride walking down the aisle to I Was Glad? Inspired. Also, ridiculously epic. I thought it was going to be on the fabulous Harrison&Harrison dream machine they have there, but oh ho no, orchestral it is. Crisis inducing trumpets for the introduction? Oh yes. DEEP JOY.
Cwm Rhondda and Love Divine on the hymns is also deeply pleasing to me. Absolutely beautiful. Anthem...by John Rutter. John Milford Rutter. Actually...it wasn't that bad. Palatable. This does not, oh you naysayers, that I am changing my mind. Not at all. Just that Rutter's 'This is the Day that the Lord hath Made' is actually, after the last few years worth of dross, a servicable composition. Now, I can't remember who dealt the motet, on the classic theme Ubi Caritas, but actually that was rather nice as well. A very well accomplished composition. Hopefully some smart arse will correct me as to who it was.
Now, you must excuse me. I am on the road to recovering my health, bit by bit. Keep thinking of me. I'm watching Ashes to Ashes. We've just started the third series, and its really hotting up. All getting a bit tasty really. Odds on for tears at the end of the series. Right, good, smashing.
Friday 29 April 2011
Wednesday 27 April 2011
...For My Bones are Vexed
Continued.
Saturday was a good day. Emphasis on the day part. I made a one man assault on the food stalls of the Continental market after not eating (and not even being able to) all the previous day. Free range Chicken Breast burger (grilled), Jerk Pork, Currywurst...hugely expensive but worth it, in my book. Well. Was it? I also purchased a new Trilby for myself, having lost the other one to the top of Lorna's car that time she gave me a lift home. I ended up crowning my day's culinary adventure at the Mad Moose, with THE MOOSE BURGER, not actually made out of Moose. Handmade beef burger, cheese, a slice of bacon, a plate full of chips, a little red onion salad on the side. Lovely. Super duper. Cool cool cool. I find myself uncharacteristically full after finishing though, take it a little easy and sup some Staropramen, a fine Czech lager. What happens over the course of that evening, all starts from there. Mark it well.
I'm sat there with Julian of Norwich. Over the course of the night, we discuss various happenings, persons and deeds that have occured in the week previous. I recieve a small but not undeserved dressing down, but no hairs are split. Also there's a small rebuff about my emotional outburst on Friday. Anyway. We have a good meal (...), a good drink, and a good laugh. In a moment of complete brilliance, we decide to go to the Funfair that was set up for the bank holiday weekend in Chapelfield Gardens. We went on Monday while Toon was here, so why not go again? Exactly. The whole place was a rip off, but aren't they always? If you're offended/surprised/taken aback/&c just don't even think about it.
We take on a ridiculous spinning ride first, that is all the spinning, all the time. No problem. Not for £2 a time anyway. Next up? DODGEMS. Oh yes. Some little shite keeps driving into everyone ALL THE TIME and the first time he crashes me, he hits me at the perfect angle to smash my knee into the steering wheel. Suffice to say, I find that rather painful. Did I say rather? It came so keen I had to swap legs to use the pedal with! The cars were extremely short though. Good though! At £2.50 a car I think one round, especially with that kamikaze ankle biter, was more than enough. Not quite as fast as the Old Hunstanton cars either.
We wander off through the fair and scout out two possibles. One which spins both backwards and forwards on a horizontal plane, and another that spins the individual on a vertical plane, in a cage, on some sort of ferris wheel arrangement. Folly. We went on the other one, which was absolutely brutal. The main problem was the hydraulic arms that threw the carriages out didn't follow the track exactly, and extended slightly behind the curve. Folly. To say I, or indeed my companion no longer felt at our best after that would be, er, a lie. Ha ha! We crawled back to the Mullberry unit for a nightcap. And by nightcap, I mean glasses of Coca Cola. Going back to J of N's to pick up my Tan Messenger, I start the journey home, at a resoundingly early half past ten. I run into two of my Choral Scholar fellows on the road (one of them lives in the same street, go figure), chinwag complete and the Captain continues on. Feeling distinctly dicky. I mean, terrible.
On the way I try to get the Waltzer on the line, but to no avail. No problem. Keep walking. Urgh. Home is pretty close in the end though, and urgh. Now really, we come to the part of this story where my digestion really turns into a warzone, my intestines go into open revolt, and my toilet gets sat on for a long time, and very often. I am concious that by sparing details I will often be not believed when I claim that things are as drastic as they can be, but allow me to assure you beyond all shadow of doubt: I WAS DREADFULLY ILL. The Germans call Diarrhoea 'Durchfall' for a reason; it translates directly as 'Through fall'. People call up German for being a harsh and unromantic language, obsessed with efficiency. Except for its word order, obviously. I love that little gem in the lexicon, and always use it over the English expression, usually because I can't remember how to spell the English word! Folly.
And, at twenty five to two in the morning, I finally managed to stop being sick. Not that I had been violently ill since I got back, but I don't remember when I started, because I was slightly more bothered about being violently ill in the toilet, rather than in my bed. Turns out it was a good and well carried out decision, as I was sick so hard I had to check the floor for stray vomit. Even remembering it is making me feel sick again. I'd best not be, or my mother will go insane, and I will be straight round A&E. I was only sick for one round in the night. I brought up the last thing I had eaten (and obviously drank)...which just turned out to be a metric fuckton of...*drum roll* BEEF MINCE! BOOM. Yes, that's right. The Moose Burger gracing our screens again. Delightful. The chips seem to have disappeared, but the burger? It had been knocking about at the top of the pile all night, and I don't suppose that the high-velocity rides did my stomach any favours. Whatever the cause, I have to call up God on the big white telephone. Like I said, one round only. At night. Fitful sleep occurs, and I feel like shite. I don't get up until it's time though, and like a good little idiot, don't tell my mother about it when she gives me a courtesy call to make sure I'm up and getting ready. I shower, shave hastily, and put on my best suit. Instead, the first person I tel about my chronic vomiting and digestive problems is my good friend and all-round mensch, Djinh. I discussed that I thought I'd be able to shake it off, if I just get on with it, I'll be fine. Mistake.
I lasted an hour into the rehearsal. A mere sixty minutes before I feel a projectile coming on. Thankfully La Directa gets wind, and gifts me a sit outside with a glass of water. This "glass of water", however, turns out to be a lukewarm plastic cup's worth. Blegh. Shortly after, MD lets me back in, and I cheerfully report that not only do I not feel any better, but that I was going to go and be sick again. And yea and verily, I was. Boom. There wasn't much. Bile, and warm water. Well, slightly warmer than it was served to me, anyway. I had to go home. I needed to. After surviving the taxi journey home, I went straight back to bed, for a good five hours, missing three texts and only waking up to a phone call...from Jody! Hah! No, I would not be joining you for evensong. That day was characterised by the most violent illness I have suffered and survived since...(notwithstanding last year's food poisoning)...I can't even remember. I had the flu, in one form or another in my first and second years, and now in my second and third years I've had terrible through falling through and vomiting episodes. I slept, off and on, for the rest of the day, and only managed to sit up properly by about 8pm. However, that didn't stop me from being very ill. Very sick. Really. Terrible.
Sunday night? Don't even go there. Every three to four hours I'd get up and take up residence in my en suite, and hold on for dear life, and then consequently retire as best I could again. Waking, doused in cold sweat? To wake to sit through your intestines having an argument? Fuck. My. Life.
Unholy week is over. My insides? Tender. What about that chest x-ray? Next time. There's always next time.
Saturday was a good day. Emphasis on the day part. I made a one man assault on the food stalls of the Continental market after not eating (and not even being able to) all the previous day. Free range Chicken Breast burger (grilled), Jerk Pork, Currywurst...hugely expensive but worth it, in my book. Well. Was it? I also purchased a new Trilby for myself, having lost the other one to the top of Lorna's car that time she gave me a lift home. I ended up crowning my day's culinary adventure at the Mad Moose, with THE MOOSE BURGER, not actually made out of Moose. Handmade beef burger, cheese, a slice of bacon, a plate full of chips, a little red onion salad on the side. Lovely. Super duper. Cool cool cool. I find myself uncharacteristically full after finishing though, take it a little easy and sup some Staropramen, a fine Czech lager. What happens over the course of that evening, all starts from there. Mark it well.
I'm sat there with Julian of Norwich. Over the course of the night, we discuss various happenings, persons and deeds that have occured in the week previous. I recieve a small but not undeserved dressing down, but no hairs are split. Also there's a small rebuff about my emotional outburst on Friday. Anyway. We have a good meal (...), a good drink, and a good laugh. In a moment of complete brilliance, we decide to go to the Funfair that was set up for the bank holiday weekend in Chapelfield Gardens. We went on Monday while Toon was here, so why not go again? Exactly. The whole place was a rip off, but aren't they always? If you're offended/surprised/taken aback/&c just don't even think about it.
We take on a ridiculous spinning ride first, that is all the spinning, all the time. No problem. Not for £2 a time anyway. Next up? DODGEMS. Oh yes. Some little shite keeps driving into everyone ALL THE TIME and the first time he crashes me, he hits me at the perfect angle to smash my knee into the steering wheel. Suffice to say, I find that rather painful. Did I say rather? It came so keen I had to swap legs to use the pedal with! The cars were extremely short though. Good though! At £2.50 a car I think one round, especially with that kamikaze ankle biter, was more than enough. Not quite as fast as the Old Hunstanton cars either.
We wander off through the fair and scout out two possibles. One which spins both backwards and forwards on a horizontal plane, and another that spins the individual on a vertical plane, in a cage, on some sort of ferris wheel arrangement. Folly. We went on the other one, which was absolutely brutal. The main problem was the hydraulic arms that threw the carriages out didn't follow the track exactly, and extended slightly behind the curve. Folly. To say I, or indeed my companion no longer felt at our best after that would be, er, a lie. Ha ha! We crawled back to the Mullberry unit for a nightcap. And by nightcap, I mean glasses of Coca Cola. Going back to J of N's to pick up my Tan Messenger, I start the journey home, at a resoundingly early half past ten. I run into two of my Choral Scholar fellows on the road (one of them lives in the same street, go figure), chinwag complete and the Captain continues on. Feeling distinctly dicky. I mean, terrible.
On the way I try to get the Waltzer on the line, but to no avail. No problem. Keep walking. Urgh. Home is pretty close in the end though, and urgh. Now really, we come to the part of this story where my digestion really turns into a warzone, my intestines go into open revolt, and my toilet gets sat on for a long time, and very often. I am concious that by sparing details I will often be not believed when I claim that things are as drastic as they can be, but allow me to assure you beyond all shadow of doubt: I WAS DREADFULLY ILL. The Germans call Diarrhoea 'Durchfall' for a reason; it translates directly as 'Through fall'. People call up German for being a harsh and unromantic language, obsessed with efficiency. Except for its word order, obviously. I love that little gem in the lexicon, and always use it over the English expression, usually because I can't remember how to spell the English word! Folly.
And, at twenty five to two in the morning, I finally managed to stop being sick. Not that I had been violently ill since I got back, but I don't remember when I started, because I was slightly more bothered about being violently ill in the toilet, rather than in my bed. Turns out it was a good and well carried out decision, as I was sick so hard I had to check the floor for stray vomit. Even remembering it is making me feel sick again. I'd best not be, or my mother will go insane, and I will be straight round A&E. I was only sick for one round in the night. I brought up the last thing I had eaten (and obviously drank)...which just turned out to be a metric fuckton of...*drum roll* BEEF MINCE! BOOM. Yes, that's right. The Moose Burger gracing our screens again. Delightful. The chips seem to have disappeared, but the burger? It had been knocking about at the top of the pile all night, and I don't suppose that the high-velocity rides did my stomach any favours. Whatever the cause, I have to call up God on the big white telephone. Like I said, one round only. At night. Fitful sleep occurs, and I feel like shite. I don't get up until it's time though, and like a good little idiot, don't tell my mother about it when she gives me a courtesy call to make sure I'm up and getting ready. I shower, shave hastily, and put on my best suit. Instead, the first person I tel about my chronic vomiting and digestive problems is my good friend and all-round mensch, Djinh. I discussed that I thought I'd be able to shake it off, if I just get on with it, I'll be fine. Mistake.
I lasted an hour into the rehearsal. A mere sixty minutes before I feel a projectile coming on. Thankfully La Directa gets wind, and gifts me a sit outside with a glass of water. This "glass of water", however, turns out to be a lukewarm plastic cup's worth. Blegh. Shortly after, MD lets me back in, and I cheerfully report that not only do I not feel any better, but that I was going to go and be sick again. And yea and verily, I was. Boom. There wasn't much. Bile, and warm water. Well, slightly warmer than it was served to me, anyway. I had to go home. I needed to. After surviving the taxi journey home, I went straight back to bed, for a good five hours, missing three texts and only waking up to a phone call...from Jody! Hah! No, I would not be joining you for evensong. That day was characterised by the most violent illness I have suffered and survived since...(notwithstanding last year's food poisoning)...I can't even remember. I had the flu, in one form or another in my first and second years, and now in my second and third years I've had terrible through falling through and vomiting episodes. I slept, off and on, for the rest of the day, and only managed to sit up properly by about 8pm. However, that didn't stop me from being very ill. Very sick. Really. Terrible.
Sunday night? Don't even go there. Every three to four hours I'd get up and take up residence in my en suite, and hold on for dear life, and then consequently retire as best I could again. Waking, doused in cold sweat? To wake to sit through your intestines having an argument? Fuck. My. Life.
Unholy week is over. My insides? Tender. What about that chest x-ray? Next time. There's always next time.
Tuesday 26 April 2011
O Lord Heal Me...
Ok, so this should be the triumphal, post-Easter shakedown, the end of Unholy Week. Pictures to follow. However. It is not. It is the inevitable "Oh God I HAVE BEEN SO ILL". Top stuff.
Funny, well, not really. See, the thing here is I'm pitching it as food poisoning based on a dicky packet of cous-cous. Mmmm, a whole 61 pence worth of Tesco cous-cous. Prepared, as per the packet's instructions, in a bowl with boiling water. Lovely. Super duper. It's late at night, I needed to eat after a long Maundy Thursday, but it was too late to make a big meal. I should have made a bowl of rice instead. Anyway. For some reason, unbeknownst to all mortal men, my usually cast-iron digestion takes up some umbrage against this token offering. I probably offended it, with all my talk of curry before and then changing my mind. Obviously my fault for not following through. Ho ho. I had a really bad night that night. I didn't sleep til at least gone 4am, my legs felt weak, my bones were pained, and my back, particularly the base of my spine was in agony. Tcham.
Arising on Good Friday, I found myself wanting of a little breakfast, and in dire need of a shower. I shaved the night before. Tea was high on the agenda as it always is (the most benign addiction ever?), so I saw to all of these while brewing the blessed cup. Until Monday evening, that was the last cup I had. Deep folly. Another spurious factor to the failure of my health. Anyway.
Good Friday's "All Age Service" rolls on. God knows I absolutely deplore the style and substance (or perhaps the lack thereof) of the breed of 'hymns' contained therein. Indeed, the lack of particularly the spitting, if not the nails and the cross from the average all age shindig leave me feeling a little lacking. I think you will find that this is a perfectly fine opinion to have, and is shared by many others and if you don't agree, then frankly I don't care. I'm not here to pander to your opinion, especially not on this blog. As much as I snort and snoot about, I respect your opinion if you take the opposite view. I like to think Voltaire's statement should always stand. Anyway. There was more than one straw that broke the camel's back that day. The first was that the choiristers, the young children of the choir were offered (and I quote) "percussion instruments" for use in the final 'hymn'. What? Christ Almighty. What really happened? The honest truth? They were forgotten. The crate revealed, then swiftly left well alone. Somehow it just didn't fit in with the coreography of the end of the service. You know what? Actual act of God. Proof of the Lord working right there.
Rehearsal before was the greater life shortener. I am going through a rough patch at Choir, where Glorious Musical Directorship Leader believes most wholeheartedly that I am not watching. That in a rash spate of amateurism (Oh ho! Don't start yourself boy) and possible early-onset megalomania, I deliberately make sure my voice rings out after everyone elses. Rage ensues. To say that my blood boils is nothing short of a grave understatement. Seriously. I will stand for an entire Friday night's rehearsal so 1) I can keep my air column straight and keep working on my support and posture and 2) I expend as little effort as possible watching. Haha! That's right. I'm so apathetic, I can't be arsed to sit down in case I get into trouble for not watching, as other people have, and often do. Whatever. Brrr! ANGER.
Breaking free from the bounds of the mighty Spamcroft, I have some anger to burn. There's a continental market in town, and after a few conversations with a scholar and her housemate, definitely fetch some notes from the bank and hit the Paella stand. For a fiver, I got a little shortchanged as far as the meat content went, having but one small piece of chicken and 4 slices of Chorizo Fort for my trouble. Digging in all the same, just as enjoyable, I begin to feel weak. Weak at the knees. Literally. I make a dash for a bench, betwixt the aforementioned scholar and her housemate. I end up ditching the paella without even clearing half of it. What? I crawl up to the nearby Tesco Metro, and purchase a bottle of Tikka Masala, and a bottle of Fentiman's Victorian Lemonade. I figure, "I feel ill, so I might as well splash out". I bought the curry in anticipation of the planned meal later that day, which I swiftly postponed. A wise decision.
After landing at the good ship Nelson Court, I retired. Immediately. No shit. I must have slept for about five hours without being disturbed. Like a good little idiot, I decided to keep silent about this. I woke up groggy, sweaty, dehydrated, and feeling decidedly off-colour. The terrible thing about my room is that it seems to be far too hot. My evidence? That if you sit a pint of water with a number of ice cubes inside, after a while you will have no ice cubes and slightly more water, and if you wait longer, the water gets warm. Mmmmm.
The night was ill-spent, trying to sleep and fending off terrible digestive disturbances. Absolutely terrible. I ended up sleeping for about nine or ten hours though and feeling...a little better after heaving myself out of the pit. No Tea though. Oh dear. Deep Folly. This tale of woe is a two parter, I'll be surprised if you have the patience to read it all, so good luck to you all.
Funny, well, not really. See, the thing here is I'm pitching it as food poisoning based on a dicky packet of cous-cous. Mmmm, a whole 61 pence worth of Tesco cous-cous. Prepared, as per the packet's instructions, in a bowl with boiling water. Lovely. Super duper. It's late at night, I needed to eat after a long Maundy Thursday, but it was too late to make a big meal. I should have made a bowl of rice instead. Anyway. For some reason, unbeknownst to all mortal men, my usually cast-iron digestion takes up some umbrage against this token offering. I probably offended it, with all my talk of curry before and then changing my mind. Obviously my fault for not following through. Ho ho. I had a really bad night that night. I didn't sleep til at least gone 4am, my legs felt weak, my bones were pained, and my back, particularly the base of my spine was in agony. Tcham.
Arising on Good Friday, I found myself wanting of a little breakfast, and in dire need of a shower. I shaved the night before. Tea was high on the agenda as it always is (the most benign addiction ever?), so I saw to all of these while brewing the blessed cup. Until Monday evening, that was the last cup I had. Deep folly. Another spurious factor to the failure of my health. Anyway.
Good Friday's "All Age Service" rolls on. God knows I absolutely deplore the style and substance (or perhaps the lack thereof) of the breed of 'hymns' contained therein. Indeed, the lack of particularly the spitting, if not the nails and the cross from the average all age shindig leave me feeling a little lacking. I think you will find that this is a perfectly fine opinion to have, and is shared by many others and if you don't agree, then frankly I don't care. I'm not here to pander to your opinion, especially not on this blog. As much as I snort and snoot about, I respect your opinion if you take the opposite view. I like to think Voltaire's statement should always stand. Anyway. There was more than one straw that broke the camel's back that day. The first was that the choiristers, the young children of the choir were offered (and I quote) "percussion instruments" for use in the final 'hymn'. What? Christ Almighty. What really happened? The honest truth? They were forgotten. The crate revealed, then swiftly left well alone. Somehow it just didn't fit in with the coreography of the end of the service. You know what? Actual act of God. Proof of the Lord working right there.
Rehearsal before was the greater life shortener. I am going through a rough patch at Choir, where Glorious Musical Directorship Leader believes most wholeheartedly that I am not watching. That in a rash spate of amateurism (Oh ho! Don't start yourself boy) and possible early-onset megalomania, I deliberately make sure my voice rings out after everyone elses. Rage ensues. To say that my blood boils is nothing short of a grave understatement. Seriously. I will stand for an entire Friday night's rehearsal so 1) I can keep my air column straight and keep working on my support and posture and 2) I expend as little effort as possible watching. Haha! That's right. I'm so apathetic, I can't be arsed to sit down in case I get into trouble for not watching, as other people have, and often do. Whatever. Brrr! ANGER.
Breaking free from the bounds of the mighty Spamcroft, I have some anger to burn. There's a continental market in town, and after a few conversations with a scholar and her housemate, definitely fetch some notes from the bank and hit the Paella stand. For a fiver, I got a little shortchanged as far as the meat content went, having but one small piece of chicken and 4 slices of Chorizo Fort for my trouble. Digging in all the same, just as enjoyable, I begin to feel weak. Weak at the knees. Literally. I make a dash for a bench, betwixt the aforementioned scholar and her housemate. I end up ditching the paella without even clearing half of it. What? I crawl up to the nearby Tesco Metro, and purchase a bottle of Tikka Masala, and a bottle of Fentiman's Victorian Lemonade. I figure, "I feel ill, so I might as well splash out". I bought the curry in anticipation of the planned meal later that day, which I swiftly postponed. A wise decision.
After landing at the good ship Nelson Court, I retired. Immediately. No shit. I must have slept for about five hours without being disturbed. Like a good little idiot, I decided to keep silent about this. I woke up groggy, sweaty, dehydrated, and feeling decidedly off-colour. The terrible thing about my room is that it seems to be far too hot. My evidence? That if you sit a pint of water with a number of ice cubes inside, after a while you will have no ice cubes and slightly more water, and if you wait longer, the water gets warm. Mmmmm.
The night was ill-spent, trying to sleep and fending off terrible digestive disturbances. Absolutely terrible. I ended up sleeping for about nine or ten hours though and feeling...a little better after heaving myself out of the pit. No Tea though. Oh dear. Deep Folly. This tale of woe is a two parter, I'll be surprised if you have the patience to read it all, so good luck to you all.
Thursday 21 April 2011
Batteries not Included
So, as the more astute of you know, I've been back in Norwich for a while. At 3pm on the 22nd of April, it'll be a whole week. Yes, that's right fact fans, an entire week. The weather has been nothing short of excellent, and I have spent a lot of money on...well, the usual, really! Food, food, some more food, lots of booze, a laundry trip, books...last but not least a Transformer as well (about bloody time), the Cybertronian Optimus Prime, made famous by War For Cybertron, a videogame I still aim to own and play.
This last week, and it's logical extension to Sunday night, has all been in aid of my Choral Scholarship at the Church of the Parish of St. Peter Mancroft. I refer to this establishment through a number of terms, usually focussing on the fact that the offical contraction is "SPM", just one vowel short of the name of a canned meat product. Oh yes. It's Holy Week as you know, which is of course christened "Unholy Week", to commemorate the fact that a) I needs must be here and b) it has been an official part of #Banter2011. I have been immensely amused by the visit of one Toon; the mini-Marian tour we took, the Seaside Visit, the Norwich Crawl and the Towering Inferno that all happened while he was here. Good show!
And of course, at the beginning of the Easter Holidays, I went home for four days. I actually broke line and went home because you know what? Because I bloody well wanted to. Hah! No, seriously. The long and winding road that lead to the eventual completion and hand in of my dissertation almost (but not quite) finished me off. I had to go home or I would have buckled under the strain. The bigger man knows when he's beat, and I sure am in retreat at the moment. I wrote a total of 12021 words for my dissertation, 1857 words for my project, and then notised the bullshit numerology game I managed to play, as 12021 is what you get when you multiply four thousand and seven by three, and if you add the separate digits of my project total together you get 21, which also happens to be my age. BONG. I am crazy.
Without those who believed in me and backed me up every step, I wouldn't have been able to do it. But also, if not for those who do not believe, care or indeed, actively look for me to have failed, I wouldn't have been able to do it either. One of the most dangerous things you can say to me is "I bet you won't..." or associated similes. I have some sort of psychological need to prove people wrong. I almost lost that last year and gave up on everything. And I mean, everything. How I feel about it, and the way I tell it is unsavoury to say the least. I am managing to recharge, however, and claw little bits of myself back.
Now, of course, the weather is on the up again. One of the funniest things about going back home was the climate difference: double figure temperatures and shorts in Norwich somehow turned into chilly evenings and closing the windows at night to keep the warmth in. Also, it rained. Not exactly copiously, but enough. Funny really, as I do love the rain. It's getting a little dry round Norfolk at the moment, so a small shower would be most welcome. Especially with the after-rain smell. Oh yes. I know this is asking for trouble, but touch wood it'll be fine! Right?
Right. Rain is only a problem if you don't want to get wet.
I'd love to segue into some sort of relationship commentary, but I think I could only do so by being vulgar. Looks like I just marked my own blog with blue pencil. I really want to buy flowers again. Like, a lot. Seriously! I don't know if I will before I go back. I mean, maybe I ought to, but then disappearing for a week and a half isn't exactly the best idea, um, right? And anyway, if I leave it til after I get back, maybe I'll have managed to talk myself out of it. Who knows? Maybe I'll even have decided. I mean, there are a couple of people I have some major crushes on, and things will stay that way if I use my time-honoured tactic of doing naff all. Maybe it's still not time though. This is positively the most laid back I've been about things For the Longest Time. Maybe I shall have the patience to wait for my very own Uptown Girl. Dinner? A film? Whatever. There's time. Flowers though. Oh yes.
So what's left? Well, the sun's finally come out, and the air temperature is finally approaching sociable. I've sat outside and soaked up the rays, sometimes with and several times without alcohol, to great effect. I've said for a long time that I'm solar powered. IF ONLY WE COULD HARNESS THIS ENERGY. I've managed to catch the sun on my face and arms, but my legs remain as white as ever. Ho ho! I'm wearing my 'long' shorts at the moment. While they are shorts, they keep the majority of my arctic-hued legs away from public gaze. Sandals are in full operation, and I managed to get away with wearing them at Eucharist earlier. Hey! I turn out in a suit for every service, so I think I deserve a little consession every now and again. When the summer comes properly though, I will turn out in my whites, just like last year. I much prefer white to beige linen, even though a jacket will actually cost me the Earth. Literally.
And then, after all is sung and done, I'm going home again for a week and a half, to get the real R&R sorted. I'm really tired, and I don't mean physically. Metaphysically. Emotionally. Technically. Musically. I am drained. I need to take time off, and step out of the game. Just for a little while. If I really remove myself from this dread arena, I will lose the pulse entirely. Hopefully I'll be able to reboot my brain while I'm at home. The week's almost over, and it's almost time to go home, and have an actual rest. Oh yes. Deep joy.
This last week, and it's logical extension to Sunday night, has all been in aid of my Choral Scholarship at the Church of the Parish of St. Peter Mancroft. I refer to this establishment through a number of terms, usually focussing on the fact that the offical contraction is "SPM", just one vowel short of the name of a canned meat product. Oh yes. It's Holy Week as you know, which is of course christened "Unholy Week", to commemorate the fact that a) I needs must be here and b) it has been an official part of #Banter2011. I have been immensely amused by the visit of one Toon; the mini-Marian tour we took, the Seaside Visit, the Norwich Crawl and the Towering Inferno that all happened while he was here. Good show!
And of course, at the beginning of the Easter Holidays, I went home for four days. I actually broke line and went home because you know what? Because I bloody well wanted to. Hah! No, seriously. The long and winding road that lead to the eventual completion and hand in of my dissertation almost (but not quite) finished me off. I had to go home or I would have buckled under the strain. The bigger man knows when he's beat, and I sure am in retreat at the moment. I wrote a total of 12021 words for my dissertation, 1857 words for my project, and then notised the bullshit numerology game I managed to play, as 12021 is what you get when you multiply four thousand and seven by three, and if you add the separate digits of my project total together you get 21, which also happens to be my age. BONG. I am crazy.
Without those who believed in me and backed me up every step, I wouldn't have been able to do it. But also, if not for those who do not believe, care or indeed, actively look for me to have failed, I wouldn't have been able to do it either. One of the most dangerous things you can say to me is "I bet you won't..." or associated similes. I have some sort of psychological need to prove people wrong. I almost lost that last year and gave up on everything. And I mean, everything. How I feel about it, and the way I tell it is unsavoury to say the least. I am managing to recharge, however, and claw little bits of myself back.
Now, of course, the weather is on the up again. One of the funniest things about going back home was the climate difference: double figure temperatures and shorts in Norwich somehow turned into chilly evenings and closing the windows at night to keep the warmth in. Also, it rained. Not exactly copiously, but enough. Funny really, as I do love the rain. It's getting a little dry round Norfolk at the moment, so a small shower would be most welcome. Especially with the after-rain smell. Oh yes. I know this is asking for trouble, but touch wood it'll be fine! Right?
Right. Rain is only a problem if you don't want to get wet.
I'd love to segue into some sort of relationship commentary, but I think I could only do so by being vulgar. Looks like I just marked my own blog with blue pencil. I really want to buy flowers again. Like, a lot. Seriously! I don't know if I will before I go back. I mean, maybe I ought to, but then disappearing for a week and a half isn't exactly the best idea, um, right? And anyway, if I leave it til after I get back, maybe I'll have managed to talk myself out of it. Who knows? Maybe I'll even have decided. I mean, there are a couple of people I have some major crushes on, and things will stay that way if I use my time-honoured tactic of doing naff all. Maybe it's still not time though. This is positively the most laid back I've been about things For the Longest Time. Maybe I shall have the patience to wait for my very own Uptown Girl. Dinner? A film? Whatever. There's time. Flowers though. Oh yes.
So what's left? Well, the sun's finally come out, and the air temperature is finally approaching sociable. I've sat outside and soaked up the rays, sometimes with and several times without alcohol, to great effect. I've said for a long time that I'm solar powered. IF ONLY WE COULD HARNESS THIS ENERGY. I've managed to catch the sun on my face and arms, but my legs remain as white as ever. Ho ho! I'm wearing my 'long' shorts at the moment. While they are shorts, they keep the majority of my arctic-hued legs away from public gaze. Sandals are in full operation, and I managed to get away with wearing them at Eucharist earlier. Hey! I turn out in a suit for every service, so I think I deserve a little consession every now and again. When the summer comes properly though, I will turn out in my whites, just like last year. I much prefer white to beige linen, even though a jacket will actually cost me the Earth. Literally.
And then, after all is sung and done, I'm going home again for a week and a half, to get the real R&R sorted. I'm really tired, and I don't mean physically. Metaphysically. Emotionally. Technically. Musically. I am drained. I need to take time off, and step out of the game. Just for a little while. If I really remove myself from this dread arena, I will lose the pulse entirely. Hopefully I'll be able to reboot my brain while I'm at home. The week's almost over, and it's almost time to go home, and have an actual rest. Oh yes. Deep joy.
Monday 18 April 2011
Vignette XVII
Funny. Well, actually, only to other people. Watching the sad little man waste his time all over again.
Hilarious. That the cracks are only papered over. Even when I sought to sacrifice the beating to the furnace and sort myself out.
Side Splitting. That after admitting that not only I had fallen but also admitted defeat (rare indeed) that I seem to have not learnt one little bit. I am not so much the patron saint of lost causes, more the human embodiment.
Rib Tickling. That after all the set backs I still want to push to a front line where there is no success. That even after all this time I still really feel the same way.
But not surprising.
Hilarious. That the cracks are only papered over. Even when I sought to sacrifice the beating to the furnace and sort myself out.
Side Splitting. That after admitting that not only I had fallen but also admitted defeat (rare indeed) that I seem to have not learnt one little bit. I am not so much the patron saint of lost causes, more the human embodiment.
Rib Tickling. That after all the set backs I still want to push to a front line where there is no success. That even after all this time I still really feel the same way.
But not surprising.
Ha ha ha.
Disaster is my closest companion, my bosom buddy. Misfortune is not so much a cousin as a brother to me now. But my regrets? I have not been able to leave all of them behind. Not yet. There's always...Tomorrow.
Monday 11 April 2011
End of the Line - Begin Again
Anyone who has been reading for any length of time, or indeed has trawled the archives will realise that today is the One Year Anniversary of this new Blog! WOW. Super Duper. Let's review.
You know who I am. I shed my dread trappings when I finally handed my dissertation in and turned out in my whites to complete the formal process. It really is finished. I've come this far, and I've managed to almost complete this degree course. I will pull through. I will show you that I can do it. Up until this point, I was writing in Georgia, but decided to return to my old faithful standard of Times New Roman. This is a many layered thing. I thought I could change for the next year, but really it was a little close to the bone.
Close to the bone? Ha ha, more on that story later. Turns out this has been quite popular. Or at least, more popular than I thought anyway. The account of my return to halls is the runaway winner for the most readers, followed by my first return to Derby at the end of the second year, with the hate of the Junior Handshakers and my little wish for romance tying third. So far so good. What about the actual time I've spent writing it?
Good to bad to indifferent to absolutely fucking awful. Last year, as we know, was a flat-out disaster. Bankruptcy, suicidal depression and well, you know the drill. Bury Street and Spamming form the head of terrible year, notwithstanding the fact that I barely pass with a 2/2 mark. Oy gevalt. What about this year though?
Much better, on the whole, mainly due to some very important people.
First is the Sempai, my Upperclassman. Without his lifts to choir, constant cynicism, and basically the entirety of this term as far as Dissertation support is concerned, I'd be simply done for. His constant concern is not to be sniffed at in the slightest, and the fact that he was there almost every step of the way (except for those where my insomnia really pulled through), especially as he was there at the printing and proofing stage (haha! Proofing!) at 4am on thursday morning, 12 hours before hand in means the world. That guy is a hero, and is well on his way to sainthood. Having an actual human being to talk to on the way to the Church of St. Peter Mancroft, the one and only place to get Spammed, is nothing short of a Godsend. A Junior Handshaker he may well be, but he knows the score, and that's what's important. Everything I could say that he has done in his favour can only be counted as the little things. And it's those that count. Not forgetting being pressganged into my quartet. Sacrifice is everything in my life, and he gave his time up (although not always without wasting a little bit of ours) when he was so much busier, and coped. He, like I, has a very broken understanding of the term "snowed under".
Let's take a break. What about my heart? The muscle still beats, no problem. The rate's as ludicrously high as ever, but whatever. It's meant to be like that.
Cracked and shattered. The furnace on which I rely to power through is burning away overtime to cope with the strain. I'm piecing it all back up together after I reckon three major breaks, one of which I had to for my own good, and the other two by women I still can't look in the eye without really wishing that things could have been different. However. They are the way they are. I am learning to deal with it. I will get up to speed, thank you.
As for the waltzer? Hm. That was a little silly of my to write like that, but you should have seen what I was preparing before that. I fell good and hard, although I'm out of the crater now, I still feel a twinge. There was this girl, there was that girl, there was the other girl. You know the drill. Bellyache from a freak who doesn't know what to do. I'll be ok, I'll work it out. Now isn't my time, obviously. SO DEAL WITH IT. Oy.
And what about if I've broken any hearts? Have I? How could I? I'm like a troll. A really cynical troll. Maybe its happened more than I know. If others don't know that I fancy them, then I equally don't know others have a liking for me. It's harsh, but I'm sorry, you know. It's bad enough for me in here. I suppose its good to remember my constant failing, every single day. Suffering builds Endurance, and Endurance builds Character. It's good for be, because the Scripture says so.
Onwards we go.
And what about my flat? Cruising at the speed of procrastination into their degrees, mine is over before theirs has hardly begun. Emma, Emily, Simon, Beth, Alex, Ed, Chris, Usman, Charlie, Lois and Angela; as little as a I see some of them, I will never forget the acceptance and inclusion that they afford to me, because they're brilliant people. Special mention go to my bros (and hos) Joanna and Adam, withtout whom I should surely have quit my path and cried mercilessly over destroying not one but two Nintendo DSs. Ha ha! Hutchings of course has my back as much as I have his. Booze, Chinese Takeaway and Pown.it are usually the order of the day. With the odd Pokemon session thrown in too. But to be honest this is almost as funny as that time that some Schmuck super-heated a plate and left it on the stairs...TOO SOON?
Everyone has contributed to my final year being a year worth doing, study worth committing to, and a dissertation worth completing. My gratitude will never end.
I've mentioned Joanna here before. Points go to whomsoever finds her.
Worth at least a cursory glance is my Pale Comrade, whose blood pressure rivals even mine. There's time yet for his real credit, which you'll duly see.
The point is, I've had a God awful year. I've not given up yet though, and nor do I intend to. Only one man is crazy enough to fight for as many lost causes as I am am, and that just happens to be me. I've drank more booze and ate more curry than I ever have in my whole life, and still somehow have a liver and a digestive system left. I blame J of N wholeheartedly for this brilliant fact. I've managed to pull it back, and keep on a mostly even keel! I even managed to pick up a sycophant. Which doesn't please me greatly.
My Scholarships returned, and I've made great strides, if you'll pardon the pun, with my pedal technique. Hymn playing's still as shit as ever, but I must pick up again. I basically haven't played for 6 weeks almost, so the skill I have managed to retain is very pleasing.
This is my year's mind. I will continue to keep this little corner of chaos in order, most unlike the korner of khaos I live in at the moment, which is simply dreadful. When I go home later today, I'll be wearing my whites and the DGS hoodie, because hell, what other hoodie is appropriate to return to Derby in? The whites of course, reflect my shining trappings.
For now? Tchuss. At the end of the world, I will take my rest. I certainly intend to keep writing. The preponderance of vignettes that are down in the mouth is just how it goes. Keep watching, and I'm sure they'll get better. Eventually.
You know who I am. I shed my dread trappings when I finally handed my dissertation in and turned out in my whites to complete the formal process. It really is finished. I've come this far, and I've managed to almost complete this degree course. I will pull through. I will show you that I can do it. Up until this point, I was writing in Georgia, but decided to return to my old faithful standard of Times New Roman. This is a many layered thing. I thought I could change for the next year, but really it was a little close to the bone.
Close to the bone? Ha ha, more on that story later. Turns out this has been quite popular. Or at least, more popular than I thought anyway. The account of my return to halls is the runaway winner for the most readers, followed by my first return to Derby at the end of the second year, with the hate of the Junior Handshakers and my little wish for romance tying third. So far so good. What about the actual time I've spent writing it?
Good to bad to indifferent to absolutely fucking awful. Last year, as we know, was a flat-out disaster. Bankruptcy, suicidal depression and well, you know the drill. Bury Street and Spamming form the head of terrible year, notwithstanding the fact that I barely pass with a 2/2 mark. Oy gevalt. What about this year though?
Much better, on the whole, mainly due to some very important people.
First is the Sempai, my Upperclassman. Without his lifts to choir, constant cynicism, and basically the entirety of this term as far as Dissertation support is concerned, I'd be simply done for. His constant concern is not to be sniffed at in the slightest, and the fact that he was there almost every step of the way (except for those where my insomnia really pulled through), especially as he was there at the printing and proofing stage (haha! Proofing!) at 4am on thursday morning, 12 hours before hand in means the world. That guy is a hero, and is well on his way to sainthood. Having an actual human being to talk to on the way to the Church of St. Peter Mancroft, the one and only place to get Spammed, is nothing short of a Godsend. A Junior Handshaker he may well be, but he knows the score, and that's what's important. Everything I could say that he has done in his favour can only be counted as the little things. And it's those that count. Not forgetting being pressganged into my quartet. Sacrifice is everything in my life, and he gave his time up (although not always without wasting a little bit of ours) when he was so much busier, and coped. He, like I, has a very broken understanding of the term "snowed under".
Let's take a break. What about my heart? The muscle still beats, no problem. The rate's as ludicrously high as ever, but whatever. It's meant to be like that.
Cracked and shattered. The furnace on which I rely to power through is burning away overtime to cope with the strain. I'm piecing it all back up together after I reckon three major breaks, one of which I had to for my own good, and the other two by women I still can't look in the eye without really wishing that things could have been different. However. They are the way they are. I am learning to deal with it. I will get up to speed, thank you.
As for the waltzer? Hm. That was a little silly of my to write like that, but you should have seen what I was preparing before that. I fell good and hard, although I'm out of the crater now, I still feel a twinge. There was this girl, there was that girl, there was the other girl. You know the drill. Bellyache from a freak who doesn't know what to do. I'll be ok, I'll work it out. Now isn't my time, obviously. SO DEAL WITH IT. Oy.
And what about if I've broken any hearts? Have I? How could I? I'm like a troll. A really cynical troll. Maybe its happened more than I know. If others don't know that I fancy them, then I equally don't know others have a liking for me. It's harsh, but I'm sorry, you know. It's bad enough for me in here. I suppose its good to remember my constant failing, every single day. Suffering builds Endurance, and Endurance builds Character. It's good for be, because the Scripture says so.
Onwards we go.
And what about my flat? Cruising at the speed of procrastination into their degrees, mine is over before theirs has hardly begun. Emma, Emily, Simon, Beth, Alex, Ed, Chris, Usman, Charlie, Lois and Angela; as little as a I see some of them, I will never forget the acceptance and inclusion that they afford to me, because they're brilliant people. Special mention go to my bros (and hos) Joanna and Adam, withtout whom I should surely have quit my path and cried mercilessly over destroying not one but two Nintendo DSs. Ha ha! Hutchings of course has my back as much as I have his. Booze, Chinese Takeaway and Pown.it are usually the order of the day. With the odd Pokemon session thrown in too. But to be honest this is almost as funny as that time that some Schmuck super-heated a plate and left it on the stairs...TOO SOON?
Everyone has contributed to my final year being a year worth doing, study worth committing to, and a dissertation worth completing. My gratitude will never end.
I've mentioned Joanna here before. Points go to whomsoever finds her.
Worth at least a cursory glance is my Pale Comrade, whose blood pressure rivals even mine. There's time yet for his real credit, which you'll duly see.
The point is, I've had a God awful year. I've not given up yet though, and nor do I intend to. Only one man is crazy enough to fight for as many lost causes as I am am, and that just happens to be me. I've drank more booze and ate more curry than I ever have in my whole life, and still somehow have a liver and a digestive system left. I blame J of N wholeheartedly for this brilliant fact. I've managed to pull it back, and keep on a mostly even keel! I even managed to pick up a sycophant. Which doesn't please me greatly.
My Scholarships returned, and I've made great strides, if you'll pardon the pun, with my pedal technique. Hymn playing's still as shit as ever, but I must pick up again. I basically haven't played for 6 weeks almost, so the skill I have managed to retain is very pleasing.
This is my year's mind. I will continue to keep this little corner of chaos in order, most unlike the korner of khaos I live in at the moment, which is simply dreadful. When I go home later today, I'll be wearing my whites and the DGS hoodie, because hell, what other hoodie is appropriate to return to Derby in? The whites of course, reflect my shining trappings.
For now? Tchuss. At the end of the world, I will take my rest. I certainly intend to keep writing. The preponderance of vignettes that are down in the mouth is just how it goes. Keep watching, and I'm sure they'll get better. Eventually.
Tomorrow is another day.
But still, it could be you.
But still, it could be you.
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