Out of the Deep

To say that I've kept this blog at arm's length for the past month would be an understatement.  

I've been struggling with block since the new choir year started actually, not least because moving out was dreadful, but also the impact of actually being a "grown up" (in the loosest usage of the term to date) is quite... disquieting?  Is that what I mean?  It's new and unfamiliar, like learning to walk again.  The refreshing sensation of being able to leave the Scholary behind outside the east gate is still a novelty, this only being the second month of living away compared to the previous twenty four.  Even though I am yet to fulfill any societal concepts of adult life, I feel much more positive on the whole.  Things have improved, and continue to do so.  

Something that I recently identified that was having an negative effect on my writing is how deeply attached I am to the outcome.  This is not fiction (sadly?), and knowing that friends and acquaintances regularly read sometimes makes me dreadfully nervous.  I never used to be afraid.  Well, not so much.  Years spent trying to keep all the people happy all of the time have wasted what emotional strength I do have, and in fact when I am not able to do so I feel disappointed in my own self.  The monster may no longer stare back out from the mirror, but who is there now?  A sycophant?  Please.  How awful.  Even though I am no stranger to controversy or confrontation, it is almost as if I shy away deliberately these days.  It's like I am trying to project an image that I simply have no right to.  Oh spare me a little, that I may recover my strength before I go hence and be no more seen!  Even after three years, no names and a slew of cultural references, I am still worried that people might find out not just what I think, but also what I feel - almost seeking out mediocrity as a mode of expression to keep all the secrets from everyone.  Including myself.

Of course, the outcome that I fear the most is rejection.  An almost paralysing fear that keeps me from taking any sort of chance you could imagine: financial, professional, dietary... The most mundane things.  The biggest fear of course, is being rejected in a romantic way (sorry this is stilted but I'm trying to search for a better expression).  It's one of the things I try to keep secret from myself, with questionable success rates.  I go through awful psychological loops where I can even feel ashamed sometimes to be attracted to somebody.  Why bother even looking?  What woman would ever look at me?  I am the lowest of the low, but still haven't hit Tyler's "rock bottom".  Of course, long time readers and fans of the Captain will point out that in the past things have worked out, but really they haven't worked out for very long and have shown increasing patterns of (ding ding you guessed it) borderline sycophancy on my part.  Maybe self destruction is the answer!  All the time running in the background is that critical fear of rejection.  Of upsetting the status quo.  It makes me weak, and dreadfully so.  It is as if I have nothing to be proud of.  Boo hoo how sad!  It remains far easier to hide in the shadow of platonic and familial relationships with men than actually admit to one's desires for a woman.  I'm sure I can't be the only human being who feels like that, let alone the only autist.  Sometimes, normal people don't have every thing easy after all, which I am slowly learning. 

Vomit.  How close to the truth we came but swerved away!  I'm sure we'll be back here soon, as once again, it's the biggest problem on my mind.  Even living in a climate of self-imposed austerity isn't actually that much of a problem, and as luck would have it have often found time and place to earn a quick buck to keep the booze rolling in.  Turns out that what could charitably be described as Truro's one and only Dive Bar found so far has just as much place in destroying my liver as does the classy cocktail joint where everyone knows my name.  My domestic arrangement continues to improve, and I'm pleased to say I get on very well with my Landlord!  As much as I would like to live in my own place rather than just a rented room, there have been a few episodes already where having another person to talk to has made all the difference.  Critically, I do not feel lonely even half as much as I have before.  It is like I've finally got chance to sure up the walls of the cracked edifice that I am, which is a true Godsend!  Even though the weather is dreadful, things are looking up, but don't worry!  I'm not going to finish on some sort of blitheringly hopeful note.  It's more the fact that...

...It isn't that bad.

Postscriptum

New schedule coming.  Alongside singing every day, I've taken to transcribing une grande messe d'orgue to fill up my time.  I'm trying to finish it in time for the Chief's birthday, so fingers crossed!  In the meantime, I think I'm finally going to try my hand at a little fiction, and might even publish that epic in Haiku form I've been working on...

Meta thoughts

I've just been talking about my blog, you know, in real life.  It still feels odd doing so, actually!  I've also been reading the wikipedia article on blogging too, specifically the 'Legal and Social consequences' part, which as I'm sure you can imagine, is very interesting...

I do not use a nom de plume, I self-promote all the time, of course, and I do talk freely about the things that happen in the places that I go, the people that I meet and work for and with.  In Norwich, it was easier to...project an air of anonimity to the people I was writing about.  On a University campus with any number of thousands of staff and students on-site at any one time, it was simple, coming up with names that reflected a person's character, or who they were to me rather than name names (although I'm sure the post about best friends in particular was almost completely transparent to those of you who have known me for a long, long time), that could have been interpreted in many ways.  The titles become symbolic.

However, that was Norwich, and this is Truro.  It's almost the case that everybody knows everybody round here, and a certain...bravery, perhaps straight up foolhardiness comes of commenting directly on the actions of other people (especially if it happens to be a derogatory light), because well... I'm sure it'll get back to them not just somehow, but probably quite soon.  But having a personal blog like this, almost a diary (except for the #BEDM rush), an identity published into the anonymity of the internet (I'm sure that I know most of my readership, especially you who text, tweet or engage me in public...but who could I know in Hungary who's reading?  Is it you?  Say hello!), I mean, there has to be a percentage of my audience that I may never meet, so none of the names or titles here will mean anything except for the association the reader themselves build thereon.   

Even though I've moved on from my formative diaries, there's still some cringeworthy stuff hidden deep away in the distant past; not just content but also in style.  I guess having to write daily instead of the weekly schedule I was clinging on to (barely at that) has forced me to practice.  It's still the same sort of stuff, but I find that hitting my stride in the post has become a little easier - it's not just what I write but the vocabulary and syntax of how I do it that matters, not just in media res, as well as the finished product.  If it isn't remotely enjooyable to read, even for me, it's scrapped.  31% of all my posts I've ever written are still in the draft stage.  There are a few that are complete: finished but not published, usually due to some nagging doubt in the back of my head, then left overnight, re-read and abandoned.  Sometimes I have stuck with my original title and completely changed the content, other times a retitle halfway through the process has served far better than a whole reset. 

Blogging every day in May has been quite hard.  Sometimes, coming home from perhaps Evensong and having to get the dinner ready, or considering going out (or even coming back half cut), thinking about having to write has sometimes been... a responsibility I have sometimes chosen to neglect.  Woah!  The 'r' word?  Sure, it's totally my choice to write to whatever schedule the hell I want it to be, but if I'm supposed to be writing every day then I should be writing.  I chose to take this challenge on.  Just like I chose to move out and go to University, and yeah sure there was the odd day where I was just paralysed by depression, but I didn't give up on that.  I had people who wouldn't give up on me as well, and more triumph has come out of those friendships than I could ever have guessed.  What about if it was my job to write though?  I definitely enjoy writing (or I wouldn't be doing so three years on) but I'm sure there are many journalists and copywriters out there who would love to swap out and be a Cathedral musician instead, I mean, the grass is greener on the other side after all. 

I don't really do pictures, either in my posts as a post in and of themselves, because writing in an extended fashion is how I engage with the blog.  I guess this is an opinion column, as much as a personal lifestyle web log, and while I do attempt to portray events that happen in quite a factual manner, I am aware that authorial intent is different to audience interpretation.  Thankfully, one's professional engagements so far have not brought any real consequences.  Like my personal Twitter account, these are my views and my views alone; sometimes incendiary, often controversial, but without the aid of another...unless explicitly stated.  Perhaps I should have a disclaimer page. 

As we race towards the end of the schema so kindly written by Elizabeth, I wonder how I will progress?  It has been exciting watching my pageviews ramp up to almost 10,000, I mean, even almost 8,000 at three years is quite good.  I don't do much other than write, but then again I hope that the daily schedule has attracted a further audience to those of you already established, who might like to stick around once it all calms down again.  This is the second post of the day though, and writing what's going to end up as over 2000 words on different subjects can be a bit draining.  I'll finish work soon though, get home, hang m ysuit up and slap an LP on, and not have to think about dinner until way later this evening.  The weather has picked up, and the chance to just go home and not have to worry about Evensong or the Men's rehearsal that follows on a typical Wednesday evening is the blessing of half term.  Still, I could only ever have one week off.




Author's Note: I think that's enough for today.  The #BEDM title passed down was "Bad Advice", for which I have even less answer than the contents of my fridge.  I can't really remember serious bad advice, that is, bad advice couched seriously rather than sarcastically.  I only seem to recall good advice that I haven't taken notice to, like..."never mix your drinks", receiving almost weekly ignorance.  Maybe I've never really had bad advice: I can't remember a single episode off the top of my head,so I suppose that makes me very lucky.  But obviously, very foolish for not taking the good advice.  Anyway.  Tune in tomorrow for wha should have been today's post about... the morning ritual.  Good good

That's all.  For now.

Start again, at the end...

So!  2012 finally draws to a close, limping over the finish line in an alcoholic haze of post-non-apocalyptic valediction.  Ah yes, it's that time where I reapply for the vacancy, face down in the flowerbed and take to dying on a mattress being fed dioralyte in the morning...

Haha!  Such nostalgia.

It's been a long year, actually.  I look in the mirror and see a distinctly silvery sheen over the fringe, I've reinstalled my Eastern European disguise in the shape and form of the chops (Yes, Bulgaria's finest Crime Lord is back).  In and out of relationships and employment... the two seem to share some ineffable link; last time I lost the job first, and the latest time I lost the job after.  Funny.  I don't know, you've got to have a sense of humour about these things, haven't you?

I'm almost pleased to report that I am unattached on both fronts... Almost?  Being unemployed is more trouble than it's worth, what with the bloody Jobcentre, but it keeps me looking for work, at least.  After the past two successes (and their subsequent ends), I have returned to one's traditional MO of wishing to date girls who are either not available...or just don't return my calls.  There's a hint, eh?  OH WOE IS ME.  Just the usual for many though, I suppose, so at least I'm rapidly reaching the same level as the rest of society!  My therapist would be so proud. 

As we pole towards New Year's Eve of the calendar, I would like to remind us all of my best good news ever, the realisation of a lifelong dream... before the age of 25.  I am to be appointed as Truro Cathedral Choir's seventh Lay Vicar.  I spoke about this last time, but I can't accurately describe how much of a big deal this is; I'm never going to be a Choral Scholar again.  I remember as a probationer being in awe of the Songmen at Derby, especially (of course) the Altos, and now, having settled in well with the other Gentlemen of the choir and producing the most immense amount of sound, I am following in that same tradition.  All jokes aside, when my fellow Lay Vicar on my side isn't there I do miss him!  We are a team, and I'm very pleased to take my place in the greater team that is Truro Cathedral Choir.  I am extremely lucky to be here, especially with the best Director anyone could hope for - I doubt there's another choirmaster who loves his job this much, is as caring and supportive, striking a fine balance between sheer professionalism and social grace... Haha!  I do love my Boss.  

I suppose that this Summer, as partially disastrous as it was, also formed a lesson for the future; Grown ups don't get a summer holiday. 

The real worst part of the Summer, was of course, no services.  Even this post-Christmas week is...pretty dull, especially after the big three last services!  While I definitely sang harder this year, my voice is in much better order so we can track some improvement there at least!  This is my life, I'm glad I chose it, and indeed, glad that it chose me. 

Anyway.  I'm sure that's there's enough nostalgia here for us to happily take our fill.  It's time we look forward.


I once wrote in the summer that my whole angle was that I never changed.  Indeed, my core values are unchanged, and it's mostly my appearance.  I also wrote that the definition of insanity is doing the same things time and again and expecting the situation to change: the entire country indulges in an insanity of this kind at every General Election.  POLITICS.  There's always time for something different, I mean, I will be moving into my own place by this time next year, an idea that actually doesn't fill me with fear!  I am looking forward to living in Truro very much.  Perhaps I should make some new year's resolutions?  Sounds dangerous, I know.  Something about, oh I don't know... regular exercise, erm, getting up every day, something about getting a job or you know, things like that.  Maybe it'd be nice to try and effect a change?  I certainly need to start playing the Banjo more often again, that's for sure.  I don't have £600 worth of instrument hanging there for nothing, huh?

Recently I have taken a more relaxed attitude to everything (well, except for singing, although I do need to get back into lessons again), and I don't know, perhaps it's something in the Cornish water but I have found that at least my blood pressure has eased off, if nothing else.  I must reserve my highly strung attitude to the cleaning to my own (future) residence, and not the shared accommodation, he says, hilariously.  My intensity remains of course, it's not like it's going away any time soon but I'm definitely not the only one round here with bipolarity issues...

2013 is just over the hill.  I'm just about ready to step the game up.  There are more than enough social problems to get over but really, if anything, I've let all my problems get on top of me this last year.  I've recovered a lot of my lost strength, gone over the summer, throughout the past month, probably through singing myself into the ground and somehow still caning out the notes every service: it's what I do, after all.  I've had a really great Christmas as well, got some great presents, but more importantly (which is approaching the true meaning of Christmas), had a brilliant time with my friends and family.  I might even try and keep a writing schedule this time.  You know, something once a week; I might not be getting paid for it but it's something else I need to get back into that I enjoy.  It might actually do me some good!

In conclusion, I am looking forward to this new year.  Big things are afoot, and it's time for me to take my place at the head of these developments, not as a follower.  This very moment, the statement "I've always found well-behaved to be overrated" has appeared before me, and gosh you know what, I rather feel that I've been just too straight-laced.  Excellent behaviour and good manners are of course hallmarks of my visit, but maybe I've just been trying too hard all the time.  Time to try something different, new, and exciting.

Reconstruction of a Madman

You know, so much has been going on recently that I managed to forget that I've kept this blog active, albiet with several breaks, for two years now!  Happy birthday.  Or whatever.

Things have been really tough recently though, which is why there hasn't been much publicised activity.  I lost my job, my relationship broke down... actually that's kind of it. but in all seriousness when those two things happen within weeks of themselves, you can't help but get battered down.  

Like before, I'm not here to talk about the hows and wherefores of what happened with my relationship.  It isn't right to air it over the net like this, I won't be bothering.  Thing is that things changed, and that's how things have to be.  I'm still in an emotionally unstable state, I'm not going to lie, but I'm doing all that I can to remain balanced, especially in public.  In all honesty though, I loved her with my whole heart, and did everything I could.  I'm so pleased and proud of what we had, so many good things came of it.  While I might be desperately upset, I'll never forget that, ever.  I know that past the pain lies time for cherishing, and so many memories.  

Okay, enough already.



And what about this job then?  I've been in all but full time employment as the Music Administrator (read as Departmental Undersecretary) at Truro School, a private day and boarding school some 800 pupils strong.  It's been far from easy.  Upon starting, I fell to a particularly nasty depressive episode, because unsurprisingly, the incredible gear change from being unemployed for basically your entire life to a full time (8:30am til 4pm, 5 days a week) job is a killer.  There's no middle ground, and BAM you're on all day every day.  Having to learn how to fit in with the system, meeting new and unfamiliar people every single day.  At least I get to wear a suit just like the good old days, right?  Right.  My core tasks involved sitting behind a desk all day, making photocopies, answering the telephone and generally doing as the Head of Department told me to...except on the odd occasion that I said "No".  Let's recount my favourite episode...


Head of Department - "I want you to get all the kids' choir folders, and make sure that every single one of them has each piece of music."


Me - 'No.'


HoD - "What?"


Me - 'Half of them don't turn up anyway, why not leave it to the kids to be responsible for their own music, because then all the people who actually attend will have the right music, and then those who don't come won't have a folder, so there won't be any wasted copies.'




That little exchange went down like a lead balloon.  Anyway.  I started working there in January, on the 5th, literally the day after I got back to Cornwall.  I basically treated myself like I was invincible, not immortal (as of course I am), and fell foul of it.  The strain was immense.  Things leveled out though, and I carried on.  I was an agent of varying success; while things would have gone much worse without me (as a quick fix stand in), everything that could go wrong on my watch did.  Basically!  I was asked by the HoD to seriously consider my job, and if I wanted to continue in employment there over the half term.  I did, and thought (at the time) that I would merrily wish to continue into the summer term, or Trinity as I still know it. Things were moved in powers above my head, however, that confirmed my empolyment would end once my temporary contract had come to a close, on the 30th of March.  The decision had been made by the 9th, and official correspondance signed, which was not posted until the 14th, let alone received until the 16th of the very same month.  An annoyance, but nothing more; the contract stated that I could be given a week's notice, so a fortnight was no problem really...Okay, I was less than pleased to have discovered it especially after the long schlep down the hill from School to the Scholary, but that's how it goes.


Another milestone from my time at Truro School was my playing of the Chapel Organ in a concert, called Organ and the Word.  I opened with the could-have-been-smoother Croft D major Voluntary, and absolutely oafed it out the park with selections from the Couperin Messe pour les Couvents, witch went down like a storm.  YES THE INEGALITE!  The Chapel organ is the ex-Jesus College Cambridge Instrument, originally built by Mander, and therefore christened in the same way as my excellent friend Mr. Harry Macey would, as the Mandermonium (a name that went down like a storm again...har har), and was built in 1971, an early Neo-Classical instrument.  

Now, I would obviously have much preferred an instrument from 1791...but my experience with the Neo-Classical aesthetic drew me, yea like a moth to a flame.  While it may be scaled down immensely from the mighty Collins (which I do miss very much), having a chorus up to a IV Fourniture on the Great was pleasing once again.  There was even a tierce for my characteristic Dutch warmth... Although I never took the Pachelbel G minor Fantasia to play sadly!  The Collins registrations inside my Pachelbel book reveal an eclectic reed building, with a HW of Trompette 8', Oktave 4', Quint 2 2/3', Superoktave 2' and Tierce 1 3/5', with a RP of Dulzian 16', Gedact 8' and Principal 4' coupled up.  Gritty, reedy, earthy and downright nasty, especially in that E flat minor moment, flavoured by the Valotti temperament.  Delicious!  


However.  Now is a time for looking forward.  This may prove more difficult in some circumstances than others, but there's time.  Time is what we all need every now and again.  I need some time to reassess.  I need a job, yes, but a 9-5 desk job is somewhat outside of my power.  I felt stretched to my absolute limits.  The number of days where I didn't want to get out of bed aren't worth talking about, so I shan't bother.  I do need money coming in, to fuel the lifestyle I have become acquianted with, to fund travel hither and yon, and to keep getting past this overdraft.  Originally, the first letter of the title of this post was a 'D', but I figured that it was better to look forward instead.  While I might be cut up right now, I know deep down that I am in a position of many opportunities: emotionally, professionally and financially.


I will never give up, and that maxim reflects on everything - I will certainly never stop trying to improve myself in every way shape and form available.


Watch this space, because with the increased amount of free time I have now I shall certainly be finding time and place to write some more.  I have several drafts to finish (or actually start afresh...), and Lord knows I've got a lot to say.  I'm just so outspoken.

Knock knock, it's the Abyss

You know, I can't remember if I've said anything about this before, I suppose it doesn't really matter as it's a relevant issue every fucking day.  Although I suppose you might get bored if every time I publish it's always about this.  But really, that's what my life is like.  If you've never been depressed, and (arguably) more importantly don't care about something that doesn't affect you, then get lost.  I'm serious.  You should leave, and that soon.

You're not going to like this.

I heard actually, that depression affects a ratio of one to every one person.  Everybody, at some time, will suffer in their life, but to what degree and in what respect will differ.  Sometimes, it goes too far, and some people choose to justify the mental anguish with physical pain, such as self-harm, killing other people, or even killing themselves.  But funnily enough, I'm not one of them.  Surprising, I know. perhaps we could finally get some eschatological verification if I was.

No, I don't talk about my depression very often, because, guess what you guys!  It depresses me.  I guess the trouble all started when...uh...well, actually it's been so long I can't even remember now.  Of course I always hoot on about my second year at univerity as the worst time.  Funnily enough, this was not just down to my precarious living arrangement but also my choral employment at the time.  Yes that's right.  The Parish Church or St. Peter Mancroft.  Arguably it would have been worse if I had never been.  I mean, my official position is never to wish that things had been different, or I would never have wound up wherever I did for the next thing &c &c, but maybe this one could have done with t a little more thought.  My time at Mancroft is the reason why I never claim to be a singer by trade, why I am prouder of my Organ playing than anything else, and why I have absolutely zero confidence.  It'd be like... the killer that got killed on the job.  Obvioulsy I love making ridiculous statements though.  However, enough with the jokes.  The only thing that Mancroft did for my singing was tell me that I was wrong.  If there was a mistake, it was always my fault.  My tone was always too strong and my consonants too big and it was always my fault.  Obviously I wish to paint myself as the sympathetic hero, but actually, I don't.  I'm not quite that stupid.  Why was I loud, and forthright &c &c?  Because I wanted to do my best.  I was taught to lead, so that's what I tried to do.  Take the initiative and use my greater experience of repertoire.  Not the best idea though.  Perhaps it's all in the execution.  Anyway, I was never good enough to do any solos until the last service, basically, and that was my fault as well.  How?  Well, I was told that I "should be subserviant" to the director, and that's an actual quote fact fans.  No merit based rewards there then.  I can take that though, being a stubborn little shite at even the best of times. 

Singing was all I was ever really good at (other than philosophy), and to have this unending stream of criticism, especially at that time, was somewhat harmful to one's own personal development.  Why the fuck should I bother carrying on, if everything I do is wrong?  Bit of a foregone conclusion there, eh?

Well, anyway, I decided to go back to University for a third year, and back to Mancroft for a second round.  I never quit, because I'm a) an idiot and b) the type to see something out to the bitter end, which is also why I went back to Uni.  I never for a second really thought I could rescue the clusterfuck of that second year, but gave it a shot anyway.  More on that and the result later.  The next and again most pressing item is of course the lack of employment.  Now, see here.  Turns out that this gig at Truro is exactly what it says on the tin.  We're Scholars to the Cathedral, and not employees.  As such, it's not technically a job, even though you have to put a hell of a lot of hard work into it.  At the moment we're doing a lot of things that I happen to know, but the only advantage this gives me is that I can watch more.  No technical advantage, nor musical advantage (remember my technique is terrible and I spent the last two years getting everything wrong), but just watching.  It's a speciality.

But anyway, just like the summer, I've been trying to find work.  And just like the summer, I've been having absolutely no luck at all.  Yesterday alone I made five separate job applications, for kitchen porter work and bar positions around the city, with no reply as yet.  Obviously I have no bar experience in a commercial sense, so it doesn't look good really, does it?  If you don't have experience you can't get the job, but if you can't get the job how will you get experience?  Ho hum.  Anyway, I suppose all I can do now is wait.  I can't even get JSA again like I did because my mother is my official representative or whatever the term is, so she has to be legally present for everything.  Even if I wanted to sign on again (which, financially is an excellent idea at the moment), I couldn't.  I must, therefore, survive on the stipend handed out by the Cathedral, a not impossible task, but far from desirable.  Also, I would have something else to do in the day than sit around drinking tea and waiting for the world to end.

And now I turn to what to do next year?  Obviously I can't be a choral scholar forever.  I am looking at continuing my education. However.  I have two major problems.  The first is my degree.  At a second class, second division, it's not exactly cutting any mustard anywhere.  Firsts or 2:1s are the accepted order of the day.  The other option is of course a performance Diploma, a little research into those however reveals the high cost of such an operation - somewhat out of reach for the poor and unemployed.  I haven't even done anything about singing lessons down here in case they cost actual money, an unnatural resource I seem to be fairly free of.  There's about 40p in my wallet, I suppose that'll have to do.

I'm almost out of my depth.  Almost.  I can cope with a daily service (just about, my warbling is holding out - in fact, I was told by my Lay-Vicar counterpart that I was "good" and "louder than both the past two scholars put together" so there's some mileage there I suppose), I can deal with the amount of music being put in front of me, and the fact that usually there's only an hour's rehearsal before it's done and then put away.  Singing is what I do, and doing it I am.  However.  It is the rest of it that I am struggling with, struggling being the operative term, and struggling being the right word indeed.  Without a Student Loan to top my overdraft up like the last two years, I feel pretty much financially helpless.  I want a job, but obviously I'm terrified.  I guess I'd be ok once I started, but it's just getting that start.  Going out and getting a job will always be nigh-on impossible I suppose, but I just want a fucking chance.  Obviously I am asking for too much. 

My favourite metaphor for how I feel is being punched in the face, every day.  I'd say try it but I know you don't want to; well boo hoo because I don't get any choice.  You can get punched in the face for a week, say, and still come up smiling.  Maybe it's funny, like a game: get up again and again and maybe you can earn another smack in the chops!  Brilyunt.  Remember, points mean prizes, right?  Well, extend the metaphor for ever, basically.  I can only keep getting knocked back by prospective employers, or my bank balance, or perhaps the unhealthy assumption that I come from a well-off background and have a rosy-looking childhood.  No, no, no and no.  Being so far from my frinds and family is beginning to hurt.  It feels like I am out here alone.  Of course, I am surrounded by people and services and whatnot and what have you, but I essentially chose to throw myself deep into unknown territory without a wingman, basically.

Of course, I am harking on to an absurdity, because this is exactly how I felt this time last year.  Actually NO IT WASN'T.  I was scared then, but hopeful and optimistic and above all, determined.  I am sorely lacking this fine character attributes today though.  Upset, uncertainty of the future, financial worries, absolutely everything.

POSTSCRIPTUM

Well that was hard.  That also took all week to write, in one everlasting draft.  But I had to.  I have been very bad at keeping this updated, I mean, I still have my little loveletter to SUDA 51 to write and I have noticed a predeliction for existentialist cinema that might merit discussion as well.  Services are moderately tough, but  I'm keeping my wits about me, and can't really say farer than that.  I have never been happier not to have perfect pitch though.  I sing every night of the week, but still have nothing to do in the day.  I haven't sung proper Barbershop since the end of term in June.  I'm just a little lost.  I have no idea where I'm going next, I have very little idea what I'll be doing tomorrow in fact.  It's all quite bad.  If I were a real person, I'd have this all figured out by now.  Or, more likely, know enough of the right people to get me there without having to think myself.  Oh well.  Such is my lot.

Knock knock.

TRU

Well.  two weeks in and I'm still alive.

Lapsed Songman and Organ Scholar Emeritus, now Choral Scholar of Truro Cathedral.  Looks good, doesn't it?  Feels pretty good too.  It's nice to be working hard again.  I say working hard, it's still just under 16 hours a week, and I haven't managed to become employed.  Harsh. It's not that I'm not applying, it's just that I'm not being employed!  This is the real world though, so it is folly to expect anything else...

I haven't written for a long time.  Once again, I've been getting used to this new and distinct reality, where rehearsal is brief and drink is expensive.  My bank account reads like it's almost a quarter past three in the afternoon, but minus.  I'm not stopping this, no way, but I have been somewhat distracted by the business of living, which as we all know is very annoying.

My abode is known colloquially as "The Squalory".  Looking at the Kitchen in its current state it's not hard to guess why.  Once again my masterful pot washing and cleaning skills are being exercised daily, also in as much as thanks to my dear mother, the spirit of a clean kitchen has been instilled into me from a young age.  My room however, is the usual incarnation of chaos.  I have a floor and hoover once a week, so it's better than last year!  See that it is messy but not dirty, cant stand it if it's dirty.  I'm sat here dying inside thinking about the kitchen.  GOD DAMN IT THE KITCHEN NEEDS MY HELP.

However, the singing is good.  I haven't had any lessons (no monies), but it feels good.  I need to find my edge again, but there's no use ruining things.  Below me lives a graduate of the Royal Northern, behond me lives an old boy from St. Paul's, and next door lives an ex-private boarder, with whom I seem to have formed some sort of subversive double act.  It appears I am become quite the stooge in my cynicism.

So.  Same Peb, different county.  Or country, if you are so inclined.  It's early days, but it's all looking up!  Watch this space. 

It's not your time

Once again, I'm concious of falling behind. It's been tough finding the time and the inspiration to write, and as my excellent friend, Mr. William Fergusson once said, "If you're trying too hard it isn't working." I had a half finished post...but it seems to have since disappeard off the face of the internet. Ponderous.

The biggest bug bear of late, just like this time last year, is trying to find a job. Now, I have a job for September. Yes, that's fine. That'll be my Choral Scholarship in Truro. But that is September. This is the middle of July. You will notice that there are at least six weeks between then and now. That's quite a while. In fact, that's a very long time when you're as deep into your overdraft as I am. I'm not in a position to disclose the numbers, but if you'd like to ask me in person I can certainly tell you that way.

Now. I'm one of the last people to say that money is the key to happiness. Far from it in fact. However, money is the key to...kind of everything else. Transport, food, drink...you know the drill. There's no such thing as a free lunch. Walking's free, but so's pain. See, this is getting pretty tenuous, because I'm pretty fucking fed up of being completely skint. Yesterday I did a CV run through Derby, just like last time, with my new and improved Curriculum Vitae, to much the same result. I don't want you to put my CV on file if you're not going to employ me! Why can't things be this simple? Either employ or not. Right? No. Sorry. Far too simple. And possibly fair?

Did I also mention that I went and signed on last week? Possibly the worst moment of my entire life. You know I've been rejected, insulted, dumped, drugged up bummed out ain't no one coming back for me, depressed, drunk, lost...ok, enough. But seriously, if you're a graduate, don't go to the job centre and sign on. Please, I implore you, this must be a last ditch option. There is no part of this...system...that inspires you to seek out decent work. In fact, it's pretty grim for staying on the dole. If I am to be met with the same patronising attitude that I was in applying for this 'benefit', I shall be throwing in the towel and hiding in a hole in the ground for the duration of the summer! Might be cheaper anyway.

I still haven't got in touch with the Organist at my local Parish. I'm not trying to, but effortlessly succeeding at putting this off. I know the guy, he's an old friend, I know the church, I know the instrument. No problem? In fact, the particularly acidic tone of the Gt. Trompette would be very helpful in this new French music J of N has st me. Not quite the Collins, but with plenty of body. In fact, speaking of J of N...

That man. That man and his politics. I don't know. I mean, I'm no 'treat-'em-mean-keep-'em-keen-Haggett' so I shall never truly understand, and I believe that his Modus Operandi is hidden even from himself, and certainly from that Contralto. Unfortunately, if I get asked a straight question I tend to give a straight answer. Whatever. He's still a good friend, even after his difficult if not impossible to consture blip at the end of term. He's putting us up at Grad weekend, and he's my co-architect of currying. I doubt there'll be another like him, especially down in the deep south. Also, curry in Truro is rather expensive. I'll be...oooo forced to flex my curry muscles and hone my skills. WHAT A SHAME.

I might yet still lose my temper. I haven't decided. I might try and stir up as much trouble as I can at Grad, I mean, it'll be my last chance for a while. Or maybe that wouldn't be cricket. Ho ho.

Anyway. Family Reunion is in the works. That'll be my tour for the summer, and a hard earned return it will be as well.

So. We'll see how this Vac goes. Just take it as it comes, eh?

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.

Waltzing Mathilda*

Last night I got very upset. I sat up til a rather small hour in the morning, feeling like a total idiot and mostly ashamed that I could let my spine go slithering out of me at so great a speed. Yes, that's right...

At the heart of this, there is a woman. Actually, more correctly that my heart is after a woman, a lady, a most beautiful girl. You know the drill. I'm going stupid over a girl. I'd seen her before and thought about how pretty she is but I was after other people at the time, and I can't even begin to describe the time I wasted doing so. That said, maybe I'll be saying the same thing is a few week's time? In a few week's time it'll be the Easter Holiday though, and the aforementioned young lady will presumably be going home for the month**. She was around the flat the other night with my favourite niece before they went out. I looked again, and saw, as the eye of the beholder always does, beauty. I haven't been able to stop thinking about her since the end of last week. She's absolutely beautiful. In form and moving how express and admirable! How like an Angel!

*a-hem*

Aw, how sweet! No. I don't do sweet. It's intrinsically in my nature to be an old-fashioned dating kind of person because you know what, I had it once and I enjoyed it. Deep joy! I say things like the above because I do, there's no effort behind it. I'm not out to be sweet. It's like sugar in the wounds. I have heard the phrase "Oh, that's really sweet...but let's just be friends" one way or another more times that I can care to recall (ok, maybe like 12 tops actually), or should I say, more times than is satisfactory. I won't move to ask someone unless I think there's a huge chance they'll say yes. I won't actually do anything if I have any doubt, which, honestly, I'm suffering from at the moment. There's only one of me, but I wish I had a one and only to go with me.

I operate on very basic principles. I'm not sure what they are exactly, but they have to be simple as I'm a man, and therefore have a low brain activity threshold. I'm hyperactive, yes, and that means I can be empty-headed several times faster than the average bear, nothing more. Sweet makes it sound like I'm going out of my way, which I don't think it is. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I greatly miss being with someone, going out and staying in, cooking dinner, watching a film...you know, all the usual things. It makes me feel comfortable thinking about it. I am excited, yes folks, excited about the chance of being able to live what can only be termed as a normal life...with someone by my side! I can hear laughter in the aisles! Why aren't you taking me seriously? You there, with the smirk, why can't you believe me? Good God.

I am tired of being 'just friends'. I am tired of being unable, through a lack of opportunity, understanding or otherwise to form a relationship that's both romantic and sexual. I am tired of being in second place. I am tired of being afraid because I don't know. I'm tired of being autistic, but there's the kicker ending folks! I don't get chance to not be!

I'm out of practice when it comes to courtship. In fact, I'm so old hat, I still call it courtship. My considerable courage that gets me out of the flat every day begins to waver with the involvement of an attractive lady, so much so in fact that I got sucker-punched like a little bitch by the double team of depression and anxiety last night.

When I get depressed at times like these, my famous and infamous "time of the month", I revert to almost what might have been had I not been brought up a fighter. That's right, I get affected by the emergence of the full moon; a true lunatic***. Wasted and wounded, the battle gets taken out of my hands though, and instead of railing against the heavens the heavens start to rail against me. I become depressed beyond control, anxious beyond measure and terrified by the new; in short, the crippling lack of social ability befitting an Obsessive Compulsive sufferer of Asperger's Syndrome.

Then, I get angry. Angry with myself. It's almost as if I'm trapped within a shell (glass cage of emotion?), locked in, able to see out but not able to change anything I see. This happens a lot, and stands as an explanation of much of my bitterness. It's directed wholly at myself, for my own shame of inadequacy, and not directed at the outside world half as often as may be assumed.



So anyway. There's this girl (please do not adjust your set, please do not cut/paste liberally from any number of my previous scribings, as similar as they may well be). And...well...she's just...yes, she's just that. I really like her, for no discernable reason except for the fact that I really like her.


So, what am I going to do? Well, what do you think I'm going to do, fair reader? Answers on the back of a postage stamp to the usual address. Someone out there will know who I'm talking about. Most of you might not, and there's even a chance that it's you, actually you. It's much easier for me to talk about things like this when I'm running the show, when I get to play King of the Jungle. You waltzed into my kingdom because I wanted you to. Don't forget to pick the wooden fruit.






* CLUE LOL
**Another CLUE LOL
***More accurately, the effect of the waxing gibbous

...For a Good Year

The alternate title of this post is "Last Orders"

There's no end to the melodrama, as this is THE LAST BLOG OF THE YEAR ARGH ASDFASDFASDF

I can't believe it's the 29th of December.  Perhaps I don't want to believe it's the 29th.  Where the hell has the year gone?  Tomorrow I'll be writing my New Year's awards tomorrow on Facebook, where dirt won't be dished, and prizes have already been handed out.  At this moment in time I'm savouring a particularly sarcastic response from Eric Pollard.  

I shan't miss 2010.  How do you say it?  Twenty ten?  Two thousand and ten?  Or do you articulate raw numerals, without transliterating them?  MMX?  Em Em Ex?  Whatever; this year that's just finishing can do one.  One disaster after another effectively reduced me to the simpering pile of depression that you've been reading about, and my intractability and foolhardyness (bravery?) means I won't take any anti-depressants and I certainly won't run the gauntlet of Adult Mental Health Services, as if the Dean of Students' office is anything to go by, it'll be a fucking waste of my time!  HO HO HO.

So anyway.  Let's look forward instead.  Like John DeVore, I also believe that New Year's Resolutions are for suckers.  I'm sure there's a lot of you out there, either dedicated readers, onetime passers by, or even those who do not or will not read this, that in fact do make resolutions.  More accurately, I suppose resolutions are for losers, not us freaks.  I think that reflects me "us and them" philosophy, right?  I do not wish to insult you at all, dear reader or hypothetical reader or non-reader.  I haven't made a resolution at New Year since 2006, where I resolved to never make a resolution again.  A resolution I've kept ever since.  

The deal with New Year's Resolutions are pretty tricky.  Usually, the process of giving up smoking, losing weight, drinking less (all of which are perfectly possible) get swept up into the ridiculous stress of the turn of the year, and therefore most people give up by the 15th of February.  I think that's the average date for losing out anyway.  So, in a typical turn of mind, I promised I would never ever put myself under that undue stress again, and therefore got myself out of the game.  Of course I have a list of things for this year that will, if carried out, make it different from last year.  I have many things to focus on.

I have a barbershop quartet to run, and Organ Scholarship to progress through, a Choral Scholarship to survive, and a solo career to begin.  Not forgetting my dissertation and project.  I mean, seriously.  I haven't got time to moan about not getting a girlfriend...until after April, anyway, when all my academic projects have to be handed in.  At which point it will be this blog's anniversary, and I can start moaning again!  AHAHAHA.  As if I'll wait that long!  I give it two weeks personally.  Cough.  

But anyway.  I'm slightly worse for wear.  A dedicated cynic trying to be cheerful in the face of the New Year.  I want to have a good year, and I want you to have a good year.  We're about to enter the third decade of Pebblez, and I'm tired of the sub-par existence I've had of late, and I'm going to do my best to turn it around.  Not by resolving to, but just by doing so.  

Whatever you resolve to do, I hope you stick to it.  It's tough, and that's why I chose to do something more realistic.  If you succeed, I salute you.  If you don't, just keep at it.  Until next year, and next decade, I shan't be writing any more bullshit.  

And I only wish that all of you  may be sealed and inscribed for a good year.  

Losing it, or 'Lamentio in divers parts'

De* lamentationem de Ethan Ben Saul**, Cantorae...

Well, the dust has settled if only somewhat from the hurly-burly of last week's emotional endeavours, and now we look forward to the field of battle to be entered, that of the profession I like to think of as my vocation, yes kids that calling again, being a musician.  Only then can we truly say that it's over, because the worst is yet to come.  

So, what am I losing?  Surely I'm always on the losing side?  Victory doesn't favour me very often, that's true.  But let's look in that sideways fashion (if you're having difficulty imaging that just turn your head sideways as you read) like I always do, and see if we can learn anything through that most important of rabbinical teaching tools...sarcasm.  I'm going to take a two-pronged attitude to this; one prong will be my never ending campaign against the vicissitudes of emotion, and the other...well, the other will be everything else; finance, work, and the reality of being disabled.  I realise that in putting a like in my sidebar of my FaceyB removes much of the anonimity that I once enjoyed, but if you don't know me by now, you never will.  Or maybe you won't ever?  Hmm.  But I will be very careful with names &c...I don't want people working out that I've referred to them quite so quickly, for reasons that will become clear as we plough on.

Well shoot.  As I'm sure you can work out for yourself, things have proceeded in their usual fashion: I like a girl, decide to take the plunge and do something about it and end up being, well, you know...rejected.  Ugh, nasty, eh?  I decided to throw all caution to the winds and just go with my gut and that didn't really end in the fashion I was hoping.  The hell it did.  I ended up walking home through snow in the park to get back.  I say that and make it sound terrible, but I had always planned the long walk home regardless of the outcome.  I guess I can say that I held me head up high, and did and died!  While my courage might have been slightly dutch, at least I went.  But like always, it's a sharp reminder of the sad truth that I cannot, and never will be able to tell when is the right time or who is the right person.  I thought I had made made the right decision.  There's no way under the heavens I would have even considered it had I not thought it was certain.  Look, this isn't meant to be some sort of internet-based guilt trip either.  It is the way of all things, and of course as I like to say, the shape of things to come.  It's just how it went.

But what happens then?  I can only doubt my judgement.  Perhaps Descartes was right, and sensory information id indeed a total falsehood.  I can only perceive these things to be through my senses, and not through a priori reasoning.  In fact, using my powers of reason only leads me to one question: who would look at a freak like me?

Although it's not like this is an unique occurrence this term.  Long time readers and neighbours may remember that time at the end of September, when I lost it completely and ended up bawling my eyes out.  And then what about all the people whose names I've never dropped as well?  Apart from the loser I've had more than enough heart ache in between; passing fancies not accounted for (or indeed those already in relationships because I sure can't tell who is or isn't these days).  I was moved to pass a fresher until the eternal words "I hope you don't fancy me" happened and I also decided that I wasn't going to have another Stockholm Syndrome relationship.  Then there was her from the Other Place; it was always tenuous but after Saturday night's Crime of the Century, I fear it may not be just I who reassess my position.  More on that story later.  And of course, the lady I followed through sheer intuition.  The question truly remains unanswered (in my mind at least), but two good and close friends have told me to shut up shop and move on, to avoid the chance of future upset.  I have to admit, it's probably for the best.  I can't help but see the pattern formed.  What can I do though?  Being told to give up and leave off never sits well with me, due to the fact that my daily existence keeps me away from the majority of people being, y'know, autistic and feeling uncomfortably awkward in any social situation.  Perhaps it's my efforts of seeming normal that have made people forget that any gathering of any sort pushes me to the edge of my coping, and God alone help me with interpersonal contact and indeed any sort of intimacy.  Oy gevalt.

Which leads me to the next part.  Crime of the Century.  Ho ho.  I'm using this as my example, as it reminded me of well, everything, I suppose.  I won't name names.  Mainly because I suppose I won't have to.  The particulars are irrelevant, it's more that I observed and recalled.  Or maybe the disbelief.  

Watching two people, arguably with the aid of alcohol (but how much aid was really needed is a subject of much speculation), who became continually closer as time went on (but only a short space) and shared...how do we say...a succession of moments.  Suffice to say, it wasn't that this was happening that distressed me so much, more that I found myself thinking that I have almost completely forgotten how I would do similar.  There is no situation in my life now that demands a knowledge of one-to-one (or indeed, one-on-one) intimacy, even less that require the action.  It was just at that point that I realised it had gone completely and that I had lost it, that I decided to get completely smashed.  It made me remember what I had and what I lost, and I'm frightened I will never have it back.  

So where does that leave me?  A bucketload of self-doubt, a lack of self-worth, and certainly no belief in one's self.  And of course, the question.  Who would even look at a poor, mentally disabled depressed cripple?  Yes, I'm back on the stick.  Snow, freezing fog and a night temperature of minus FUCKING five means I am down to using my cane again.  I tread a fine line of having enough ankle support and keeping the blood flowing.  Oh, that and the fine dusting of grey hair I have now.  Feh.

So, anyway.  Sexual frustration aside, I am tired and I have had enough.  But I can't stop, because I never do.  You'd have thought I'd have learnt something by now, but OH NO.  Not me!  No sir.  I'm going to keep on until I go snow white.  And what about the girl who calls me Bubby?  Even in my iciest of dispositions I can't help but kindle warmth for her; she improves my day more than I should want to admit, but sure as hell I ain't gonna breathe a word.  Other than this, I'm keeping that one close to my chest.  Well, I should like to keep her close to my chest, but you know, I'm not even sure I'd know what to do anymore.  I'm repeating myself now, so I shall stop.  If you've read this far, then congratulations!  Hopefully there won't be another pathetic moan like this for another month or so.

I can't go on, I must go on.  I have no choice.  The less people can tell, the better.  Tomorrow is my recital day, and I must sleep to prepare.  

* 'Of' or 'from', 'out of' &c

** My name as originally intended, in its Hebrew form

Wherein I become an Archeologist

You can pretty much take the title at face value; this week I've been rearranging/clearing/sorting my room.  Admittedly I could try harder, liiiiiike instead of doing half the things I've done this past week I could have spent the entire time cleaning up &c &c, but you know me.  I don't like change.

It's been quite the journey of discovery.  Most of the detritus in my room as a whole is arranged in layers, or Strati, coincidentally the name of one of my favourite albums ever.  In fact, the initial move to clean up was based on my losing of two vitally important and imported artifacts, the 2003 Gameboy Advance release of Fire Emblem, imported just after its American debut in early February, and the aforementioned Strati, Stemage's debut solo album of 2006.  With the safe return of these two, progress has ground slowly to a bit of a halt, but upon my own mother's threats will resume with gusto in the morning.  

I like to stack things.  As a recovering Tetris-addict, I love stacking things.  Thing is though, as I stack all my belongings, they (arguably thankfully) don't disappear when lines form.  Instead they teeter menacingly so I begin a new pile and often mix piles together when they inevitably fall.  Right now from my seat I can see a stack of music, shoes, lumberjack shirts and bags.  Y'know, Christmas present bags.  Not to mention the pile of all my old school books under the desk.  Oh yes.  Unless I specifically need or want to, there are no magical "Hey!  Look at this book from year 8!" moments, thanks to my tight organisational scheme.  I'm not getting rid of them, but I don't need them on show either.  There are two stacks, at least 40 books deep each if not more.  I'm still waiting for a long piece to come down.

Rearranging drawers has formed the most part of this operation so far, and a great deal of history has been uncovered in doing so!  As usual, instead of actually throwing anything out, I'm just restacking the existing contents and leaving it at that.  Seeing as I'm keeping everything anyway, there's no point in doing anything else, right?  Right.  Because I'm allowing my belongings to remain in their original states almost, I can track back to when they were originally put away, and recall exactly what was going off when, and gradually recall who and what and all sorts of things that are all connected to the particular order of this or that there pile.  Fascinating.  

Also fascinating but horrific in its own special way, is the amount of dust that everything attracts.  I have swallowed several pints of the stuff just over the last 4 days alone, some unique type of conqueror dust that chokes and blinds and still carries the smell of a former deodourant.  Mmmm.  Delicious.  This ever-increasing dust cloud has been one of the many events that I have used to my advantage in order to slow and ultimately postpone the process of reordering my personal pit.  

There is a bag for refuse though.  Some things just have to be thrown out after all this time, like broken bike lights, pens that no longer work, rubbish...you know, the usual.  Although usually, I just put all these things in another place in my room so I can keep hold of them, just in case.  Upon further assessment, my room is in essence a gigantic version of Michael McIntyre's Man Drawer, (SPOILER ALERT) in which the unlikely hero of the sketch is a man with a slight hoarding compulsion, who is called upon to use his wild and varied items to...er, do something that I have forgotten.  

Other than digging through piles and piles of books, toys and musical instruments, I also quite successfully rearranged the inside of my wardrobe, making it much easier for the unfamiliar (or just the familiar) to navigate.  My suits have been spread rather liberally around the upstairs, as there's no way they'll ever fit now.  Let's dive in to some incredibly boring/earth-shatteringly interesting/beard scratching factoids:

! Alongside my seven waistcoats, six complete suits, two jackets and thirteen pairs of trousers, I own forty shirts, including dress shirts with both full and wing collars, work shirts, ten that belong to dedicated combinations, and both black and white linen shirts.  Not to mention colour-coded lumberjack shirts (three) with their own dedicated combination rules.

" I still have custody of Anna Proctor's red Ukulele.

£ I made a pair of Nunchucks out of wood from IKEA, string and sellotape.  

$ I own eight rulers that are 12" long, and one that is 18"

% I have a drawer dedicated to plain t-shirts

^ I have kept all of my old pairs of glasses.  All 12 pairs.

& I have a bust of Luigi of Nintendo fame, which I asked Nathan to make for me in order to enter a competition, but then decided it was too nice to send off (no returns policy), so I decided to keep it.

* I really do own a copy of Super Metroid. 

()All the clocks in my room show different times.

Wow.  Don't scratch your beard too hard now.

So there we have it.  This operation will continue, at some sort of rate, notwithstanding visitors, pub trips, and days where I can't be arsed.  I own a lot of strange things, and I'm not even talking about my Transformers either.  I can see a Sega Megadrive from where I'm sat, the box proudly proclaiming its 16-bit Hardware architecture.  

And don't forget the Bongos...

There's no place like...

After a night with my back line at HQ, I made the plunge earlier today.  Saddled up and ready to take the ever-shifting road system on, I took the Dawes out to cycle down to the armpit of the midlands.  You will never a more wretched hive of scum and villainy...than Derby!

That's right.  Urbs Natalis is once again Urbs Currens.  The bastards couldn't kill me, not when I have THIS to return to.  There's something vaguely comforting about almost being mown down by bright yellow taxis, the 01332 area code, the tacky pubs and clubs...I could go on.  The surrounding countryside knocks a lot of the rest of this country into a cocked hat, what with stunning vistas and thrilling valleys, quaint villages with their churches and so on and so forth.  At some point I will even venture out to the aforementioned tacky locales, populated as they are by the fleshpots of Derby...Ugh.  But you know, it's good to be back.  I mean, really good.

As we reached the end of the academic year, I rather began to run out of chutzpah.  Unsatisfactory housing, lack of food and a lot of upset, mostly emotional, do not agree with people of my delicate temperament.  Oh, best mark that down on your calendars or something, because I'm not going to refer to myself as delicate very often.  Capisce?  Anyway.  I think I got a bit cabin feverish towards the last few days, it still hasn't quite left me.  The cycling helps, as concentrating on the road leaves little room for anything else, and I get a break from the unbearable lightness of being, especially after the last week.  Those who know, know.  Some things...just never go my way.  

As far away from Norfolk as I am, I still have a lot left to do before I can really rest up.  I have to salvage my housing situation, which is bloody complicated to say the least.  Watch this space, eh?  I need to get in touch with several relevant parties and basically break to bad news, which won't be pretty.  I need to arrange the tour as well, and hopefully it will take me even further away from the East Anglian part of England, in a geographical sense anyway.  I almost don't want to go back at all now.  I really really don't.  This year has been one of the hardest I've had the fortune to survive, and I can quite comfortably say I don't relish the idea of any more like it, especially if next year will follow the same pattern.  I've never been so ill in all my life!  I genuinely thought I was going to die when a Ginsters Deep Fill Chicken & Bacon sandwich gave me food poisoning, the malicious bastard, and let's not forget my very own dalliance with the Swine Flu.  The upset, the failures, the backstabbing, the junior handshake clubs and financial ruin have taken an almost fatal toll on me.  Why would I want to put myself back into that situation?  Why do I have to?

But I will.  The time will come in September when we pack me up again and shift me across the country to Norwich, to see off the final year, the last hurrah.  And it really will be the last as well.  I plan to move up North and find my fortune not on stage, but as a Layclerk, hopefully with some sort of archive/library job on the side.  London would chew my up and spit me out, I don't have the wherewithal to cope with the Bog Smoke just yet, but one day I will.  It's just that I'm going to take my time over it.  

There are many people I don't want to leave behind from Norwich, and indeed Norfolk.  The people and places, on the whole (with some notable exceptions) are fine.  The situations I find myself in though, are deplorable.  Unfamiliarity breeds contempt, and I would rather soak up the radiation from the free wi-fi outside the Big Blue Coffee Shop than anywhere Norwich has to offer.  This is my home, as much as my mother has abandoned Derby for "Skeg Vegas", this is still my place.  You could accuse me of being small minded and having no ambition, but seeing as I have a desire to escape Norfolk I urge you to reconsider.  At a push, there are even people I would want to bring back here...both to add to the back line but also to stand at the forefront with me...but I'm getting ahead of myself.  

I'm glad I'm back.  Almost happy...(more on that story later)  The tour continues.  It's just nice to be able to have a rest again.

And as you close your eyes...

"What are you doing here, Peb?"

Actually it's a good question.  Taken out of context it looks strange, but to be fair in the context it was more than relevant.  The unfortunate nature of my badman cyclist tactics (and that means at high speed (speed limits don't apply to cyclists, right?)) means I need a short breather after such distance is traversed, and thus I was still around to be questioned, but to be honest we're straying into less-than-abstract commentary on reality and more into analysing the shadows on the cave walls, so enough enough.  

Not only was I asked that question earlier with good reason (my reaction was a little overblown and hardnosed though.  In my valiant attempt to not be bitter I have acquired a certain...insensitivity), but recalling the experience reminds me of an episode even earlier in the evening (look at that cave wall go), with the inimitable J of N.  During a usual conversation about the poor end of the stall, and I was pretty wound up, I recounted my continual pride of having left the house, and indeed leaving the house every single day.  "Pardon?"  Utter confusion reigned over my compatriot's reply.  Indeed, why should I be proud of such a mundane act?  Perhaps you should ask why shouldn't I be proud of it.

Ladies and Gentlemen, you are reading the handiwork an adult living with a disability.  SHOCK HORROR NERD HAS CRIPPLING FEELINGS OF SOCIAL INADEQUACY AND WRITES ABOUT IT ON THE INTERNET.  Get over it.  

I'm not a cripple (not just yet anyway, but I'm heading that way for sure), but rather I "suffer", if you are closed-minded enough to think of it in that way with Asperger's Syndrome, or Autistic Spectrum Disorder.  Or if you're really ignorant, I'm some freakish nutjob who can't tie his shoelaces properly.  (True fact though)  Not only that but I have a list of symptoms as long as your arm (even you, Mr. Fantastic) and also put up with Attention Defecit Hyperactivity Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Dyspraxia, Dysgraphia, and Synesthesia.  Also due to my Autism I have an inbuilt disregard for authority short of total disrespect, which can often reflect in my language.  No, not my fremdsprache but more the fact that my usual patter is peppered with more expletives than your body has room for, spun off the tongue with the same casual attitude as a simple "how do you do".  Well, that and I genuinely believe there is respectable mileage in Anarchism.  ANYWAY, ON WITH THE SHOW.

Last I heard, and indeed, as I tell anyone who will listen, when I started at University, in a the clement September of 2008, the drop out rate for students with Asperger's was 80% within the first month.  Ok, you can prove anything with statistics, but still, 80%?  An almost overwhelming majority feel that the strain is too much, and make a tactical retreat.  Now, I don't have a hold on these statistics by any means, so say maybe 20% 0f that 80% choose to reapply...and say within 3 years as well.  Maybe I'm right?  Seems like a nice figure anyway.  Now, stick with me here.  This pristine figure that I clasp to my bosom only refers to students in the first year.  What about the years after that?  How many Autistic students make it through their degrees?  How many of them never move off campus?  I can confirm that out of a definite 16 students with Asperger's Syndrome (at the beginning of this year), I was the only one who demanded (and I bloody demanded alright) to live off campus.  I am proud to push myself beyond all safe limits and try to live as ordinary a life as I possibly can.  The repercussions can take their toll though; every so often I need to switch off and get out of the game, but only as a temporary tactical withdrawal.  I'm often back in the game before I know it.  Yes, I have a crippling phobia of clowns, Yes I need my shopping to be on the conveyor belt in a certain way (I get stared at regularly) and YES I have a black and white view on ethics, morality &c &c.  What I'm doing here, is bucking the trend and proving to myself as much as everyone else that I will not be beaten by my labels and symptoms.  I will be out there making a difference until the very last second.

"What are you doing here, Peb?"  Just trying to do a favour for a friend.  There's always another way.  

And as  you close your eyes for the Big Sleep, I hope you think of me.