The newest conversation replacement in the house has arrived; no longer one of the near-identical iterations of the best-selling brain-disabling world-takeover that is the Electronic Art's FIFA series, it is in the online multiplayer for Halo 3, a game that I have some modicum of ability with. I may not be terribly good, as I have quite a low affinity for dual-analogue controls (yes, the leading method of FPS controls, whatever), but it's good fun at least, if a million miles away from both the pixel-perfect sniping of the N64's Goldeneye or the Gamecube's genre defying masterpiece Metroid Prime. This advent of online gaming in the Scholary will ensure that the race for both sofa and controller has become more desperate than ever.
But the weekend! Yes, this glorious weekend past that seems to mark a turning in the tides, not around the coast of damp old Cornwall but in my life. I am also slightly terrified, but on to that in a moment. Friday night was composed of a booze-infused house party hosted by friends from dyvers other lands. There seem to be several different stories as to how exactly the night ended and who went home at what time, but what we all agree on is that we were deeply inebriated and even though there were some stupid arguments, we all had a rollicking good time, and nobody got alcohol poisoning. Hooray!
However. I awoke on Saturday of my own accord and my own volition. At half past eight in the morning. I'll give you a minute to think about that clearly, and I can wait because it's not the easiest thing to process.
As I said last week, I had managed to shift my body clock back a whole five hours, which is no mean feat in itself, which was still pretty problematic by the time I got to last Friday... and then it just flipped. My metabolism can look after itself, regardless of what my conscious mind wants to do, which is ever so slightly terrifying. Although like I always say, my subconscious is far more intelligent than I can ever hope to be.
Hiatus
Sorry about the delay. I woke up at about half past five in the morning today feeling like one of those roast in the bag chickens. Feh.
But as I was saying. Saturday night was composed not of becoming excruciatingly wasted as these things often are, but instead consisted of running around the Cathedral Restaurant waiting on tables with the Cathedral Restaurant staff in an event known only as Dine Opera, where patrons are assaulted by various Operatic numbers sung by local artistes in between the three courses served to them and lashings of expensive alcohol, all in the name of raising money for the choir tour. One of the major ground rules of this evening is no Countertenors. Anyway. Having worked in the Restaurant as a table waiter in the summer which I still refer to as utterly dreadful, I know the staff and they know me. As usual, a lack of clear and detailed instruction before the evening drove me to meet with the Restaurant manager and ask her what was going off... which ended up with me basically doing same work with the rest of the staff, which was absolutely shattering. Hands down. I did, for my troubles however, receive a plate of lamb chops and vegetables (one of the courses on offer to the patrons) for free as payment, and also a chocolate mousse dessert, which was just totally excellent. I look back on that time when I worked there, and regret not being able to control my depression to the extent that it became something that stopped me from working there. There was no ill feeling all night from either me or them about me working, I volunteered to wait on because I enjoy working with them, and I thought the help would be both needed and appreciated, which it was. It was also quite damaging towards my mobility, and it's taken me a good four or five days to recover.
Sunday was extremely painful, but on balance a good day. The Vierne Messe Solennelle was graced by my high-pressure top octave, giving the Kyrie's treble high A's the punch they needed. The evening, graced by local legend Russell Pascoe's Magnificat & Nunc Dimittis, then became a slaughter of my liver once again, by reporting to the Rising Sun Inn after Evensong to celebrate the birthday of one of it's proprietors. I returned home to the dreaded Scholary at about... well, I don;t really remember what time in the morning per se, but let's say after 1am. I discovered that the others had eaten all the dinner (under the assumption that I had gone to St. Ives with the Boss), and that also they had the intelligence to pick my carving knife from the grab and use it...and the courtesy to leave it covered in Pork fat lying on the side. This of course, immediately made me wrathful, and I set about to the washing up. Inebriated. At half past one in the morning. That's all true.
I have once again become the angriest yid on the soil. Something obviously tripped in my head for that brief period that I was asleep in the early hours of Saturday morning and I now remember how much I actually enjoy being angry. I feel that I have wasted my life trying as hard as I can to keep an even temper and be as forgiving as possible... Yes, all admirable character traits but somehow... Fruitless. Although this is still some sort of progress, I mean, it's better to be angry all the time than be depressed, right?
I need to make more effective and positive progress than this though. I'm even considering a return to Physiotherapy because really when you get down to it, being crippled is painful and disappointing and terrible. Getting a job is becoming more and more of a priority, as not only do I have the tour to Sweden in August to consider, but funding myself and accommodation are arguably even more important.
There is no rest for the wicked, after all. But the lazy seem to get by just fine.
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