Overdue

It's been a while.  All cobwebs are figurative, because this is the internet and they don't have that sort of thing here.  In spite of the lack of any new content, page views are ticking over though, and I won't be surprised if this post facilitates the 11,000th view, an amazing number of unexpected magnitude - although this is barely over the three years mark, that "Blog Every Day in May" thing certainly helped, with May itself having some 2000 visits alone.  Had I not have put myself through such a grueling schedule, perhaps I would still be looking forward to the big ten thou?  Having no formal training in style, and often showing dreadful inconsistencies of tone, I can't help but wonder just what is so compelling about all this.  I moan, wail and hammer on about how miserable things are, perhaps impart secrets of hopeless devotion, the lack of definition or direction.  There are even posts about that time I was dreadfully ill and lost almost half a stone overnight, I suppose there must be something about the time I had the Swine Flu...?  I can't imagine it happened before I started writing surely not?  Oh I can't find anything, not even circumstantial evidence from that time I went to a Green Party social in the Eton Cottage (pictures are on my laptop, not on the internet) and looked the then-leader of the Green Party for Norwich straight in the eye, after firmly shaking his hand, and answered the question "So what's your interest in the Green Party?" with 'None at all; I do not believe in centralised government.', which really put the wind up him.  In all honesty, my interest in the Green Party was completely invested in the girl I was seeing at the time, a young lady I now regard with very mixed emotions: some pride and a little envy, possibly even a hint of regret and perhaps something I'm not quite equipped linguistically or emotionally to express, as I am met by wave upon wave repeating of her wedding photos from her recent ceremony.  It's certainly odd, but not ill-meant by any degree.

Every now and again I wonder what the future holds for my blog; in fact, not just that but also writing and my creativity in general.  I publish it and disseminate links in public for a reason: so people can read it.  That's sort of the point, and I'd hate to labour it any further.  One...issue(problem?) I've come up against is in referring to other people, or in fact things being read into.  I usually keep other names down to a minimum, and have fallen out of the habit of conferring pseudonyms.  I've touched on this before, the great and thorny topic of authorial intent, previously unrecognised, is now at a forefront of my mind as I type.  This road leads to witless paranoia however, which is where I have languished for at least a week now.  What use is it trying to run a blog if I'm worried that things will get taken the wrong way and make trouble of it?  Jesus H. Christ, there always have been and always will be those who take issue or even straight up stand in opposition to the way I do, say, think, sing, write, dress... The list goes on.  To live constantly worried is no life at all!  How desperate have things become?  It's probably why, after a month of pre-packed titles, I turned to things like Khaaaaaaaaaaaaaan and why I like stories without happy endings: safe to middling territory that can't be dissected.  Oh well.  Damned if I do and damned if I don't.

!?!

The past two weeks have been flecked with madness, loneliness and some small notes of triumph!  It never really stops being stressed in my head really, as I do live at a certain level of nerves.  Call it whatever you will, but I'd hate to be any other way.  Similarly, I detest being massaged.  Interpersonal contact issues notwithstanding, the act of having my shoulders rubbed is actually rather painful; it appears that I am composed entirely of knotted muscle, and actually I can get on just fine like that thanks.  Who are these people who must be perpetually relaxed?  I am not one of them.  Anyway, I was talking about being alone.  The house is all but empty, with the occasional visit of one of my fellows and his newly Facebook-official girlfriend.  Other than that... Well, one of the Lay-Vicars and his wife came round the week previous, but my visiting schedule is still wide open, YOU WILL ALL BE PLEASED TO HEAR SO COME ROUND.  It isn't awful living alone... The house is quiet (something I sorely missed before), I can stay up til whatever hour I like in the living room, usually doing some sort of cleaning or similar, bombarding the house with various albums ranging from the time I listened to Major four times in a row to the recent rediscovery of a Handel box set.  Not having a set of surround speakers downstairs means I play less from my phone, but that's a small sacrifice.  Last night I dragged the Freezer back in after several days defrosting outside sat over a drain.  Most of the time, blasting out Baroque concertos is an effort to replace the booming bass and raised voices spilling over the back wall from what I can only describe as one of the finest and most popular venues in the whole of Truro.  It could be worse.  Most Friday and Saturday nights I am actually out drinking, usually there, myself.

I must now turn my focus from the Scholary to my future lodging.  I am genuinely sad to be leaving the Scholary, the first house except for my mother's that I have lived in for more than 2 years in the last 5.  It's funny really, but I like the old place, creaky and moldy as it is, in severe need of damp coursing, new carpets, a wiring overhaul, new white goods, fresh wallpaper, new sash windows... I think you get what I'm saying.  Not to do the place a disservice, but it just needs a bit more care.  I am sad to be leaving it, make no mistake.  This place has been more than some sort of doss-hole student house to me, it has been my home, a site of dread triumph and fantastic unprecedented failure.  Those of you who are card-carrying members of my "Fan Club" will be pleased to hear that I have secured a place to live for next academic year, and at a price that is remarkably affordable for the South West, particularly in Truro.  A stones' heave from the Cathedral (rather than the Scholary's comparative lob) from the Shed, I already feel confident that things will be okay, and the extra few hundreds of yards distance will help me establish myself as a Lay-Vicar rather than be tied in to the Scholars.  Already, plans to move from Truro are in an embryonic state, but let's just say I'm thinking big.  Fed up to past the back teeth with living a boring life of no event, it's high time I did something about it and cast away.  I'm much more capable now than I ever was when I was 18, but as always, money is the big problem and it's a problem that will never go away really, as we all need to find funds from somewhere.  As much as I know that we are not our jobs or our bank balances, society is sadly geared the other way around!

As for employment?  To be frank, I haven't bothered lately.  I've had enough with trying to budget my way out of a dead end and finding somewhere to live to take on the extra stress of finding a new job.  I have, however, been working at the Cathedral Office again, which will keep me in enough money to pay my phone bill in August while I'm gallivanting around Sweden with the rest of the choir, hemorrhaging SEK like there's no tomorrow.  All I ever hear about Sweden is how expensive it  is, which is less than inspirational.  What is happening before that tour, though should prove pretty inspirational in itself is the return of a great dream team, Toon and Get!  If there was anything that I could ask for to return my spirits to their position once on-high, it is this pair of terrible oafs, ready to hit Truro once again!  Last year's Banter Tour took us through the lanes at some 60 miles an hour in a Fiat 500; the words "death defying" have never been so well applied.  All the money that I have earned will inevitably be spent with abandon and in all honesty, without regret.  It'll be a time to cherish, not to be ridiculous about it, but we three bad men will ride again.

Let's not even talk about dating, shall we.  I know it's usually the last (or really the first) of the big three, but can we just leave it for now?  Thanks.  I suspect that it'll all come out in the wash in the next few weeks, so for those of you who watch very closely just be patient because the Tell-All account is on the way.

&!&

It's good to write again.  I've been venting most of the madness through Twitter and Facebook.  Regular followers will obviously have noticed, I'm not exactly embarrassed by it, and those of you who take my pathetic cries for attention too seriously are advised to calm the fuck down, basically.  Often, there are plenty of people who are probably welcome to hear from me, which I am reminded of regularly enough - but of course, my lack of communication and poor confidence often shuts me down.  It's only three weeks until the tour, and I might see about taking my computer so at least I'll have a word processor available.  Lord knows I need to get one of those international plug things for my phone anyway.  A few more good weeks of good behaviour, and then we're off!  And after that, it all begins again.  Christ.

Writer's Block

Right.  

I have got awful writer's block, like, I had a good five hundred words going on and then just deleted all of it because it's just all dross and I can't actually say what I mean at all.  Let's look at this fortnight in review for now though, and see all the things that I could have written about instead:

MY MOTHER CAME TO VISIT which was brilliant and hilarious.  I totally wasn't expecting her to visit at all, never mind appearing in evensong last Wednesday.  We have gone hither and yon to the beach and back with the world's stupidest (but arguably nicest) dog, argued, made up, but mostly just had a great laugh.  I miss my mother more than I will admit to because NOW I AM AN ADULT (I pay my own phonebill yah) and this is about the fifth year I've lived away from home (although I have never lived on my own properly, not that I will be able to afford such a luxury in Cornwall...).

I SPENT £100 IN A WEEK that wasn't solely on alcohol or curry.  Suit cleaning, singing lessons, mobile telephone bill and jewellery repair.  I finally got my Hardie Amies suit sorted out, splashing out an a ridiculous "Executive Service" from Johnsons the cleaners complete with the utterly decadent option of having the creases put back in my trousers.  What a pervert.  I also got my little gold ring soldered back together which now once more adorns my right 4th finger where it belongs, after its mysterious disappearance waaaaaay back in... October?  I dunno.  That whole Michaelmas term was pretty dark.  But anyway!  It's back, back I say.  I have three rings and now three wooden bracelets, alongside my two silver chains, so I can safely say I regularly wear the most in decorative items in probably the whole choir.

I HELPED PAINT A WALL for my friends who are trying to establish a new Bar on the end of Old Bridge Street.  After a less than satisfactory Friday night, I resigned myself to wandering around Truro in some sort of lost and aimless fashion, thinking that perhaps some retail therapy could aid my ailing spirits...but no, not this week so I instead reported to the site of the Nightjar in my appointed paint gear, and got stuck in getting paint on walls, myself.  It was a distinctly enjoyable way to spend a Saturday, actually, a lot of laughs and a lot got done.  I enjoy helping people.

I'M PREPARING FOR A CONCERT in front of the general public not  in the Cathedral, although I can't exactly remember who for... It's some sort of fundraiser for one of the opera troupes that operates round here, I'm not terribly bothered about the whys and wherefores (unsurprisingly), more the fact that I'm going to get to sing Charles Ives' setting of feldeinsamkeit in public again.  It's all good experience, and I'm sure once I get through this period of lacking my usual creative spirit, I'll be able to write about just why this is so important in the face of my current choice of becoming a more permanent part of Truro Cathedral Choir. 

This has gone through about three working drafts, and two total deletions (META WRITING), and I'm still not happy with it.  I feel... that I should write, that it is my duty to keep publishing - of course there will be those of you who will argue that it stifles creativity, but I'm disappointed that the first thing I'm going to publish in a fortnight is this weak effort!  I suppose I will be judging it far more harshly than you might, but all the same, the last time I went through that many redrafts, it was my dissertation and we all remember how much fun I had trying to write THAT at 3am on the 8th of April, 2011.  Of course my plans for ink move at about the same pace, being rather reliant on being able to afford the stuff at the moment.  And seriously guys, don't you worry out there.  I'm okay, it's still me: I can't get a date.  I'm sure I'll be able to look back on these years with some amusement... but now is not that time.  I'm perfectly prepared to be bitter and angry about the last five years of romantic near-misses for the duration.  Thanks.

But that's enough for now.  If I write any more, I shall only delete it, try to start over and then just give up for another week.  My spelling has been awful for the duration as well, to an infuriating level.  I'm still writing that piece about Killer7, so that'll go up at some point in the future, if I ever edit it to a satisfactory level. 

For now though... Oy.

Happy Birthday!

On the 11th of April, 2010, the first entry of this new blog was published.  Several hiatuses (hiati?) and breaks down the line, sure, but I've been writing and publishing basically at least once a month for three years.  Three years!  I've got friends who are leaving for degree courses that last as long.  I've already done mine!

When you think about it, like I'm doing now sat in one of the coldest parts of the Scholary (my room, duh), this is pretty amazing.  Usually each post is at least a thousand words, (last week's was two thousand), done in a whole continual draft and re-edit process.  I've only ever redrafted one piece from scratch, and I don't delete my abandoned posts...merely leave them as they are.  Maybe, one day when I'm rich and famous I'll get the whole thing printed in volumes, bound in real leather and lined with gold leaf, printed and bound in it's completeness...ahhh.  Yeah right.  Since that first post, I've moved house no less than three times,had three short term relationships, three part time jobs, almost £2000 worth of private instrumental and vocal teaching under four different teachers, two different laptops and an almost infinite number of other arbitrary statistics.  As I log in to my blogger homepage, I've had 7,700 pageviews, which is no small potatoes for a slice-of-life blog, which mainly focuses on how miserable I am and how difficult everything can be!  I know I have a core audience of supporters who fall upon each and every post that gets linked, several of whom let me know how much they enjoy reading my work.  To you, thanks and praise.  I know it can't be easy sometimes when it's not all sweetness and light...but my intention is to present a true account of how I feel and what's happening.  I know that what I've written sometimes has been... interpreted differently though, a dangerous journey into the limited power of authorial intent versus what people actually read into.  I try not to use people's real names as well, which sometimes works out well, but I'm sure it isn't too difficult to work out who I'm talking about all the time.  I remember coming up with all sorts of nicknames for people in Norwich, like The Chief, Sensei, The Philanderer, The Maestro, and of course The Loser... The Loser like no other. 

This will be my 109th published post by the time I get round to finishing it.  It doesn't take me especially long to write either, so in retrospect the fact that I managed to hash out a 12,021 word dissertation (with full colour pictures) in 8 days is actually less surprising the more I think about it.  I usually make this stuff up off the top of my head, no research material or drafting, rather than having stacks of prepared sources.  I still write my blog for the same reasons that I started it: I enjoy writing and it makes getting things off my chest a lot easier, like some sort of spleen vent valve.  Delving through the beginning of the archive, it's interesting to see how much my writing has changed.  It's quite like a number of other first-time writers without formal training.  Of course, all this practice later and well... I dunno.  At least I've learned to be less grandstanding.  It's still the same ponderous dross, from the same ponderous old git, but I'd like to think it's become more readable since I began.

At this point in my life, things are less than exciting.  I'm still unemployed, still with no immediate place to go once I leave the Scholary.  Arrangements in Truro aren't especially geared towards those without disposable income.  I've been living off the least amount possible, which has been a surprising journey into boring meal solutions, not even going into shops for fear of spending money, and drying my liver out.  My dear mother, the greatest Jewess on the soil, sent my Nintendo Gamecube down via courier, which has been installed next to the television in the living room, co-existing peacefully with the resident Xbox 360, jacked in to the scart on the side leaving the usual HDMI well alone.  This is shades of Bury street all over again, because everything really does just roll around and it's all exactly the same.  The only thing left is for a stray cat to enter the house and we're almost done.  It's business as usual as far as my gaming habits are concerned as well, as one of my most important pieces of software is here too: KILLER7.  Anybody who follows me on Twitter will know that I am ever so slightly obsessed with this insane thing, which I usually describe as a work of art before I say it's a videogame.  I've started all over again on not only that, but Metroid Prime (what the hell is with that control system anyway), Super Smash Brothers Melee and Soul Calibur II.  I've also got Metal Gear Solid, Fire Emblem and The Legend of Zelda; The Wind Waker too, but I haven't deleted my precious saves for them.  I'm unemployed, single and have little funds: I'm very interested in staying in at the moment, so I'm going to do it properly.  I might just get hold of a cheap telly with a scart port in the back after I get paid so I can take the 'Cube up to my room so there's definitely no chance of conflicting with my fellow Housemates' desires for on demand television services or FIFA/Burnout party &c &c.  This isn't about having arguments with people, this is just about making everything as easy as possible for all parties.  Sometimes it's possible to please most of the people most of the time. 

Staying in because I'm poor has actually been an enjoyable experience.  Brain-bending odysseys and arcade fighting games make a wonderful panacea when coupled with an almost constant intake of tea, a worthy distraction from NOT going out and NOT drinking.  The past couple of times I've been out have actually been hilariously enjoyable experiences - a week ago I managed to reach my physical limit for beer and survived and at the weekend saw Chippie, a really good and honest friend I met at that home from home from home, The City Inn, Truro.  The Playhouse Bar it certainly ain't, but a real pub that's far enough away from the Cathedral to matter makes all the difference.  The 'clientele', (or patrons as they're usually known) are pretty nice guys, and coming from hard-drinking stock, I find being in a pub a familiar and relaxing experience.  The fact that they serve alcohol in large and satisfying doses is... well, just an added bonus! (haha yeah right).  The weekend also brought its share of awkward social politics and answers to a lot of unspoken questions about the social state of play.  It's all good fun after all.

So, what next for the Songman's Rest?  I don't really know, to be quite honest!  I'm at an intermediary point in my life still, what with all this employment and accommodation still in the air.  I'm still really quite scared about basically not being able to afford to live in Cornwall: being brutally honest, I could be unemployed, unsure of the future and playing videogames and obsessing about washing up literally anywhere else in the country.  I do not need to be here, worrying about the ridiculous cost of housing, when I could be somewhere else.  I could be back in Norwich for God's sake.  But... I don't want to be anywhere else.  I want to be a Lay Vicar of Truro Cathedral Choir.  I am proud that I have been asked to join the full time team, and I will make a difference and I will succeed here...somehow.  I'm not going to let anybody down, especially not myself, or indeed the Big Man.  You'll be pleased to hear that I still haven't had a date since... Oh like, the summer now, or indeed that I even have the courage or confidence in order to ask.  Of course there is somebody I kind of like, have a crush on I guess, but we'll see how that goes.  Maybe I will ask.  But probably I won't.

The tagline still stands.  This is a tale of love, of life, and the end of the stall (being Decani Alto 1 puts you at the end anyway) which is poor only in a financial sense now.  Gone are the days where I am bullied by the senior, or at odds with the director.  I am joining a respectable team of good-humoured and skilled semi-professional singers.  It's only semi (careful) because the pay is... vocational more than a wage.  The attitude brought and the skill and musicality of these people is maybe not quite as high as say, Westminster Cathedral, but is without question the best musical environment I have been in so far.  I am fortunate and incredibly grateful to be a part of it not only last year, or this year, but for years to come.  


I think I'll be keeping to the almost-weekly schedule.  I wouldn't keep writing if I didn't enjoy it, and the weeks where I haven't written anything have been those weeks where I've either been too down to consider it, or very busy; times where writing just hasn't fit into the schedule of either my life or my mood.  I will continue to write exactly what I want to, and boo hoo if you don't like it.  I've made and lost friends over what's been published before, and I would hate for that to change either.  Maybe one day I'll be fortunate enough to take some writing classes, and really improve my form, but until then, I'll keep blithering on, and I'll see you on the other side.

Tidal Change

So, three months on the 'new' weekly schedule...almost.  A week dropped here and there due to being busy, or just down to good, old-fashioned depression - I am as tired of writing about feeling emotionally disappointed as you must be reading about it.

Now is of course a spring time of discontent.  Due to my own budgetary incompetence I am reduced to living on the sum total of twenty pounds sterling a week; if it isn't food, I can't have it.  I haven't even written to anybody this week!  Sure, I'm still waiting for the airmail to come through, but I owe a return to my local friend and right trusty cynical companion, Mr. Godolphin.  I traded in a copy of Soul Calibur V (an ultimately disappointing purchase in itself, actually) for the princely sum of a fiver at the start of this week, yet a further disappointment in itself.  The pricing of videogames is something that will always confuse and infuriate me.  Anyway!  This 'free' five pounds, independent of my bank account (a mere eighth of the original price) has been the only other money I have had, and predictably it has gone already (I cheated and spent part of it on milk and cereals).  Other than that I've only spent £7.38 out of my £20 this week though, and it's looking promising.  I have eight portions of £2.50 to spend, that's almost enough for a day's food, especially as most of my meals are based around large portions of rice or pasta.  Thankfully, both of these commodities are cheap to the point of being easily affordable, I just have to make sure meat stays in the menu...

It's really tough though.  I'm being so hard on myself making sure I don't go out.  For the price of a pint of Guinness, I can make two meals, basically.  When your financial constraint comes down to that simple dilemma... Well, I've made my decision.  I can live without a pint but I can't bear to go hungry.  I've got a couple of bottles knocking about should I really want a drink... But to be perfectly honest I've been fine without.  I can't actually go into a pub and not have a drink though.  The last time I managed it, I was at the City (a spiritual home from home in Truro if ever there was one) drinking pints of water approximately every 10 minutes.  The act of going to a pub or a bar is so inextricably linked with the act of drinking that I cannot do one without doing the other.  Funnily enough I hardly ever drink at home unless it's predrinking!
I'm doing okay though.  I haven't gone mental just yet, and to be perfectly honest my social life is no less for saying I'm not going out.  It's bizarre if you look at it that way, but in review a lot of my social life comes from me actually getting out there and running into people.  I can sit here all day and the only person who'll telephone me is my own mother.  Just her!  I don't think that's massively problematic really, because my mother is a witty old battleaxe who will do anything she can to make sure I'm alright, you know: happy, healthy, got enough to eat, getting enough sleep... She is the very image of a Jewish mother and let me tell you here and now that every stereotype is true, especially the stereotype about the stereotypes being true; it is a self-fulfilling stereotype.  I'm getting off the point though, because I was talking about my broken social scene. With the sudden total lack of cash, I'm even more reticent to call people and go out because, hey, I get a bit embarrassed when I can't afford to!

Things are possibly the quietest they have been on all fronts, and you know I'm really not surprised.  There are two words that come out of my mouth that don't seem to register with a lot of people, and usually (how long did you think you had to wait until I got to this point seriously) women I'm even remotely interested in just don't seem to get it, and these two words are "CALL ME".  There is an unspoken meaning behind these seemingly insignificant words and I am putting it on the internet so if you forget it is always here.  If I say this to you, doesn't matter who you are as long as you have my number, and I'm serious now so pay attention it means: I am interested in seeing you (socially or romantically OR MAYBE BOTH IF YOU'RE LUCKY) and I am unsure as to when you are free or best available to talk to but I am free a lot of the time so just drop me a line.  That's it guys.  I am an unemployed, unattached man.  I have a lot of spare time on my hands and I usually end up spending it on cleaning which is pretty miserable for saying I'm supposed to be young and enjoying my life (newsflash most of the time I'm not).  If we boil it down further, it basically translates as "I am interested in you, are you interested in me?"  Black and white sensibilities as standard.  When I was younger I was always surprised when people just rang up to talk to me, because it didn't happen often.  I was called upon if someone wanted something I had or could do for them... And we're almost back to that.

Maybe this is something that 'normal' people don't have a problem with.  People don't call you... and that's fine.  Maybe it doesn't mean anything at all to anybody, and I'm just taking this all way too seriously.  Maybe!  This is one of those social boundary things I have immense difficulty with, especially taking into account all the times I have been told off, reprimanded, bitch slapped and basically rejected for being "too intense", which is something I can barely tell (but definitely not because I'm not intense woah no)... I worry about it.  Am I bothering people too much?  I remember once calling someone twenty times in a row when I was younger, so that's probably the definition of being too intense so at least I don't do that sort of thing these days.  It all comes from a root problem I have with communicating with other people, namely "is what I have to say of any interest to anybody else?"  I will often stop talking for hours in end entirely due to this principle, usually erroneously.  It is the source of having a block on when I try to write my blog as well: I'm not exactly viral material, and I don't imagine for a second that I'll get picked up for a publishing contract because of my quirky, slice-of-life blog is so popular oh no (That'll be Berkeley Girl anyway).  My inability to successfully interpret a group conversation in order for the best time to join doesn't just go away because I'm sat at my keyboard.

Another part of my wasted spring is still waiting on any announcement from my full time job application.  As it stands it's now been three weeks since I put my application in... I guess that's no time at all but let's remember some facts here: 1) This is my first full time application.  2) I really, really want this job.  3) I have no money at the moment so a wage could really help out here.  4) I will need a full time job in order to fund my Lay-Vicarship.  5) I have no idea what else I'm going to apply for if I don't get it.

Fund my Lay-Vicarship?  Isn't that a self-funding enterprise?  Well, no.  Not really.  Part of why the honorarium is so modest at Truro as a Choral Scholar is the living allowance that goes unspecified - basically they pay for everything in the Scholary.  We aren't subject to rent, taxation or utility bills (within reason I should think on that last one but this has been an especially chilly and long lasting winter so I hope chapter has mercy on the fact that the heating has been left on for about 4 months solid now basically (although please note, that is neither my idea or preference having footed a share in a winter heating bill over £500 in the past)) Now I'm sure I'm about to get fired for giving away a huge trade secret (jokes on you though because EVERYBODY KNOWS), but the point is free house with pocket money on top is more than adequate pay for a couple of hours for services a day.  This does not continue once you are a Lay Vicar.  No no.  Unfortunately, the wage paid to Lay Vicars, even full time ones here (there are one or two who do not attend every single weekday service) will not even cover the cost of a single flat.  I'm not even talking about anything exciting, you know like the Boss' apartment that was built on the same blueprint as Britten House (which at £98 p/w I could almost afford (I mean the halls not the apartment)), I'm talking about any normal, run of the mill flat for one person in Truro.  I sometimes get angry about this before I remember that it really is not and cannot be the Cathedral's fault: unlike the choral scholarship they are not responsible for my living arrangements any longer (although I am 100% sure that quite a lot of them do care), and also it really definitely isn't their fault if accommodation is so bloody expensive down here.  If a single flat is at least £500, usually a two bedroom flat is only about £100 more expensive, which is almost completely ridiculous.  Obviously I need to find somebody to live with here, but who and how I will find them is another matter entirely, especially seeing as I really want to live on my own: after years of living at home and then in shared accommodation, it is time I struck out...well, I feel that I want to strike out! 

But the real problem I have is that of when I get a full time job and balance my living arrangements... will I even feel like a musician any more?  I want a job in a music shop, sure that's cool, but what if I don't get it?  What if... I end up working in an office full time?  Finish at 5pm, get to rehearsal maybe 10 minutes late at most, then go home and cook, clean up and go to bed ready for the next day... Make sure I pay my bills and my rent and my taxes and don't get drunk on a Saturday night so I can get up on a Sunday... Where will my time go?  I don't have the experience and reputation that some of the other scholars have as performing musicians, I'm not here as a gap year before joining a Oxford or Cambridge Collegiate Choir, and I don't have the sheer raw talent that some others do either.  I can't even play hymns on the Organ for God's sake.  I spent three years at University, being the lowest graduating mark in my class in Music that year.  I've spent two years here, which maybe I should have used as preparation for further study, but haven't basically due to being so conscious of how bad my degree is.  People tell me that I should just go for it anyway, what with that first class dissertation I have and such, but often if you don't have it on paper it isn't worth it - Bath Spa University had the good manners to write to me upon my application for their music degree, informing me that because I didn't have Grade VIII from the Associated Board of the Royal School of Music in ANYTHING that I was immediately ineligible for study.  But hey!  Years of Cathedral service, self taught Upright bassist and great all-round knowledge of music.  But not on paper.

As always, I stand at a crossroads.  I'm sure perhaps I make mountains out of molehills almost every other day, but I'm worried about my future.  I said before that I don't want to get stuck in Cornwall, I wouldn't mind staying but I want it to be on my terms, staying because I choose to and not because I can't afford to go anywhere else.  Travel in and out of Cornwall is prohibitively expensive to the point of being completely farcical.  I have a huge overdraft to work my way out of still, and at least because of having to live on fresh air until payday I seem to be becoming a tad more responsible about where my money's going and how quickly it goes.  I'm programming a recital to sing in the Cathedral before the summer's gone, instead of the usual Banjo playing... nice to have a change, huh! 

"Do I know you?"

Another week, another life. 

Part of me says that I shouldn't grumble so much, but I don't know, there's so much catharsis... Hah!  Things are pretty good actually.  My personal arc of esteem/value/enjoyment is swinging to the better side finally, my days have been moderately high functioning, nothing too exciting yet.

Part of this has been due to my attendence of NLP sessions, that I'd describe as a kind of counceling that isn't counceling.  It stands for Neuro-Linguistic Processing, and basically consists of... sort of a challenge to thought patterns.  I have a naturally low state of self-esteem and confidence, as we all know and have started my online public discussion of last week.  Part of this is down to not only my perception of my environment and other people, but also the language that I employ in interacting with the world, especially as I have returned to quite a base state of anger.  Some days I am just totally angry, and I legitimately enjoy that state quite a lot: I find that I usually function quite highly, so the rage and dissatisfaction is worth the trade off.  I feel that things get done, and that I usually compromise less; after almost a year of sacrifice and compromise I look at how that has made me feel and how miserable things have been.  In order to make these compromises I have often stopped standing up for my own beliefs, which is an utterly hopeless position.  In turning my back on this, I think that perhaps I have gone too far at the moment, but if I can regain the ground that I lost, then perhaps it will all be worth it once I calm down again.

In a way, it's also about my hero, the Big Man.  My Uncle Philip, the world's most intelligent alcoholic, is quite the idol.  No, I do not look forward to a future of liver destruction myself, but I do not villify him for it either.  While he has been a violent person, even towards his family, and squandered his life, health and money away on booze... He knows it and regrets it.  There have been occassions where he has apologised...and that's what makes him my hero.  But the point is he can be a punishingly outspoken man: if he doesn't like it, he'll damn well say so.  Even his front door has a warning sign, "Here lives a lovely lady and a grumpy man".  Engage him on his level though, and he is one of the wittiest people on the soil.  In his day, probably one of the best butchers in Derby, and rightfully still proud of it.  Of course, his alcoholism means that he has not worked for years, and I think that this is one of his chiefest regrets, and a stark warning to me.  If I want to continue in my profession as a musician at all, I cannot allow myself to become addicted to the same dangerous poison.  It's all well and good having a nice time, but it can't become my life.

The constant battle against the kitchen continues.  This last week has seen the advent of a new tactic: if it's mine I wash it and rescue it; if it isn't and I haven't used it, I'll leave it.  That's right, I'm beginning to leave things.  If you're finding that difficult to believe, then think how difficult it is for me to do it!  Cookware has sat for weeks on end in the kitchen due to this new rule, which is disgusting: a huge pan of soup was left for a total of three weeks and acquired a lid of black mould, responsible for  foul odour and a definite health risk.  One of my housemates has come down with a suspected case of Norovirus... Delightful.  The appropriate Wikipedia article on the matter describes most outbreaks taking place in "closed or semiclosed communites" (like Scholaries), and that outbreaks can be traced to "food handled by one infected person".  Perhaps my practice of cooking for myself is paying off already?  In any case, having a kitchen packed with dirty pans is one of the least helpful things.  Interestingly enough, the same article recommends chlorine-based cleaning agents (so bleach), and a raise in temperature to successfully recover from the virus...which might explain why the heating keeps being booted up.  Somehow, it doesn't seem to make any difference whatsoever as to how many times I ask for the heating to be slightly down (and I mean slightly, maybe 2 or 3 degrees lower at the most) at night, because well...I just get ignored.  Having a hot room at night makes me feel dreadfully ill, stuffed up and sweaty - my radiator is permanently off and my window always open, but that doesn't stop the hot water going through the radiators in the rest of the house or even through the pipes that are part of the system going under the floor of my room either.  This morning I felt like I'd been left out to dry.  I do wonder how the others don't feel so dehydrated after a night, but I guess that's definitely not a bad thing for them!

The search for work continues.  When this is finished and posted, I might go to that shop I applied to and ask where my application has got to in their employment process.  Has it been thrown out?  If so, what feedback can they give me?  Or will they ring me for an interview by the end of the week?  In two days time it'll be two weeks since I took my CV and covering letter in, so I would like to know if I'm still in the running... That's okay, right?  I mean, I want this job.  It would suit me.  It would fit in with my appointment as Choral Scholar and Lay Vicar.  The effect of getting full time employment without having to train as a teacher would be amazing.  This isn't to say that FT teaching is worth any less, because I know quite a few people who are applying for or part-way through their Teacher training and it is worth as much as absolutely anything and everything else, are we clear?  It's just that, well... I'm not suited.  And that's it.  I'm still too...what's the word...aggressive to teach?  Yeah, aggressive, I think that's a good word.

Outside of all this, I am working my way through the works of Brahms Opus by Opus, mostly while I've been working in the Cathedral office again.  There is still no WiFi in the house consistent enough unless I sit directly underneath the router... which is infuriating.  If I want to sit in my room and listen to something I don't own, such as almost any classical music you could care to name, then I simply can't do that.  Instead, while preparing my transcription of the Corrette mass, I have been reacquainting myself with the hardcore thrash punk stylings of Cancer Bats, a type of noise not really favoured by the other Scholars.  It takes all sorts really though, what with the others having a hugely developed appreciation for Opera, alongside 19th and 20th century music in the classical tradition.  Variety is of course, the spice of life after all!

Hiatus

As ever, these things often spill into two sessions.  Yet another of my co-habitors has come down with this vile and unwelcome illness, and I can't help but feel paranoid about coming down with it myself.  Soon, the Easter break will be upon us, and I will be left in the Scholary on my own - of course there will no longer be any sick people around me, but it'd be par for the course if I went down with it while I was alone in there... Although saying that, there are plenty of friends down here who would help me out should I fall ill.  Hopefully it won't come to that.  Keep your fingers crossed, dear readers.

My previous call for letters has finally gone answered though, having established a healthy and rewarding correspondence with my excellent friend Mr. Godolphin, and of course, receiving letters from the State of Maryland, USA.

Also, I have managed to repair the Wireless Firewire connection in the house...by screwing the antenna in properly on the back so it broadcasts correctly again.  I should get a set of buisness cards with a list of spurious titles printed: Gentleman, Scholar, Cook, Cleaner, Deceased Rodent Removal, IT Consultant...

Postscriptum

I'm rather glad I didn't get all this done in one sitting and posting, the original end, in situ, upon reflection is quite weak.  It has also allowed me to comment on more recent occurences, although now I think about it, there was that time on Sunday evening gone when I got pranked called...

"Semantic Blockage"

So, just about a fortnight ago, I woke up angry for the first time in over a year.  It feels like weeks ago, even a month perhaps... really the weekend is the focus life in the Scholary, as I mean... what happens in the week in my unemployed existence?  Washing up?  Evensong?  Not even I want to think about that too much.

Things have been different.  Things have been better!  It's not as if I'm losing my temper and just flying off the handle all the time, as much as I'd dearly love to (it's too antisocial really), just keep it ticking over and have put a real concerted effort into not keeping other people happy at my expense, as easy as it is to pander to the wishes of others in the name of a quiet life (which is really what I'm after, of course).  It's kind of like learning to say "no" again.  Things like not keeping my hyperactivity in check and of all things, eating what I want to when I want to.  It's the simple things, eh?  My tea intake is slightly higher, so obviously the increase in tanin and caffeine has had a positive effect (nothing like giving in to your addictions, is there?), as has tricking my body into staying more or less the same regardless of what time I get to sleep due to keeping my window open (so I don't overheat during the night) and the curtains somewhat less than closed.  Bizarre perhaps, but as the weather is improving (and especially in the mornings), having sunlight stream through into the room is a rather fine way to wake up, don't you think?  I'm getting into the habit of opening the curtains as well, to welcome some light into this abode, and often stand with the back door open to get a fresh breeze through here as well.  I don't particularly enjoy living in a dingy shit hole regardless of the opinion of anybody else, so what I can do to change that for the best while I'm still here, I will.  

Also I have returned to what must be my dearest favourite composition that ever is in the world, Johannes Brahms' Ein Deutsches Requiem.  The sheer scale of it, the depth of texture, tonality and how the text, still from scripture yet not the usual Mass for the Dead, is so totally integral to its effect and affekt and just basically everything about it.  The supermassive D major fugue that closes the already gigantic third movement sat over a perpetual tonic pedal that almost derailed the first performance (surely the greatest three minutes of counterpoint ever?) to the huge C major fugue that is the meat and bread of the sixth movement that arrives after the gigantic phrygian passage, "Tod, wo ist dein stachel", the huge dread sarabande that is the second movement... When it comes down to it, Brahms actually is my favourite composer, yes Brahms!  He is my man!  The great Piano Quintet (because really there can only be one), Opus 34, was the soundtrack to my VIth form.  Obviously I need, in the most imperative sense imaginable, to find a Brahms Req to get involved in, and that soon.  I never have any time away from the stall, and really I can think of no better reason than this to do a runner from Truro (although to come back, naturally).

But like I said, things have been getting better.  Hurdles feel like they can be cleared: not so confidently that they seem to be as staples, but getting smaller every day.  I think that rising (or at least waking) early is a big part of this; I may still be getting up and filling the bowl up, but at least that part is finished by around 10am rather than 2pm.  The day still lies ahead of me.  Today, I handed in my first application for a full time job, as a "sales advisor" at a Music Shop, so hopes, prayers, hexes, blessings and crossed fingers for my favour if you will!  This is really something I want a lot, and if it comes off will go a long way towards sorting me out down here permanently.  As much as a tonal shift in my attitude as it is, being a lay vicar down here is really quite vocational when you look the financial state of the position.  Priorities must shift, inasmuch as they shift all the time, but not much is dearer to my heart than my post as Choral-Scholar-elect-of-Lay-Vicarship.  Well, except Brahms.  OBVIOUSLY.  

It feels like the stage is being cleared, ready to set up for the next big act.  Machinery behind the curtains is creaking away and well... something is happening!  Next thing you know, there'll be a woman!  HAHA GOT YOU THERE DIDN'T I.  IT WAS ALL GOING SO WELL AND THEN I HAD TO DO THAT.  Yeah, the thing about that... Always the master of self-diagnosis, I know that my number one problem is one that plagues me in all walks of life well two problems really: confidence and communication.  Some things are just so difficult all the time that you know I just need a bit of help.  I think my problems with communication are the real root: the last real symptom of being autistic that I still carry with me is my straight up flat out inability to really appreciate social boundary and what sort of language is appropriate in the right time and place.  Examples are just too numerous to mention, but sometimes I live my life in that horrid middle-of-nowhere-isn't-this-awkward place that usually develops when you try to say something clever but it's totally misjudged.  That is my life.  You know how awkward you feel when you're talking to an attractive person where you're kind of walking on eggshells so you can get them to entertain the idea of considering to have sex with you?  I'm rapidly running out of delicate language here, so you'll have to meet me halfway.  But straight up, you know what I mean.  I can sometimes arrive at that place way before I should and then what little confidence I have left is dried up like a potsherd.  I guess it'll come back though.  I mean, it kind of sort of worked twice in the recent past, (sort of a little bit not that long term commitment has been a success), so with any luck it'll work out again.  I mean hell!  Maybe I won't have to make the first move next time!  HAHA.

So after a healthy dose of self-deprecation, I turn once again to my place at the sink, to return the kitchen to a state approaching acceptable.  Oh.  And a cup of tea.  Don't forget to switch the lights off when you're done.

"Reach into the Bag"

In which I spend the past weekend drinking and waiting on tables, and rediscover the joy of rage.

The newest conversation replacement in the house has arrived; no longer one of the near-identical iterations of the best-selling brain-disabling world-takeover that is the Electronic Art's FIFA series, it is in the online multiplayer for Halo 3, a game that I have some modicum of ability with.  I may not be terribly good, as I have quite a low affinity for dual-analogue controls (yes, the leading method of FPS controls, whatever), but it's good fun at least, if a million miles away from both the pixel-perfect sniping of the N64's Goldeneye or the Gamecube's genre defying masterpiece Metroid Prime.  This advent of online gaming in the Scholary will ensure that the race for both sofa and controller has become more desperate than ever.

But the weekend!  Yes, this glorious weekend past that seems to mark a turning in the tides, not around the coast of damp old Cornwall but in my life.  I am also slightly terrified, but on to that in a moment.  Friday night was composed of a booze-infused house party hosted by friends from dyvers other lands.  There seem to be several different stories as to how exactly the night ended and who went home at what time, but what we all agree on is that we were deeply inebriated and even though there were some stupid arguments, we all had a rollicking good time, and nobody got alcohol poisoning.  Hooray!

However.  I awoke on Saturday of my own accord and my own volition.  At half past eight in the morning.  I'll give you a minute to think about that clearly, and I can wait because it's not the easiest thing to process. 
As I said last week, I had managed to shift my body clock back a whole five hours, which is no mean feat in itself, which was still pretty problematic by the time I got to last Friday... and then it just flipped.  My metabolism can look after itself, regardless of what my conscious mind wants to do, which is ever so slightly terrifying.  Although like I always say, my subconscious is far more intelligent than I can ever hope to be.

Hiatus

Sorry about the delay.  I woke up at about half past five in the morning today feeling like one of those roast in the bag chickens.  Feh.

But as I was saying.  Saturday night was composed not of becoming excruciatingly wasted as these things often are, but instead consisted of running around the Cathedral Restaurant waiting on tables with the Cathedral Restaurant staff in an event known only as Dine Opera, where patrons are assaulted by various Operatic numbers sung by local artistes in between the three courses served to them and lashings of expensive alcohol, all in the name of raising money for the choir tour.  One of the major ground rules of this evening is no Countertenors.  Anyway.  Having worked in the Restaurant as a table waiter in the summer which I still refer to as utterly dreadful, I know the staff and they know me.  As usual, a lack of clear and detailed instruction before the evening drove me to meet with the Restaurant manager and ask her what was going off... which ended up with me basically doing same work with the rest of the staff, which was absolutely shattering.  Hands down.  I did, for my troubles however, receive a plate of lamb chops and vegetables (one of the courses on offer to the patrons) for free as payment, and also a chocolate mousse dessert, which was just totally excellent.  I look back on that time when I worked there, and regret not being able to control my depression to the extent that it became something that stopped me from working there.  There was no ill feeling all night from either me or them about me working, I volunteered to wait on because I enjoy working with them, and I thought the help would be both needed and appreciated, which it was.  It was also quite damaging towards my mobility, and it's taken me a good four or five days to recover.

Sunday was extremely painful, but on balance a good day.  The Vierne Messe Solennelle was graced by my high-pressure top octave, giving the Kyrie's treble high A's the punch they needed.  The evening, graced by local legend Russell Pascoe's Magnificat & Nunc Dimittis, then became a slaughter of my liver once again, by reporting to the Rising Sun Inn after Evensong to celebrate the birthday of one of it's proprietors.  I returned home to the dreaded Scholary at about... well, I don;t really remember what time in the morning per se, but let's say after 1am.  I discovered that the others had eaten all the dinner (under the assumption that I had gone to St. Ives with the Boss), and that also they had the intelligence to pick my carving knife from the grab and use it...and the courtesy to leave it covered in Pork fat lying on the side.  This of course, immediately made me wrathful, and I set about to the washing up.  Inebriated.  At half past one in the morning.  That's all true.

I have once again become the angriest yid on the soil.  Something obviously tripped in my head for that brief period that I was asleep in the early hours of Saturday morning and I now remember how much I actually enjoy being angry.  I feel that I have wasted my life trying as hard as I can to keep an even temper and be as forgiving as possible... Yes, all admirable character traits but somehow... Fruitless.  Although this is still some sort of progress, I mean, it's better to be angry all the time than be depressed, right?

I need to make more effective and positive progress than this though.  I'm even considering a return to Physiotherapy because really when you get down to it, being crippled is painful and disappointing and terrible.  Getting a job is becoming more and more of a priority, as not only do I have the tour to Sweden in August to consider, but funding myself and accommodation are arguably even more important.  

There is no rest for the wicked, after all.  But the lazy seem to get by just fine.

"Have a cat"

So!  Back to the grind.  Excellente.

Indeed, the grind.  What sort of life is it where the second thing you do after sorting the first tea of the day is the washing up?  I don't know...

Things are no longer drastic, at least.  I no longer have any desire to pen and hand in a letter of resignation, but my sleeping pattern has become one I'd describe as 'transatlantic', being a perfect 11pm-8am... 5 hours behind GMT.  Yes, I know how irresponsible that it, how unhelpful it is to have completely shifted my sleeping pattern like that, I really can't wait until we get to Sunday and I'll have basically napped for four hours before getting up for Eucharist... When it gets to about 3am it can get a little boring but I'm surprisingly upbeat when I do wake up properly in the afternoon, my usual routine notwithstanding.  

But let's talk about something interesting!  My lack of sleep will stand for ever and eternity unless I bite the bullet and finally ask the doctor for a scrip of knockout pills, which especially after the chat I had recently about anti-depressants... no no, I'm not going on them either, as I still have on my old methamphetamine attitude... which is a brilliant story, allow me to tell it.  And no, I haven't been taking anything illegal.  Not even remotely.

For years and years and years and years I used to take medically prescribed amphetamines to treat my hyperactivity.  I know, looks ridiculous doesn't it: uppers for hyper children.  Somehow it makes a difference.  What most people don't know is that amphetamine is also a powerful appetite suppressant, the effect of which was nothing short of a disaster: I have been underweight for years and am only now, some 5 years after stopping taking them that I'm beginning to eat again.  Anyway, one particular permutation of this dreadful chemical left me dazed and confused, and hearing voices in my head (THAT DIDN'T BELONG TO ME) all day at school... It was absolutely fucking awful.  It wasn't even a heavy dose particularly, but it wasn't right, and oy gevalt was it terrible already.  Long story short I got put on a different set of pills entirely and turns out those were okay!  Big capsules, but still...okay.  I ended up taking myself off them purely upon the advice of an ex-girlfriend and her mother.  I know, what sort of idiot does that make me?  Ignoring the advice of medical professionals in favour of rebelling against my mother?  Completely witless.

I had to take at least one pill twice a day, almost every day for... 11 years?  Seriously.  Yeah, about 11 years.  I hate taking pills, beyond belief.  I'm pretty thankful that Paracetamol is a fast working emetic as far as I'm concerned (well, for me personally of course), because it means I get to fight my way through headaches and hangovers chemically unassisted, a process I rather enjoy.

The weekend was moderately thrilling as well, with a gala performance of Thomas Tallis's greatest work, Spem in Alium, known by a number of rude names to Choral Scholars the country over.  The forty part motet was sung alongside a concert programmed with music for the Men's choir, the Gentlemen of Truro Cathedral, whom I shall still be joining in September.  Russell Pascoe's Missa Brevis was of course the centrepiece that the rest was hung on until Spem, as we're really focusing on commissions this year because the Cathedral and Choir are 125 years old!  The Senior Lay Vicar is only 124, after all (LOL).  Due to my new body clock, getting up in the morning was bad enough, but I was ready to throw the towel in by the time Evensong started, let alone finished, and then there was all the rehearsal to get through... But it was really good!  I really enjoyed having an evening of just Men's voices music with the full team, which is something we lack every day.  The Scholars also performed as a group, with some crowd pleasing classics, The Bare Necessities, a six-part Steal Away, a solid SATB arrangement of Let's Do It that we've flipped so it's Barbershop style with the tune in the centre, and finishing with Blue Moon, and arrangement reminiscent of the 'Gents of Johns', the A Cappella group formed of the Choral Scholars of The Choir of the Chapel of the College of St. John, Cambridge University.  While the skill and technique of such a group, much like 'The King's Men', The King's College equivalent and of course the ubiquitous 'King's Singers'... You know I just don't like it that much.  I'm a Barbershop kinda guy, that super tight four part harmony, and those ridiculous hanger tags... That's the good stuff!

Then of course the second part of the concert was made up entirely of Spem in Alium.  Now this is no small undertaking, with eight choirs of equal voices, no consecutive octaves or fifths in the whole damn thing... Actually a work of genius when you get down to it.  I worked from a 40 part score in A4 because I'm that arse.  Yes, somebody had to do it, but to be perfectly honest I think it worked much better than having a partbook for saying I spent so little looking at it.  I only listened to it once before the first rehearsal and I was pretty much sight-singing at that.  


As ever, my weekend-centric, unemployed existence continues unabated.  I have a new haircut, a new coat, but the same worries.  It's almost time to get back in season down here though, so jobs are being advertised left right and centre, so I'm going to update my CV (SEE MOTHER) and get my best "I'm a great candidate for this job!" face on and sound out the current opportunities available.  I'm even going to see if I can actually make a job appear with my own two hands, quite literally as well.  

The title of this week's post, is of course a shout out to almost every conversation I have with G, where we remedy any problems we have primarily with pictures of Cats from the internet.  I'm definitely going to own a cat, allergies be damned, I shall name it Absolom so at least I'll be happy one day!

"Dereliction of Duty"

So... Sorry about the drop in the schedule last week.  To be perfectly honest I was too depressed to write about anything other than being depressed and really... we've all had enough of that.  The sporadic posting behaviour I fell into over the past summer is really all we need to remember about that little chestnut.  Even thinking about it is making me less and less inclined to keep writing.  OY VEY.

A week previous, I had survived the Three Spires Charity Ball at the Headland Hotel, Newquay.  I feel like I'm still tired from only having got back to Truro at 5:30am, and having to sing Zoltan Kodaly's from 9am that particular Sunday morning.  There was also a lot of Gin.  A huge amount of Gin that I put inside my body.  And then the mud fountain that we made by pushing a car out of the filthy ground.  To be completely honest, it was still a fun night, with the singing and the fabulous venue and the delicious meal and the conversations I remember with a lady called Wendy about bread makers...  Being still actually drunk and in fact, late for rehearsal (because I got up at 8:59 and managed to forget my robe was hanging on the back of my room door) left me feeling horrifically embarrassed and definitely like I let the side down.  Turns out I didn't actually do half as badly as I thought, I mean, I could have sacked it off and then lied about feeling ill now THAT would have been letting everyone down but you know I just don't do that sort of thing.  Subsequently working through one of the worst Gin hangovers ever led to an host of advice, from the usual take aspirin...(or was it paracetamol?) to laying in a steaming bath of salt all afternoon.  I will be trying the bath...probably tomorrow, in all seriousness.  The ultimate mid-term afternoon treat, right?  My clothes have come back from the dry cleaners spick and span, in which having a hand made dinner suit makes all the difference. 

Ah yes, we're now in half term, to use the more familiar term.  This is the famed 'halfway point of the year' (so sayeth the boss), with the comparatively slow journey through Lent, before the freefall to the end that is Trinity.  Recently, as I said at the top, I've been feeling pretty down.  I've gone a little off message, and really doubted what I'm doing here.  I don't have the greatest self-esteem in the world even at the the best and most high-functioning of days: I am more likely to question myself and my own motives before anybody else...and I know that I am far and away in the minority in doing so.  I look to myself and usually end up with more questions and doubts, and send myself into a vicious circle.  Fun times!  Yeah.

Funnily enough, last Thursday (the 14th no less), I woke up and remembered that I was in actual fact a human being (it's not often that I do that, so mark it down guys).  I don't even know why or how, but I did and I am doing pretty well so far okay you guys!  My sleep pattern is still shifted from last Saturday, especially after having gone clubbing to the local, uh, club venue for the last three nights in a row.  I like to think I can still cane it with the best of them, what with my ultimate remedy of literally two pints of tea and a hot shower... I tell you what though, I am never going out until three in the morning on a work night (that's a Saturday, folks!) again.  Okay, give me like three or four weeks to break that but seriously.  While I finally seem to have found my clubbing legs (as it were), it's still deeply expensive, massively tiring and ultimately, a waste of good sleeping/practice/cleaning time.  YES I SAID CLEANING TIME.  I am rapidly moving towards finding less ironic and more genuine joy in cleaning up.  Obviously I'm one step closer to becoming a homeowner, and several steps closer towards insanity.

Right now though, things are calm.  The house is quiet, with only two of us here, and I feel pretty relaxed overall.  Sat here writing into the early hours after a pretty up and down week seems so much easier having talked out the major issues with my furthest but still dearest.  The future's still terrifying and doing nothing but getting closer.  Trying to find employment is...difficult, and for one primary reason: I have no confidence.  I've added a page to this very site, you'll find it right there at the side, where I'm forcing myself to talk about...myself!  I find it a real test, because everything I do is... what I do.  So what I've sang here, done that solo, met this artiste... I don't really see any great glory in it because that's what I do, it's my daily bread and I don't really believe in shouting it from the rooftops (or, more accurately putting it on my CV or similar)... but actually maybe it's time I considered the alternative.  I'll add to the page (which will become the ultimate jumped-up autobiography) as and when I can/see fit.  I'll be looking forward to a quiet week, where I can support local business and get back to some practice.  I will also be detoxing the tiniest bit.  Reprioritising, and of course... Making a difference.

I am becoming more aware of my differences, and indeed the other Scholars.  Our career paths are moving in different directions, and as I often return to, perhaps that makes more difference than I am aware of consciously.  But then again, variety (or indeed, viarety) is the spice of life; it'd sure be dull any other way...

"Seems Legit."

So.  The first post with the new schedule... Late!  Start as you mean to go on, eh?  Turns out that this in the 100th post I'll have published (YAY MILESTONE), so perhaps there'll be some sort of nostalgic retrospective... Oh wait I already did that.


Last week itself averaged out as brilliant, due to the high impact of the weekend, the memory of most of which is hidden behind clouds of laughter.  I can't really remember the most part of the week itself...probably because nothing noteworthy happened; the curse of the unemployed.  All I have to do really is evensong, and that's only a two hour portion of the day.  Actually, secretly, I'm looking for a job.  Don't tell anyone else because then they'll just go and apply for all the jobs and I'll be unemployed FOREVER.

I think there needs to be a change in the format of how I write these.  One of the main reasons that posting ground to a square halt is I lost all confidence in what I was writing - classic writer's block.  I didn't feel that anything I was typing out was informative or amusing, that nobody would have any interest in reading.  It's kind of my root problem in socialising as well... It's the same sort of sudden panic that sets in when faced with the answerphone, and of course, attractive women.  HA HA.  I almost feel like I'm leaving myself open to ridicule, but I guess this is what happens if you write from a personal angle and publish it on the internet I guess it's all part of the deal.

Actually, in all seriousness, I think I've been doing pretty well socialising these days.  Having plans to live in Truro for a good while (say at least a few years), my priorities are ever so slightly different to the other scholars who will be moving on at the end of this year (well, July (well, September really because of the tour in August)).  Although I mostly meet people in pubs (come on I'm a member of a Cathedral Choir, there's always the post-evensong pint), Truro's a small city, you can't help but run into people.  It's nice though!  I feel like I'm beginning to make friends as an adult, unconnected to a study course or my choir, on the strength of character and conversation.  I should think that my reputation as quite a heavyweight drinker has earned me a few fans (especially at a particular establishment), but obviously I could do with avoiding alcoholism.  A few heavy nights in a row has robbed me of much of this month's honorarium, so it really is time to start becoming more responsible with my money.  Buying drinks, not just for myself but also for other people (and finding there is no return...) is just getting too expensive down here.  As much as I enjoy a drink, I far prefer being sober to being hungry, so there's a real cornerstone.  Also, I'm on the Council Housing list, and I've made some personal inquiries into renting costs, although I really ought to start looking into utilities as well.  You know, boring life things.  Things that extend to adult responsibilities.  Anybody worried out there with all this crazy talk?

I've already done this once at Bury Street to various degrees of success and/or failure.  It's all experience, right?  Paying rent and bills sure is a hell of a fag, though.  Living in rent, utility and tax free accommodation (anybody else think that looks wrong?) as a legitimate part of the contract of the Choral Scholarship, that cannot be any more than 300 yards away from the outer crypt door of the Cathedral is an amazing boon, and one that having been through University and back appreciate very much.  The house may be damp and end up feeling a little cramped living with three other guys in what is ostensibly a two bedroom property (the downstairs parlour has been converted into a bedroom as usual and there's a small third room upstairs which would probably used to have been an study or similar), but you know it's a nice place!  If I didn't want to live in a damp place, I wouldn't live in Cornwall.  As a note to anybody who isn't in Truro reading this right now, it is absolutely throwing it down outside (or it was when I started, because now it's just wet and cold and generally miserable).


Of course, outside of my immediate concerns in Cornwall, I find that my thoughts have turned to America, of all places.  Right now, as we live, breathe (and I type), some of my most treasured friends are over in the states: Grasshopper, G, and one of the best writers I ever met and danced with (AMS Ball 2011, still one of the best nights of my life).  I still miss Mike from Marin County, San Fransisco from BH28, but I guess the community fostered in Nelson Court still has a great deal of impact on my life.  I finally restocked my picture frames and I have one of my Grasshopper and one from the AMS Ball on permanent display.  Of course I miss those carefree, post-dissertation days... but I miss the people even more.  I even did a huge roast dinner on Thanksgiving last November in memoriam!  The principal guests, funnily enough, were non-natives to British soil (two German, one French and one Irish), my housemates instead having attended the Youth Choir and then subsequently a local pub, only stayed around long enough to eat, before going out into the night.  

I might try and move away after a while.  Sure, things are good here while I mature and grow into the post of Lay-Vicar, but I wouldn't ever want to get set in one place through lack of choice.  If I'm good enough for Truro now, then I can certainly be good enough for other places (and definitely in the future).  Perhaps I will move far, far away?  Who's to say.  

Postscriptum

You know, I've actually enjoyed this.  I deleted a good 200 or so words earlier, and then started all over again and I think it's okay!  I think I might hash a few more out this week, commenting more specifically on the weekend's hilarity, and maybe I'll push a few hundred words out about that Indie Rock band I can't get enough of.

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.

Promotion cometh yet from the Lord

I've been writing this for quite a while now.  The tag line at the top has been the guiding light for the the overall tone..."misadventure" probably belongs up there as well, probably.  Unlike some of my fellows that I know who blog too, I am less of a creative writer than a destructive one; the last few months of wallowing have proved that much.  But in between the misery, I have also been talking about change, and I guess that's what this is all about.  

As we know, "Songman" is an historic title that I have avoided letting go of even though I am no longer a member of Derby Cathedral Choir.  I like it.  It's short, simple to explain, and sounds old-fashioned.  I was proud to keep hold of it, having been a full-time member of a Cathedral back row before leaving school.  Enough with the laughing already; Derby may not be the world's greatest foundation but I earned my place there and having to do a whole year on your own as an Alto almost straight after your voice breaks is both a terrible idea and a real character builder. 

I'm so proud of this title that I even named my long-suffering blog after it - somewhere where I could offload the heavy troubles of the day by writing them away.  If we look back to where I was when I started writing this, that is to say an environment that did not suit me both domestically and professionally, then we can see why I would want to make such an escape for myself.  I was increasingly unhappy all angles round, God knows how I even found the will to go back into third year, but thankfully I did and here I am now.  And indeed, here I am to stay.  This is the good news that I've been sitting on for all this time.  See, I guess it isn't really a big deal for most people but it is to me...

I'm going to be a Lay-Vicar of Truro Cathedral Choir. 

If you've known me for some time (you know, like 5 years or more), you know that my big ambition in life is to once again be a full member of the back row of a Cathedral choir again, and here I am at 22, having regained that position.  Okay, I'm not getting appointed formally until September next year (I'll be 23 by then though), and I'll have to find somewhere to live and work, but at the moment, this is still better news than that time I found out that I graduated.  I'm particularly proud of this, because I haven't relied on any connections, pulled any favours, or needed any pieces of paper that say anything at all in order to get here; just good, old fashioned hard work. 

I wrote about how little I change myself in the summer; the statement still stands.  Rather than change to something unfamiliar, I have changed to reclaim something I already had.  This is my first post (Cathedral post) as an adult though - whether I stay here or move on out after a while is something that will take more than sitting up til 1am to fathom.  By no means am I sat at a "poor end of the stall" any longer though, and indeed far from it!  I always describe myself as 'the loud one at the end' when members of the congregation speak to me and say "Oh you're a choral scholar, aren't you, which one are you again?".  Thankfully, that description usually does, so I don't have to go as far as describing that abominable hood that I wear (Lord of Mercy UEA you have really dropped the ball with that dreadful coral colour)...

The next big things on the list are accomodation and employment.  Another known known (that is to say something that we know that we know) is that holding down a job is somewhat tricky.  This is another thing with no quick fix; that's it.  As for accomodation... Well, I really don't know.  Finding and affording life in Truro will be the biggest obstacle I will face, and God knows if I'm really ready to do that but the hell with it I haven't backed down yet (I almost did once and that was terrible), and now isn't the time to even start consideing such namby-pamby practices like that.  I know that my strength comes from inside me, but that I always need other people to remind me of it.  I've got a good crop of friends down here even outside of the Cathedral family circle, and I'm looking forward to the next part of my life very much.  This is the independance I have struggled for, the career I have lived for, in a place that I enjoy living, working and being a part of. 

So, what is this now then?  Lay-Vicar's Corner?  I think not.  I could only ever have got to this stage in life and accepted the future that I'm going to without having come from where I did.  I still refer to Derby as "us".  Maybe three services a week is small fry in comparison to now, but there was still a depth of repertoire and the nature of commitment that was a defining point of my youth.  Having to hold the alto line almost on my own was a defining point of my adolescence, and a pretty unique circumstance.  If I could have the time again, would I do things differently?  Would I have that 6 moths off to rest my voice?  Who knows?  Who cares!

Accepting the Lay-Vicarship is still a development I'm getting used to.  It's early in the choral year after all, and there's still seven months of this year with these scholars to go.  More likely than not, there will be five completely new scholars net year though, and I won't be a part of that group.  That is really an odd consideration after having been a choral scholar at various institutions for four years now.  I'm never going to be a choral scholar again.  Wow.