Just call me...Mister Hawk.
So, the weekend before last was Grad, and all the grand adventures that were contained therein. Next weekend will be the Doctor's return to our sceptered isle's shores, along with Tommy from Bristol town. This weekend, however, is what can only be described as the most successful family holiday ever. Absolutely splendid...
Now, the last time I went to Wales, it was South Pembrokeshire to Tyddewi, or St. David's. I was meant to go again recently for an audition for a Choral Scholarship at the Cathedral, but I accepted the job at Truro a week before anyway, so that one got knocked on the head. In fact, had we had gone to St. David's we were scheduled to go up and see the rellies, but because I took the Truro job blah blah...
Anyway. Mother decided that it was time to go to Wales, and more specifically, Porthmadog. No, don't pronounce it as a 'g' at the end. Cue my useless protestation. I mean, seriously, I've never met anyone who's there before, I don't know them, I don't know the kids, I don't know if they'll like me, let alone whether I'll like them...
You know what, I had some bloody stupid worries before, but this one takes the biscuit. I've had probably the best weekend of my whole life. Seriously. Aside from the nigh-on five hour journey there, through the windy mountain roads to get there (where surprisingly the only radio station available is BBC Radio 2...?), it was absolutely bloody brilliant! It feels like I actually have a big family, and more importantly, a family who wants to know me. They're all mad (Anty Lou is certifiably insane for starters (but like that's a bad thing)), but they are ours, as much as they're like us, we're like them (more on that at the end). I spent the entire journey back thanking my dearest mother for taking me, and asking her if she was sure we couldn't stay for longer. If we hadn't have run out of clean clothes we wouldn't have come back, and I'm not even joking. Pub be damned, I'd have stayed there for ages.
Anyway. I've managed to be dragged away from Port (and indeed Penryhndeudreath, where I was staying with my COUSIN Lisa), but have managed to import a smattering of the accent. Just a little. Not to mention the speed! You see, I've been at University for three years in Norfolk, (and indeed, surrounded by southeners) and haven't come home with an accent...ever. However, two days in Wales, and I sound like a right Gog! I actually relaxed for a bout the first time ever, basically. THERE WE GO. For saying I met a bunch of people I've never even seen before, and their children (oh, the children...), in a strange place, I actually relaxed, that I could stop being so bloody uptight for a while! Hah! Although mother dear did make an interesting point about cadencing, and me being one of those musician types, that the melodious nature of the Welsh accent and inflections appeals to my nature as a musician (and more properly as a singer, I suppose). I can't stand southern accents, really. I don't care if you have one, in the nicest fashion, but it's not for me.
As ever, I have taken few pictures. It's quite a ball ache trying to get my phone and its associated software to work, especially when I'm very busy having a wonderful time. I can't actually stress how much I enjoyed myself, alright?! There's sufficient record of me being there though, and there is another place that I have promised to return to. I am in some danger of being spread far too thinly, what with my swanky scholarship and promising to be back in Norwich and now Port and Penryhn and I've got to come back home at some point and auditioning for the next place... But a promise made is a promise kept. This is a promise I can make that only relies on myself rather than anything else. Now, here's a little real-time development, for those of you who do not believe that I do these things without drafting, I've just looked up trains from TRU to PTM and PRH (look them up). The quickest is 9 hours, and the rest are about 12. I'll probably try PRH though, as there's only one change, and that's at BHM, so that won't be much of a problem. But seriously, NINE HOURS. Jesus Harry Bicycling Christ. Looks like I need to get in training for that one then!
Anyway, time to wrap this up. I'm still recovering from the last weeked, in fact the one before that was never recovered from properly either, and this one coming will be just as busy, so I'm very tired. Before I go though, allow me to explain to you uninitiates about the title. Welsh is a funny language. It's not like English at all, in fact I rather think it's a surprise that they even share the same alphabet. It is a modern type of celtic language, distantly related to the original language spoken by the inhabitants of the British isles before the dominance of the English language with its Saxon and Roman influences. It is very odd. There are many vowels which English speakers do not recognise and the most stereotypically 'Welsh' sounds, the ll (comparable to the hebraisch "ch" sound) and the dd (compare to the old english letter that looks like a d, the 'eth' (look it up)). I mean...You there! Englishman! Pronounce 'Dolgellau'! W stands for U as much as U stands for I.
As a parting conversation took place, the term 'gog' was introduced. It's a contraction of 'Gogledd', which means 'North' in thw Welsh language, as both a geographical term and a self-recognition of denizens of North Wales and the speakers of the North Welsh dialect and accent. I was told "We are gogs." by one of my cousins. Not "The people round here are gogs." Not "Us lot who live here are gogs." But "We are gogs." Not just those of us who live there, but them who returned to the Midlands on Monday. I am not a Welshman. This much is true. But to have been accepted and welcomed by not only my blood relatives, but their significant others and children as one of them makes me proud and happy and glad and all other sorts of wonderful emotion. I have a family there who want me, and may they also know that I want them as well. I find it massively amusing that I, a northern-sounding speaker of English (even though I come from the midlands yes whatever) have also picked up a northern Welsh accent and inflection.
Anyway, there's an old Chapel going in Penryhndeudreath, and only for 60 Grand. It's there now, so it's bloody tempting, buy a chapel, do it up, install an east end gallery and get a fine Organ on it (III/P, English classical style with chair case but full compass swell with a balanced pedal, great chorus sat on fine open and stopt diapasons with seperate mutations available alongside tierce-mixture and a mounted cornet BUT with a German-inspired separate chorus pedal but voiced together in an Old English style), and stay there. That's nice. I think I might retire in this fashion. It'll give me long enough to have a massively successful career, of course (har har keep trying Peb and you'll be king of the world at this rate) and complete all my studies and earn oodles of monies...so, yes! Not a bad master plan as things go I think.
Splendid.
Showing posts with label Banter 2011. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Banter 2011. Show all posts
Thursday, 4 August 2011
Friday, 29 July 2011
Past The Post
So. I graduated.
Let it sink in. Roll it around, become familiar with this statement. I managed to cross the post, limping across in a blaze of deadline pushing insanity and first class performing. It happened, it's there, boom. I also happened to graduate at the bottom of the class. Ouch. I'm going to let that one sit for a little bit, even though it's stinking the place out. Obviously I should stop being upset about that and no longer care. I can, and always have been able to sing, an ability which is not for parading around and point scoring, but rather for the job of getting on with it and making music. I might be an unemployed waster as far as society is concerned right now, but I'll always be a self-employed musician. I'll always be my own boss at the end of the day, and how liberating that feels.
For the most part, I shall still be working for someone else. I haven't been able to find anything in Derby. I'm not surprised. I mean, if you look for a part-time job in the middle of June and can't find one then why are you even surprised? There's nothing til September. I even went in the Disney Store. The Disney Store! They get 10-15 people in every day in the summer looking for work. Imagine that! They don't hire until *drum roll* SEPTEMBER! And even then it's for christmas temp work. This is what will happen to me in Truro. I will apply for a job in September, and hopefully will have hit it at just the right time. Fit that in with my choral scholarship and boom! I'll be fine, for once. I'll be able to afford things like travel and books and music and CDs and drinks and driving lessons. I can feel like a worthwhile part of society!* But until then...the grind. Looking at my emails, every day. Looking at websites, looking at the job section of the paper, asking everyone I can, and handing CVs out everywhere. And all the same result. We'll put it on file. We've just taken on. We'll let you know. I guess it didn;t help that I was going around in a t-shirt, lumber shirt, sandals and cargo shorts with the pockets. Not exactly 'high-flying choral scholar postgraduate professional', eh? But anyway. I like that outfir. I have a lot of pockets, I can carry everything I need secreted about my person and not have to worry, because I know exactly where things are all the time. Yeah!
Anyway. Graduation. What the hell? I look like a right oaf. Not a bad term, but an Organists' term. I look brilliant, with my three piece suit and paisley bow tie. The hood is coral, thankfully an in-season colour...this season. God help me when it goes out of season. In fact, God help me when I hook it to my cassock, as Lord knows it'll clash dreadfully. Dear dear. Anyway. The ceremony was over in a flash. Spoiler alert for all those who are yet to do so, but it's really easy and you too will graduate smoothly if you just walk across the platform and shake the Vice Chancellor's hand. Done and dusted. Right. On to the festivities!
Only the human race could be so ridiculous as to celebrate a joyous occasion by ingesting large amounts of poison. Am I right? Alcohol, cigarettes, no to mention those who decide to partake in the use of recreational drugs (which may or may not be more harmful than the aforementioned alcohol and nicotine) all in the name of celebration. I personally managed to spend upwards of forty pounds sterling on alcohol alone, and that's just the Friday night, not to mention the curry as well. I also went out the night before (oh its not going to be a heavy one...), spending lord knows how much on Jagerbombs, Double Vodkas and bottles of...Carlsberg, yes, that was it. There is one photograph from that night, where I'm wearing a traffic cone on my head. On the other side of the road, two more of our party are on the way to liberating a sign advertising salsa dancing lessons. Out of shot, obviously, so there's no proof. Both of these items managed to find their way to that most infamous innercity Parish Church, that of St. Peter Mancroft. We managed to wind up getting ushered of of Havana at 4am due to the establishment closing, I mean honestly.
This was the end of the end. A non-valedictory event all the same, but still, the absolute finish to my undergraduate career. I'll never be an undergrad ever again, just to flash the blindingly obvious at you. All further study, even if I enroll on another bachelor's degree, will never have that profound sense of wonder mixed with seat-of-the-pants terror that accompanies the first steps in Halls. As a third year, I felt like king of the hill. As a second year, I was on the back foot. As a first year, I had no idea what I was getting into. I'll be back. Promises made to be kept, and I'll write.
Speaking of writing, updates continue to be sporadic. I apologise (of course), but things are always up in the air, and I am somewhat adrift of late. I spend my nights moping (natch), playing Killer7 (I haven't got a problem at all...), and watching videos of Alternate Reality Games. And then I don't sleep. These last two points may be connected. And this weekend we're going to Wales. It's all go, eh?
*This is rare.
Let it sink in. Roll it around, become familiar with this statement. I managed to cross the post, limping across in a blaze of deadline pushing insanity and first class performing. It happened, it's there, boom. I also happened to graduate at the bottom of the class. Ouch. I'm going to let that one sit for a little bit, even though it's stinking the place out. Obviously I should stop being upset about that and no longer care. I can, and always have been able to sing, an ability which is not for parading around and point scoring, but rather for the job of getting on with it and making music. I might be an unemployed waster as far as society is concerned right now, but I'll always be a self-employed musician. I'll always be my own boss at the end of the day, and how liberating that feels.
For the most part, I shall still be working for someone else. I haven't been able to find anything in Derby. I'm not surprised. I mean, if you look for a part-time job in the middle of June and can't find one then why are you even surprised? There's nothing til September. I even went in the Disney Store. The Disney Store! They get 10-15 people in every day in the summer looking for work. Imagine that! They don't hire until *drum roll* SEPTEMBER! And even then it's for christmas temp work. This is what will happen to me in Truro. I will apply for a job in September, and hopefully will have hit it at just the right time. Fit that in with my choral scholarship and boom! I'll be fine, for once. I'll be able to afford things like travel and books and music and CDs and drinks and driving lessons. I can feel like a worthwhile part of society!* But until then...the grind. Looking at my emails, every day. Looking at websites, looking at the job section of the paper, asking everyone I can, and handing CVs out everywhere. And all the same result. We'll put it on file. We've just taken on. We'll let you know. I guess it didn;t help that I was going around in a t-shirt, lumber shirt, sandals and cargo shorts with the pockets. Not exactly 'high-flying choral scholar postgraduate professional', eh? But anyway. I like that outfir. I have a lot of pockets, I can carry everything I need secreted about my person and not have to worry, because I know exactly where things are all the time. Yeah!
Anyway. Graduation. What the hell? I look like a right oaf. Not a bad term, but an Organists' term. I look brilliant, with my three piece suit and paisley bow tie. The hood is coral, thankfully an in-season colour...this season. God help me when it goes out of season. In fact, God help me when I hook it to my cassock, as Lord knows it'll clash dreadfully. Dear dear. Anyway. The ceremony was over in a flash. Spoiler alert for all those who are yet to do so, but it's really easy and you too will graduate smoothly if you just walk across the platform and shake the Vice Chancellor's hand. Done and dusted. Right. On to the festivities!
Only the human race could be so ridiculous as to celebrate a joyous occasion by ingesting large amounts of poison. Am I right? Alcohol, cigarettes, no to mention those who decide to partake in the use of recreational drugs (which may or may not be more harmful than the aforementioned alcohol and nicotine) all in the name of celebration. I personally managed to spend upwards of forty pounds sterling on alcohol alone, and that's just the Friday night, not to mention the curry as well. I also went out the night before (oh its not going to be a heavy one...), spending lord knows how much on Jagerbombs, Double Vodkas and bottles of...Carlsberg, yes, that was it. There is one photograph from that night, where I'm wearing a traffic cone on my head. On the other side of the road, two more of our party are on the way to liberating a sign advertising salsa dancing lessons. Out of shot, obviously, so there's no proof. Both of these items managed to find their way to that most infamous innercity Parish Church, that of St. Peter Mancroft. We managed to wind up getting ushered of of Havana at 4am due to the establishment closing, I mean honestly.
This was the end of the end. A non-valedictory event all the same, but still, the absolute finish to my undergraduate career. I'll never be an undergrad ever again, just to flash the blindingly obvious at you. All further study, even if I enroll on another bachelor's degree, will never have that profound sense of wonder mixed with seat-of-the-pants terror that accompanies the first steps in Halls. As a third year, I felt like king of the hill. As a second year, I was on the back foot. As a first year, I had no idea what I was getting into. I'll be back. Promises made to be kept, and I'll write.
Speaking of writing, updates continue to be sporadic. I apologise (of course), but things are always up in the air, and I am somewhat adrift of late. I spend my nights moping (natch), playing Killer7 (I haven't got a problem at all...), and watching videos of Alternate Reality Games. And then I don't sleep. These last two points may be connected. And this weekend we're going to Wales. It's all go, eh?
*This is rare.
Wednesday, 20 July 2011
Moto Perpetuo
I'm good at moaning. You know, it's a major strength, being able to poke and pick at my current situation and only see the worst. Like right now. In truth, I'm pretty comfortable, full of food that tasted delicious and 'relaxing' in front of the television. Although I never relax, it's endemic to...well, me. There's no such thing as casual Peb really, he's just a fabrication. Anyway. Moaning.
You'll notice that I spend almost all my time here moaning. I do it consistently, because I do it so well. Practise makes perfect, natch. What am I going to moan about today? Graduation? That'll do.
What is there to be unhappy about with Grad? First things first, it's the end of an era. This is the last time that almost all of us from the School of Music at the University of East Anglia who started in the September of 2008 will be together again. We had one who quit in the first week, one who had time out to have her baby and will subsequently return on the part-time course, and one who didn't qualify. But the rest? 2:30pm at Congregation Hall, 22nd of July 2011, together for the last time. It's the end of an era, the last time I'm guarenteed to be in Norwich. I've made my promises to who I hope turn out to be the right people, that I'll be back, but when that'll be is anyone's guess! Fare's expensive from the deep south, and I'll have to seriously book ahead, even with a railcard. Maybe I'm here to moan about the train fare. Not today, friend. Maybe another time. No, the distance is manageable and the fare is...well, it'll get me where I want to go, but other than that it isn't worth it, obviously. I rather like the train, actually. It isn't really that problematic, nice and quiet, nobody really bothers you, but it's the cost really.
Anyway. Grad. I have made plans. These plans are different to the plans laid on by the union. OH GOD I'M BOYCOTTING THE UNION. No I'm not, get over yourself. I said a very involved and emotional goodbye to the LCR on the last Tuesday of last Term. It ended at 5am, when I was driven back home by Kamei-san, after stopping off to fetch his camera. There is accordingly one picture from that night, on that very camera, funnily enough, where I look appropriately drunk, sporting my experimental chin warmer. I'm pretty attached to my beard, but not more so that it's attached to me. I need to give it a trim in time for the festivities to tidy up, but in light of my recent shearing it might be starting to suit me.
And pray, what are my plans? What do you think? Take a guess. Table for 8 at 9pm, The Spice Lounge, Norwich. Meeting at the Playhouse Bar at 7pm, and then onwards into the night afterwards. I think Vodka Revolutions, for copious amounts of shots, then a spell at Knowhere, and then to the inevitable location of damnation, Havan Bar and Lounge. Yes, the motto of my University is "Do Different", for all it's worth, and I'm doing everything the same as I ever have. I'm nothing if not consisetent, and therefore without it I am nothing. While I may claim from time to time to be a nobody, I am not a nothing. Sorry, got more self-esteem than that, but only just.
I am a little worried about the evening's entertainment. At the moment it feels like a bit of a knife edge, but that be exacerbated by my existing stress. I don't want any trouble, but I can't go anywhere without inviting it upon myself. There are 8 of us for the meal, and then who knows what'll quite happen afterwards. We'll see. But I will say this: I don't burn bridges.
And domestics? Still no job. No money. Not very much to go on. But...you know the drill. Keep going. There is no other option.
You'll notice that I spend almost all my time here moaning. I do it consistently, because I do it so well. Practise makes perfect, natch. What am I going to moan about today? Graduation? That'll do.
What is there to be unhappy about with Grad? First things first, it's the end of an era. This is the last time that almost all of us from the School of Music at the University of East Anglia who started in the September of 2008 will be together again. We had one who quit in the first week, one who had time out to have her baby and will subsequently return on the part-time course, and one who didn't qualify. But the rest? 2:30pm at Congregation Hall, 22nd of July 2011, together for the last time. It's the end of an era, the last time I'm guarenteed to be in Norwich. I've made my promises to who I hope turn out to be the right people, that I'll be back, but when that'll be is anyone's guess! Fare's expensive from the deep south, and I'll have to seriously book ahead, even with a railcard. Maybe I'm here to moan about the train fare. Not today, friend. Maybe another time. No, the distance is manageable and the fare is...well, it'll get me where I want to go, but other than that it isn't worth it, obviously. I rather like the train, actually. It isn't really that problematic, nice and quiet, nobody really bothers you, but it's the cost really.
Anyway. Grad. I have made plans. These plans are different to the plans laid on by the union. OH GOD I'M BOYCOTTING THE UNION. No I'm not, get over yourself. I said a very involved and emotional goodbye to the LCR on the last Tuesday of last Term. It ended at 5am, when I was driven back home by Kamei-san, after stopping off to fetch his camera. There is accordingly one picture from that night, on that very camera, funnily enough, where I look appropriately drunk, sporting my experimental chin warmer. I'm pretty attached to my beard, but not more so that it's attached to me. I need to give it a trim in time for the festivities to tidy up, but in light of my recent shearing it might be starting to suit me.
And pray, what are my plans? What do you think? Take a guess. Table for 8 at 9pm, The Spice Lounge, Norwich. Meeting at the Playhouse Bar at 7pm, and then onwards into the night afterwards. I think Vodka Revolutions, for copious amounts of shots, then a spell at Knowhere, and then to the inevitable location of damnation, Havan Bar and Lounge. Yes, the motto of my University is "Do Different", for all it's worth, and I'm doing everything the same as I ever have. I'm nothing if not consisetent, and therefore without it I am nothing. While I may claim from time to time to be a nobody, I am not a nothing. Sorry, got more self-esteem than that, but only just.
I am a little worried about the evening's entertainment. At the moment it feels like a bit of a knife edge, but that be exacerbated by my existing stress. I don't want any trouble, but I can't go anywhere without inviting it upon myself. There are 8 of us for the meal, and then who knows what'll quite happen afterwards. We'll see. But I will say this: I don't burn bridges.
And domestics? Still no job. No money. Not very much to go on. But...you know the drill. Keep going. There is no other option.
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.
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