Best Friends

I have the best friends in the world.  I mean that.  

In one's life, "best" friends come and go.  Right?  Well, maybe not.  If you search about on the internet, I'm sure that numerous sites and google hits will tell you that there's only a certain number of friend that a person may have.  I'm not interested in those supposed facts.  In the end, I might come up against that upper threshold, sure.  But for now?  

Rather than just 'make friends', I'm much more interested in building a community.  I guess it's a combination of not just my Autism, but also the covertly (or perhaps overtly) Jewish upbringing I've had.  On a good day, it's quite easy for me to make new acquaintances - high-functioning days can best well, almost anything; it doesn't matter where I am or who I'm with, there's a feeling... no, I know that I'm Indestructible.  But this isn't about just that, is it?  This is all about my friends, and what they mean to me.

Even from School, from my VIth form days, my best friends still stand.  The Doctor, The Drum, The Royalty and The Bishop are all people I feel that are all at not just my beck and call, but also I am at theirs.  They are definitive.  After over half a decade, we can still come back together.  Indeed, we are all well overdue a true reunion, and what I would do for us all to be together is... well, unthought of.  My time in VIth form was a light prelude to what I am now, even after three years of university education and a small number of romantic relationships.  I owe apologies to my friends who have already been named above as well; as much time as I have wanted to spend with them I have just been unable to do so, needing to spend my weekends in Truro means I can often not travel too far if at all, which can feel unfair.  Also my lack of personal funds makes things ever so slightly difficult, and that nasty habit I have of blaming myself.  

Leaving home for University can be a truly gut-wrenching experience, as I'm sure my readers might already know...and if you don't, that's what's in store - everything will change, one way or another.  The implications may not be immediately apparent from this poor narrative, but eventually it will become obvious.  Like the conversation I had with the Big Man about this time last year - before I applied I had never even heard of Truro as a city, let alone a Cathedral choir; all sorts of things have happened in the last two years, not considering the previous three at University,  that I would not even have thought to have predicted, and that is what will happen to you, regardless of anything.  If you do not keep your promises, you are done for.

I am still in contact overall with my best friends from school.  I'm sure that in years, and perhaps decades to come, their friendship will prove to mean just as much.  However, the cut and thrust of this post will be about the friends I made at University, and perhaps most about those I met in my third year, and just why they mean so much to me, and I hope to them as well.  My third year was much more telling than perhaps my first year, possibly because so I felt that so much more was at stake: the repercussions of a terrible second year (in academic results alone, before anything else) and the social expectations I felt of being an old man in halls.  It turned out to be a bumper year for both actually, and I will stand up for my flatmates beyond the pale in fact, seeing as almost all twenty of us between the two flats (linked by a common porch) actually had something to do with my success, even down to the very lovely girl who lived in the room directly opposite who very graciously allowed my use of her colour printer (a degree saving printing as far as deadline meeting was concerned, and some thing I am still grateful for).

But let's turn to that third year, to the people I am still in touch with, that I think about on a daily basis.  The Admiral, Grasshopper, The Waltzer, The Chief, The Entertainer, and my Sensei.  These persons, nameless though they may be, make up the core of what happened all in the end, when it really mattered.  Sensei particularly was there for my dissertation, and his role at that time cannot be underestimated.  Cider be damned.  There is little need to detail their exploits in an episodic fashion either, quite a lot of what I have written before on here has been down to them... Why else is the 2012 archive so thin?  There will be more posts this month when I'm done with the #BEDM challenge then were for the whole of that year.  The inspiration of living with these amazing people can only really be felt when it is not there any more, like now.  I cannot truly express how much I enjoyed living in halls with my flatmates in the academic year of 2010-2011.  Everything about that year, the lows but also the highs that made up for them, were a real and lasting milestone in my life so far.  What makes them special is..well, the fact that they are people who made a choice, not only to remain important to me, but to make me important to them as well.

I like to say that once somebody has become accepted to me and has become an important friend in my life, that they are always welcome at my table.  This has echoes of Judaism, and the Passover meal, but really it means they will always be welcome, no matter what.  I guess at best estimate there a re still less than 50 of these persons today, but I feel that this list grows every year.  This is pleasing, in a way, showing that I can build lasting relationships with new people.  It's not like I've bandied this sentiment about though; there are plenty of people who would not take me up on that sort of offer even if I dared breathe it near them.  I wonder whether I should really name the names behind the nicknames, having always prized anonymity of other as a characteristic of this blog... I only broke that habit for my five favourite blogs, and I shan't be doing so again anytime soon.  As I stated near the very beginning of this blog, names are changed not just to protect the identity of others, but also myself.  What's in a name?  One's identity balances so thinly on just names anyway.

But really now, just what do my friends mean to me?  On the spot and at point black range, what do I say?  Well, simply...everything.  A lot of my friends mean as much to me as family does to you.  Having grown up with a mother who suffers with a range of disabilities, a father who gives in to alcoholism, a brother who moved out way back in my youth, one can understand my minimal family when I was younger (coupled with my difficulties in making friends who meant, well, anything), and why I should want to cast deeper relationships than might usually be sought.  And indeed, the older I have got, the more of a two-way street I appreciate relationships to be - either by the long haul or otherwise.  My best friends are those I can rely on, often no matter what.  Indeed, I often said that The Admiral was my handler, somebody who knew when to pull my metaphorical leash when I was getting a bit out of hand.  My best friends are those I can trust; all of my best friends from VIth form, and even Mickey from Truro and The Loser from Norwich, have faith placed in them that I have difficulty expressing so is had to understand - they have earned it through means not measured in any rational way.  Some of my best friends have been through one horror after another, and I like to think I have been their anchor, sometimes more actively than others (and this is done without hope of future reward, because, well, they're my friend and just because they need help sometimes doesn't make them any less of a person or worthy of any good treatment regardless).  Spread about both the country and in some cases, the world, my very best pals are all over the place, as I'm sure many people's are too.

Sometimes we write to each other, sometimes we use short message servicing, or a telephone call, or maybe Skype, and sometimes we don't speak for months on end... But it doesn't often change how I feel about this community of mad men and women I have built over the years, whom not only allow me the honour of calling them friends, but also return it.  I will back them all they way, just because my life is made so much better by having them there.

That's all.  For now.

Cross Country

Another month goes by unwritten and unrecorded.  Maybe I should start one of those writing schedules that I see other people apologising for when they miss them - something that always amuses me greatly.  I should really keep to more schedules, a little order in the maelstrom wouldn't go amiss after all.

Although leaving it a good fortnight has allowed all sorts of dust to settle, both literally on the untidied corners of my room and metaphysically, in the untidied corners of my mind.  Things are definitely moving though, in more ways than one; somehow I've managed to keep up my weight after the incredible gain of the last few weeks, the novelty sensation of my suits now fitting may not wear off for a good while yet. 

Things are moving though, and I suppose the most important move will be my holiday (hah) in a northern direction back to the Fine City of Norwich itself, for a rest and some much needed recuperation.  Having not made it home this summer was probably a major cause of my depression over the vac, along with various other issues that are all too apparent.  It will be a welcome break indeed!  Basically, this is about as close to a true holiday I'll get since February, and ought to cost me almost as much, although alcohol will be cheaper... Hmmm...

The week is split in two, basically (although I'm not the only one with major bipolarity issues round here).  I'll be staying with my flatmates and very dear friends from Thursday once I arrive.  I'm starting to feel very old these days, and it's not because of the youth of some of my fellow scholars, not even the thought of being 23 in the new year, no, but the fact that my old flatmates are graduating this year.  I remember almost not going back to University, the sensation that really this was an unrescueable prospect...and then the following year proving myself completely wrong, not only academically but socially as well.  I am exceedingly thankful for having some of the best flatmates in my first and third year halls that ever could have been asked for.  Cheesy I know, but the multi-coloured pancakes, the tu-tus, climbing the kitchen shaft (not a euphemism) and Barack Snowbama from my Freshman days to the Ultimate Jagerbombs, Mackerel Packets, the final Dissertation rush, Thanksgiving meal and of course, the appearance of an E flat alto Trombone in both years make for nothing short of two definitively hilarious experiences that ensured success - While my academic results ended up being far from perfect due to my second year, critically my professional efforts have got me where I want to be, and that is what it's all about. 

The second half of the week though, I lodge with a man known exclusively here as The Chief, for the mightiest celebrations known to man.  I can't say any more just yet why... but getting back to Spamcroft and the monster pinned to the western arch will be nothing short of a treat and a joy.  Obviously my technique has nosedived through lack of practice, but I can always pull something out the bag!  Slotty Vallotti temperament might well be for girls, but thinking of my personal registration for the Pachelbel G Minor Fantasia, the grit of the reed chorus topped with the quint and tierce mutations makes for a spinetingling turn at the E flat minor moment.  That terz-zimbel effect is something I miss the most really... Oh.  And a Pedal Chorus.


Sat here as I am, merrily typing away, I wonder why I haven't written more and more often recently.  Perhaps apathy is the greatest cause behind a lack, although various other difficulties have taken their toll as well.  Professional concerns have been high on my agenda, slightly more improtant than my usual moaning on here anyway.  Watch this space though, and I don't mean read between the lines this time (I know a few people do, so don't bother), this week will prove quite important to me, as the weeks often are, as they stretch on into eternity.  I still haven't decided whether I'm really taking my Banjo or not yet!  It'll be a pig to have going through London, after all, but why be without something that makes me so happy?  The effort will surely be worth it.  After all, the Back in Black tour starts here.

Emergency Measures.

Here's a thing.  The University of East Anglia are looking to close the School of Music.  That's right.  No, I understand.  You need a bit of time to look this one up yourself.

I only graduated from UEA this year.  In another 3 years time, the last generation of Graduates will have already hung their gowns up and taken their tentative steps into their futures, without another year to fill their shoes.  I think that as many Alumni as possible should make the final graduation.  No placards, no protesting, just stoic solidarity.  

The School of Music is a somewhat unique place even in the relative oddity that surrounds the University of East Anglia.  This is not to say there is anything wrong with UEA; far from it.  The unique, brutalist architecture of the campus is recognisable all over the world, mostly thanks to the iconic Ziggurats of Norfolk and Suffolk Terraces.  The Houses of Britten, Paston, Colman, Browne and Kett are no less recognisable to those who have lived there, and the great flats of Constable Terrace and of course, Nelson Court are a welcome sight to many.  The pecularity of the student body produces some outstanding relationships.  There's a real cross section of society enrolled at this University, from the droves of Essex men and women, to the Internationals of every imaginable race, to the ends of our own Islands; this is not a place where droves of Private boarders are told to go.  This is a place where you choose to go, and I for one think it's a great place.  

Well, I won't think that so much soon.  Maybe.  There has been a Review carried out by a panel of senior members of the University staff.  Heads of Faculty, you know.  This review has been carried out, and its findings are in.  The Panel have found it in their hearts to advise that Music should no longer be offered as an academic discipline at the University.  I'll give you a minute to read that again.  Music should be dropped from the University, the department closed, the staff to find new jobs.  What will happen to the buildings?  Good question, most likely to be repurposed, but who knows?  The Chronology of this is very important.  The review Panel met in September, they have taken around a month to come to their conclusions.  The news was broken to staff 10 minutes before the students in the School itself.  The oficial release was posted on the UEA website on the morning of the 26th, at around the same time that Facebook and Twitter suddenly went downhill - no, they certainly didn;t crash, but the amount of extremely angry and simply distraught Muso's was both staggering and unsurprising.

The cut and thrust of the public face of this closure plan in funding.  Now, funding has always been and will be an issue, but the current plans of cutting funding to the Arts across the board and the massive hike in tuition fees means pennies are even tighter, perhaps even tighter than tight across the board.  According to the official release the University could no tafford to support the School of Music without "imperiling other, better positioned disciplines".  I'm sorry?  Do they not know the meaning of imperiling?

It appears from the report as well that the Music Department has been, in short, neglected.  The death of the Head of Department in 2006 created an interregnum in School leadership that has only been filled recently by the head of another department.  Not another faculty member, but from outside, but still in the HUM umbrella.  Of course this raises the question of why there hasn't been a new Head of Music proper.  It's a good point, and a good question.  There are indeed some hard hitting questions, but also quite a lot of ignorance.  We don't have "cutting edge" studios by any means, that's true, but the work produced by staff and students with the facilities we have is renowned for its innovation and high concept.  The work of the Sonic Arts series of concerts that are hosted in the Concert Room has also been been either dismissed entirely, or the reivew panel were not aware of it.  Sonic Arts host a range of Avant Garde Electronic performances, and some premieres.  Sorry it's a bit vague, but Sonic Arts was never really my thing.  This said, there are a lot of ardent supporters who deeply enjoy these events, and I would gladly hand the reins of this part over to them.

Throughout the report there is a general shrugging of shoulders.  I've said it before and I'll publish it now that I think part of the problem is that MUS has been operating in quite a different way to the rest of the University.  We don't have a Head, we don't have a strict curriculum, and there's something about our admissions policy that just isn't the same.  For saying that 9 years ago in 2002, the School was operating at the "margin of viability", we have done extremely well to maintain a solid and lasting reputation, and an enjoyable course taught by passionate academics.  We can't offer everything, because we don't have the expertise, which is far better than saying we can do everything and then not being able to deliver the greatest experience.  Swings and roundabouts.  As for our admissions?  Well, the grades thing is a little over my head.  As a rule though, we audition prospective students.  You can't measure talent or potential.  Sadly.  That's why we have the audition process.  Academic expectations are somewhat lower in MUS than the rest of the University however.


However, I fear that this is a done deal.  I've said this many times already, but it's all at the last second, perhaps even deliberately so, to avoid a successful rebuttal.  They are just going through the final, public motions of closing the coffin and nailing it shut.  There's going to be one hell of a fight about this, and sadly I am TOO FAR AWAY to really get involved, and that's a thorn in my side. 

For now though, as Ro-Jaws, the robot with the bigger bite says, SPREAD THE WORD JOHN.  There is an online petition here, the Facebook Group is here, and a very interesting article about wages, funding and fees from the Telegraph here.  Also, the outcome of the Review Panel can be found here as well..  There's also a Tumblr blog as well as the Twitter updates to take into account. If you want to, get involved.  I urge you to consider the facts on offer.  If you don't want to, and then we actually respect that, but just don't antagonise us please.  The School of Music at UEA cannot afford to become a martyr to funding cuts.  The slashing of Arts budgets is not on.  There's no similar cuts to Science or Sports.  That's it.


This should be the only subject of conversation for every member of MUS Staff, every UG and PG Student, and every Alumnus until the very last second.  It's going to bore everyone but we must make sure this is an issue that gets out.  There's been a token notice on the BBC news website, but that's only a token.  I hope you follow the link to the report on the University choosing to charge the full whack of £9000 from 2012, with quotes from Edward Acton throughout.  We need national coverage.  People need to be made aware of this.  If the Music School gets shut here, then where next?  The University of Exeter closed their music department down to build a new Hall of Residence, so for financial gain once more, but that was in 2007, well before the recent times of economic crisis.  What other departments are in danger of having secret reports filed on them, before being told at the last second? 



Perhaps though, like any good tyranny, the University will choose to close the Music Department down anyway.  Regardless of how successful our campaign, how great our support through the petition, both online and on paper, this may well be over.  To think this and give up is folly though.  We will fight for our department, we will support the academic staff who have done such a fine job before and will continue to do so.  this is far from over.

Past The Post

So. I graduated.

Let it sink in. Roll it around, become familiar with this statement. I managed to cross the post, limping across in a blaze of deadline pushing insanity and first class performing. It happened, it's there, boom. I also happened to graduate at the bottom of the class. Ouch. I'm going to let that one sit for a little bit, even though it's stinking the place out. Obviously I should stop being upset about that and no longer care. I can, and always have been able to sing, an ability which is not for parading around and point scoring, but rather for the job of getting on with it and making music. I might be an unemployed waster as far as society is concerned right now, but I'll always be a self-employed musician. I'll always be my own boss at the end of the day, and how liberating that feels.

For the most part, I shall still be working for someone else. I haven't been able to find anything in Derby. I'm not surprised. I mean, if you look for a part-time job in the middle of June and can't find one then why are you even surprised? There's nothing til September. I even went in the Disney Store. The Disney Store! They get 10-15 people in every day in the summer looking for work. Imagine that! They don't hire until *drum roll* SEPTEMBER! And even then it's for christmas temp work. This is what will happen to me in Truro. I will apply for a job in September, and hopefully will have hit it at just the right time. Fit that in with my choral scholarship and boom! I'll be fine, for once. I'll be able to afford things like travel and books and music and CDs and drinks and driving lessons. I can feel like a worthwhile part of society!* But until then...the grind. Looking at my emails, every day. Looking at websites, looking at the job section of the paper, asking everyone I can, and handing CVs out everywhere. And all the same result. We'll put it on file. We've just taken on. We'll let you know. I guess it didn;t help that I was going around in a t-shirt, lumber shirt, sandals and cargo shorts with the pockets. Not exactly 'high-flying choral scholar postgraduate professional', eh? But anyway. I like that outfir. I have a lot of pockets, I can carry everything I need secreted about my person and not have to worry, because I know exactly where things are all the time. Yeah!

Anyway. Graduation. What the hell? I look like a right oaf. Not a bad term, but an Organists' term. I look brilliant, with my three piece suit and paisley bow tie. The hood is coral, thankfully an in-season colour...this season. God help me when it goes out of season. In fact, God help me when I hook it to my cassock, as Lord knows it'll clash dreadfully. Dear dear. Anyway. The ceremony was over in a flash. Spoiler alert for all those who are yet to do so, but it's really easy and you too will graduate smoothly if you just walk across the platform and shake the Vice Chancellor's hand. Done and dusted. Right. On to the festivities!

Only the human race could be so ridiculous as to celebrate a joyous occasion by ingesting large amounts of poison. Am I right? Alcohol, cigarettes, no to mention those who decide to partake in the use of recreational drugs (which may or may not be more harmful than the aforementioned alcohol and nicotine) all in the name of celebration. I personally managed to spend upwards of forty pounds sterling on alcohol alone, and that's just the Friday night, not to mention the curry as well. I also went out the night before (oh its not going to be a heavy one...), spending lord knows how much on Jagerbombs, Double Vodkas and bottles of...Carlsberg, yes, that was it. There is one photograph from that night, where I'm wearing a traffic cone on my head. On the other side of the road, two more of our party are on the way to liberating a sign advertising salsa dancing lessons. Out of shot, obviously, so there's no proof. Both of these items managed to find their way to that most infamous innercity Parish Church, that of St. Peter Mancroft. We managed to wind up getting ushered of of Havana at 4am due to the establishment closing, I mean honestly.

This was the end of the end. A non-valedictory event all the same, but still, the absolute finish to my undergraduate career. I'll never be an undergrad ever again, just to flash the blindingly obvious at you. All further study, even if I enroll on another bachelor's degree, will never have that profound sense of wonder mixed with seat-of-the-pants terror that accompanies the first steps in Halls. As a third year, I felt like king of the hill. As a second year, I was on the back foot. As a first year, I had no idea what I was getting into. I'll be back. Promises made to be kept, and I'll write.

Speaking of writing, updates continue to be sporadic. I apologise (of course), but things are always up in the air, and I am somewhat adrift of late. I spend my nights moping (natch), playing Killer7 (I haven't got a problem at all...), and watching videos of Alternate Reality Games. And then I don't sleep. These last two points may be connected. And this weekend we're going to Wales. It's all go, eh?






*This is rare.

Moto Perpetuo

I'm good at moaning. You know, it's a major strength, being able to poke and pick at my current situation and only see the worst. Like right now. In truth, I'm pretty comfortable, full of food that tasted delicious and 'relaxing' in front of the television. Although I never relax, it's endemic to...well, me. There's no such thing as casual Peb really, he's just a fabrication. Anyway. Moaning.

You'll notice that I spend almost all my time here moaning. I do it consistently, because I do it so well. Practise makes perfect, natch. What am I going to moan about today? Graduation? That'll do.

What is there to be unhappy about with Grad? First things first, it's the end of an era. This is the last time that almost all of us from the School of Music at the University of East Anglia who started in the September of 2008 will be together again. We had one who quit in the first week, one who had time out to have her baby and will subsequently return on the part-time course, and one who didn't qualify. But the rest? 2:30pm at Congregation Hall, 22nd of July 2011, together for the last time. It's the end of an era, the last time I'm guarenteed to be in Norwich. I've made my promises to who I hope turn out to be the right people, that I'll be back, but when that'll be is anyone's guess! Fare's expensive from the deep south, and I'll have to seriously book ahead, even with a railcard. Maybe I'm here to moan about the train fare. Not today, friend. Maybe another time. No, the distance is manageable and the fare is...well, it'll get me where I want to go, but other than that it isn't worth it, obviously. I rather like the train, actually. It isn't really that problematic, nice and quiet, nobody really bothers you, but it's the cost really.

Anyway. Grad. I have made plans. These plans are different to the plans laid on by the union. OH GOD I'M BOYCOTTING THE UNION. No I'm not, get over yourself. I said a very involved and emotional goodbye to the LCR on the last Tuesday of last Term. It ended at 5am, when I was driven back home by Kamei-san, after stopping off to fetch his camera. There is accordingly one picture from that night, on that very camera, funnily enough, where I look appropriately drunk, sporting my experimental chin warmer. I'm pretty attached to my beard, but not more so that it's attached to me. I need to give it a trim in time for the festivities to tidy up, but in light of my recent shearing it might be starting to suit me.

And pray, what are my plans? What do you think? Take a guess. Table for 8 at 9pm, The Spice Lounge, Norwich. Meeting at the Playhouse Bar at 7pm, and then onwards into the night afterwards. I think Vodka Revolutions, for copious amounts of shots, then a spell at Knowhere, and then to the inevitable location of damnation, Havan Bar and Lounge. Yes, the motto of my University is "Do Different", for all it's worth, and I'm doing everything the same as I ever have. I'm nothing if not consisetent, and therefore without it I am nothing. While I may claim from time to time to be a nobody, I am not a nothing. Sorry, got more self-esteem than that, but only just.

I am a little worried about the evening's entertainment. At the moment it feels like a bit of a knife edge, but that be exacerbated by my existing stress. I don't want any trouble, but I can't go anywhere without inviting it upon myself. There are 8 of us for the meal, and then who knows what'll quite happen afterwards. We'll see. But I will say this: I don't burn bridges.

And domestics? Still no job. No money. Not very much to go on. But...you know the drill. Keep going. There is no other option.

Vale, Campus

So here it is, the inevitable end-of-the-year-teary-eyed-remembrance. What? I cried? Haha, you bet I did. There'll be more tears as well, when I find the time to actually be upset. See, the worst thing isn't everyone else going, which is really very bad indeed, I mean what the hell, but instead the knowledge that you are the one who isn't coming back. Payback's a bitch.

The point is, I have managed to successfully complete a Bachelor of Arts Degree in the study of Music at the University of East Anglia, Norwich. Read it again, I mean, I had to several times in order to understand that I did it for myself all by myself...or did I? It hasn't always been a singular effort, and it's been squarely down to the involvement of individuals rather than organisations that have made the difference. Individuals represented by the choral scholars and the Organist of St. Peter Mancroft. Individuals represented by my immediate neighbours for this year in Nelson Court, various members of Colman House, and almost everyone I met in the last two weeks of term. What? Stick with me. I've met a range of people, a veritable cast of characters. I too have taken my place on the stage, calling roles from the Elder Statesman to Wicked Drunk and everything inbetween.

I look back on what I wrote when the year started, and see a man who feels unable to fit in with the depth of the responsibility when surrounded by the first flush of innocent Freshman youth. We all know the deal, right? A number of young persons seeking to quench their thirst for education are all bunged in together without having ever met in person before, and are expected to deal with it. And then sometimes there are old fogeys like me. I look now and am more pleased with my, er, general pattern. Aside from the usual gripes, I've been a lot happier on the whole. My direction is more positive, and I'm rather proud of myself thank you very much.

I do, however, still have a problem with living away from home, in as much as I bring too much with me. How much is too much? Right now, I genuinely fear that we won't be able to fit it all in the car. I brought four suits, including a hand made tuxedo, enough shirts to sink a dinner party, Jackets, Waistcoats, bows, ties and now also cravats. I effectively had enough to never ever wear the same thing twice. I brought seven musical instruments with me, notwithstanding my dulcet tones, and have more music now than I even realised I could amass.

Hiatus

So, that was 10 days ago. Since then, I've been to Truro and back to Norwich, drank copiously, pushed the strength of my digestion and other characteristic behaviours. I've been redrafting this as and when I had the chance, but writing in the Forum Library wasn't really my cup of tea, and I certainly didn't have the world's greatest amount of Internet access where I was staying. I wept for hours when they all went. I made my promises to come back, that I can and will keep. I gave my heart away, and to the right person; someone I can trust. I was going to give it to that Contralto, but the Waltzer cares for it instead. I have enough people who want to see me that when I go for a week I won't have to stay in the same place twice, in fact almost a fortnight's worth! I am very lucky.

Turns out that there really wasn't room for me to fit in the car, such was the grand collection. Everything came back with us except for a small chair on wheels, that has served me well over the past three years. There was simply no room for it! All the rest went home with mother dear while I tarried at Park Lane, NR2 for a little while, in which time I successfully auditioned for the position of Counter-tenor Choral Scholar ar the Cathedral Church of St. Mary, Truro despite suffering from Hayfever, Cat allergies and an horrific cold. Not a bad job eh? All in a day's work.

My tenure at Mancroft ended similarly to how it began, with a less than humane treatment from Madam Director. Oh well! I suppose it was always going to be that way. It appears that our professional differences will always remain, and hopefully I shan't suffer the like in my new Cornish appointment. Everything wrapped up at Spamcroft, really. Inevitable answers became apparent, and all's well that ends well...or something.

This is tough. I'm typing without a direction because I'm just so bloody upset about leaving Norwich. I'm tired of saying "I'm upset" and people replying 'Oh but think about that you're going up in the world and moving on!' Just shut up. I'd like to be sad for a while before realising the truth that yes, I am moving up and moving on. It's fine, I understand. I'll be back in a month for the graduation, and then I'll be back...well, whenever! I'd like to say that I'll always be back, but I might not be able to. I will return though, because I bloody well say so. Capisce?

So much more Drama

I've been trying to write a proper post for about a fortnight now. It's been surprisingly difficult, what with glorious victory on one side and abject failure on the other; pretty much like every day, right? Hah. It's getting tough now, as people are leaving the flat and I, of course, make my preparations to leave Norwich for pastures new. I can't even begin to articulate just how upset I am! Syllables cannot express my deep and powerful sorrow. I'm welling up even thinking about it.

This has been spurred on by my brother's latest effort. You too can find him, writing semiregularly by following the Fit To Practice link on the left hand side of my page. To be completely fair, this is going to be a lot more melodramatic than his, but whatever. That's the way it is.

This is going to be a rant about life, love, and the poor end of the stall.

My life continues! I have not died. Good show, old chap. I'm slowly but surely beginning to tell people about last year's suicidal tendencies, and not just as a shock tactic either. People don't know for a reason, but you know especially if some wag decides to mention killing themselves for the attention, it's nice to get a little context in. Not to mention the fact that a friend decided to take his own life not long ago. Committing Suicide is a very brave decision, actually, just like committing to anything else life changing. But it's just a brave to turn it down. Perhaps it was my mistake with the way everything went last year to have kept so quiet, but I did what I did because that is what I do. I don't bother you with my problems, instead I took to writing them up and posting them on the Internet which is what I'm doing right now. Writing about writing HOW META.

The last two weeks haven't been great though. One of my admittedly self-proclaimed best friends has taken to treating me like a poor acquaintance. Seriously, it's like I hardly know the man! There's been nothing particularly drastic, but put it this way, I haven't been out for curry since I got back from Exeter, he doesn't look me in the eye, and the handshake is now wetter than a piss sandwich. Allegedly, he is very upset because I'm going. Funny, but don't I get to be upset as well? Yes, I'm going for auditions and moving up in the world, but seriously come on! As if my departure to another city is going to effectively end a close friendship? Ridiculous. Friends come and go though, as I know as much as anyone, so perhaps things would have broken down, but there's no need to pre-empt, right? When a man goes from being your best friend, having been a tower of support in days past, with a solid track record of priceless banter to someone who doesn't even recognise you in the street? Fuck off.

Sigh. My end of the stall continues to be poor though, so don't worry! Everything is as consistent as ever. Basically, it's not a sunday service unless I get 'the hand' at least once. This hand is attached to and operated by the Music Director of the Church of St. Peter Mancroft, Norwich, where I have been for the past two very long years. There's nothing less gratifying than being told to pipe down week in week out, which is where half o the trouble last year came from anyway. But, I'm not overly bothered anymore. I haven't been for a while, because it's bordering on hilarious, having passed funny several weeks ago. We on the line, especially if I'm in a mood to cause some damage, can absolutely bank on me getting the hand. Not only are my top notes as strong as ever, they're getting stronger and I'm learning to carry this down into my full range. Even now when I decide to let rip, there's nothing anyone can really do about it. If I carry on to the stage, where I really want to be, there'll be no stopping me. Ho ho.

So. We've had my life. We've had the poor end of the stall. What's coming up next? You can have a prize if you guess. The prize is you get more to read, and even if you don't guess or guess wrong, I'll keep on writing anyway so you're not left out.

Things have been...how do I say...odd. I went all out and asked some ladies out that I had wanted to all year, when it boiled down to it...and they both cancelled on me. Haha no jokes, actual true story bro. So I asked one girl out a week ahead of time, and then she cancelled two days before we were supposed to go out, gave a tentative reschedule, and then cancelled that too. That was the start of the week. At the end of the week I was meant to be taking a girl down to the Playhouse Bar...eh, cancellation on the night. The actual situation is hella complicated, but involves me not being the right guy. As someone who finds it difficult to socialise and go out, even I was shocked. However, this is the way that you normal people get by, isn't it? Sometimes you just ask the wrong people and it ends this way. However. I am leaving my regrets well behind me now. I am no longer upset about it, because damn it I tipped the scales and asked, and I made my intentions clear enough, at least I would have hoped so? Here is a tip though, if I ask you to come to the Playhouse with me, ladies, it's because I really fancy you, and possibly even wouldn't mind taking you home with me. Basically. If I wasn't attracted to you, I wouldn't bother asking you out in the first place, let alone taking you to basically my favourite bar in the City. Right? Anyway.

Last night I went to the AMS Summer Swing Ball. Let's get this straight guys, I had the best time. I made some new friends, drank a hell of a lot, and danced with some of the most beautiful girls I have ever laid my eyes on. It may please you to know that I behaved myself, and was involved in no fights at all. I did dance with some people I would have loved to have been involved with though. The moment worth holding on to, for me, came at about one o'clock in the morning, as I took to the floor with the actual dictionary definition of beauty. Being the end of the night, and the end of the band's session, it was a swanky slow number. We danced hand in hand, leg in leg and cheek to cheek. I don't really know how to proceed with this bit, because it was all a bit ineffable really. For me, it was one of 'those' moments. She squared the circle: my whole world stopped and didn't start again until we let go, by which point I had discovered that my braces had come loose (you know you've had a good time) and I was shaking when I went to reassume my place at the table. She touched me in a way I can't begin to comprehend.
I lost her at the end of the night, basically. Not even a goodnight kiss for our eponymous hero, unfortunately. Tcham! Tush and tcham. I'm not actually that bothered though? I didn't get her number, or end up going home with her, and I'm not bothered. I have accepted that I'm pretty much a romantic failure. Basically! See, I had a wonderful time dancing with all the girls I did so with last night, and what need do I have to ruin it by clumsily propositioning them? That's right friend, I have no need.

Look at that. I managed to avoid getting too upset. Not for long though, as now it's only a matter of days until the end of this year. Joanna will leave on Thursday, and Georgia on Sunday. To put it bluntly, I have no idea how I'm going to deal with not having my flat living with me next year. I'll cope, because that is my business, but how I will go about it is another matter entirely. Adam's already gone! People are leaving for their summer, and then it'll just be my fellow spam scholars left. And then I'll go. And that'll be it for a long time. And that makes me so painfully sad.

Decisions, Decisions

You may notice that after March and April's fiesta of writing, things have calmed down a little round here. A lot's been going off, actually! Unlike the end of March, when I was stuck in writing my dissertation, the natural reflex was just to keep writing, funnily enough. I'm so much better at dealing with things in this written fashion, as you will well know by now. But this is a tough time. You know. I've two weeks before my final recital, and I haven't sorted my program out at all. TCHAM! Ok. Shit. No, it'll be fine. I mean, since when have I done it any other way? See? It'll be just like the good old days.

However. In the last few days I have made my mind up. About a lot of things, actually. The biggest of these is that I won't be staying in Norwich next year. OUCH. I know. I need a rest from higher education, but I need to stay away from home, basically. If I go back to Derby, what will I do? They won't have me at the Cathedral, and there sure isn't anything more singing in Derby, especially for money. I can't go home for any great length of time. There's no time these days to plan in relative relaxation for the next step, and to be fair, I should have come to this conclusion before the end of last year. But we all know how that year went.

I am casting the net, and looking at the Chuch Times. Oh yes. Time to find a place on the stall and trade my Songman status for a Choral Scholarship. If I want to continue my musical studies in any serious way, I'll need experience. And to me, there is no greater experience for a singer except for singing every day, which pretty much leaves one place only.
I've been very unfortunate at UEA, mostly having the wrong sort of face, or certainly the wrong sort of voice. My characteristic pungency and projection are definitely unwelcome.

With settling on an exit from Norwich, we have to consider the next most pressing matter. What about a girl? Well. What about a girl. It's funny really. I've made so many consecutive bad decisions that I don't know whether it's worth bothering any more. However. Last night, I basically ran into what I consider to be an unofficial Fan Club, made up of a small cadre of girls who live just across the courtyard! I promise to always look to your window when I pass. Hilarious! I still feel too flattered to do much about it, but you know. There's a glimmer of potential. I might just heave myself from my self loathing and do something about it. There's no time like the present, but I'm genuinely worried! You understand all the usual things. Mine is to do and die, regardless of how much of a scaredy I am.
But...I no longer Dream of Spires, nor any other vapid specimen. I've spent a long time wasting my time on people who will not and never will return my affection. I've been very very angry over the past few days about that specifically. People who turn out to be, at the punch, completely useless and not interested, but don't have the wherewithal to say so for definite. Because I so do love wasting my time. I reached this new level of ground a little while ago, but was looking back somewhat. Now, I won't turn around. Not even like Orpheus, out of curiosity. Ho ho!

On a day to day basis though, I'm doing a little more. I'm piling on the pounds after the disaster that was the Easter holiday health crash, and have been eating very serious amounts of very good food. Only two days ago did I make a Pasta sauce from nothing but bacon, garlic, chilis and chopped tomatoes. Absolutely godly! It won't be long before the Captain's Curry House can add a Trattoria next door. I'm getting up earlier on a more consistent basis as well, probably due to the sunlight streaming in through the gap between my shelf and the curtain...and the incredible amounts of booze I have ingested lately. Drinking always helps me get up early, as many a sunday morning can testify...
Ok, not many. But a few. I mean, I'm only saving up my Alcohol unit allowance to one point in the week, right? That's ok? Isn't it?
No, on the whole I'm much more active. It is the sunlight, what with me being solar powered, and the fact that I've now got my bicycle back on the road always does me good.

Now. You will excuse me. I have a lot of washing up to do, and then I must sojourn to the first floor of this flat. I'm far too worried to go to anybody else's for starters, but I have a place here. And will for a long time.

...For My Bones are Vexed

Continued.

Saturday was a good day. Emphasis on the day part. I made a one man assault on the food stalls of the Continental market after not eating (and not even being able to) all the previous day. Free range Chicken Breast burger (grilled), Jerk Pork, Currywurst...hugely expensive but worth it, in my book. Well. Was it? I also purchased a new Trilby for myself, having lost the other one to the top of Lorna's car that time she gave me a lift home. I ended up crowning my day's culinary adventure at the Mad Moose, with THE MOOSE BURGER, not actually made out of Moose. Handmade beef burger, cheese, a slice of bacon, a plate full of chips, a little red onion salad on the side. Lovely. Super duper. Cool cool cool. I find myself uncharacteristically full after finishing though, take it a little easy and sup some Staropramen, a fine Czech lager. What happens over the course of that evening, all starts from there. Mark it well.

I'm sat there with Julian of Norwich. Over the course of the night, we discuss various happenings, persons and deeds that have occured in the week previous. I recieve a small but not undeserved dressing down, but no hairs are split. Also there's a small rebuff about my emotional outburst on Friday. Anyway. We have a good meal (...), a good drink, and a good laugh. In a moment of complete brilliance, we decide to go to the Funfair that was set up for the bank holiday weekend in Chapelfield Gardens. We went on Monday while Toon was here, so why not go again? Exactly. The whole place was a rip off, but aren't they always? If you're offended/surprised/taken aback/&c just don't even think about it.

We take on a ridiculous spinning ride first, that is all the spinning, all the time. No problem. Not for £2 a time anyway. Next up? DODGEMS. Oh yes. Some little shite keeps driving into everyone ALL THE TIME and the first time he crashes me, he hits me at the perfect angle to smash my knee into the steering wheel. Suffice to say, I find that rather painful. Did I say rather? It came so keen I had to swap legs to use the pedal with! The cars were extremely short though. Good though! At £2.50 a car I think one round, especially with that kamikaze ankle biter, was more than enough. Not quite as fast as the Old Hunstanton cars either.

We wander off through the fair and scout out two possibles. One which spins both backwards and forwards on a horizontal plane, and another that spins the individual on a vertical plane, in a cage, on some sort of ferris wheel arrangement. Folly. We went on the other one, which was absolutely brutal. The main problem was the hydraulic arms that threw the carriages out didn't follow the track exactly, and extended slightly behind the curve. Folly. To say I, or indeed my companion no longer felt at our best after that would be, er, a lie. Ha ha! We crawled back to the Mullberry unit for a nightcap. And by nightcap, I mean glasses of Coca Cola. Going back to J of N's to pick up my Tan Messenger, I start the journey home, at a resoundingly early half past ten. I run into two of my Choral Scholar fellows on the road (one of them lives in the same street, go figure), chinwag complete and the Captain continues on. Feeling distinctly dicky. I mean, terrible.

On the way I try to get the Waltzer on the line, but to no avail. No problem. Keep walking. Urgh. Home is pretty close in the end though, and urgh. Now really, we come to the part of this story where my digestion really turns into a warzone, my intestines go into open revolt, and my toilet gets sat on for a long time, and very often. I am concious that by sparing details I will often be not believed when I claim that things are as drastic as they can be, but allow me to assure you beyond all shadow of doubt: I WAS DREADFULLY ILL. The Germans call Diarrhoea 'Durchfall' for a reason; it translates directly as 'Through fall'. People call up German for being a harsh and unromantic language, obsessed with efficiency. Except for its word order, obviously. I love that little gem in the lexicon, and always use it over the English expression, usually because I can't remember how to spell the English word! Folly.

And, at twenty five to two in the morning, I finally managed to stop being sick. Not that I had been violently ill since I got back, but I don't remember when I started, because I was slightly more bothered about being violently ill in the toilet, rather than in my bed. Turns out it was a good and well carried out decision, as I was sick so hard I had to check the floor for stray vomit. Even remembering it is making me feel sick again. I'd best not be, or my mother will go insane, and I will be straight round A&E. I was only sick for one round in the night. I brought up the last thing I had eaten (and obviously drank)...which just turned out to be a metric fuckton of...*drum roll* BEEF MINCE! BOOM. Yes, that's right. The Moose Burger gracing our screens again. Delightful. The chips seem to have disappeared, but the burger? It had been knocking about at the top of the pile all night, and I don't suppose that the high-velocity rides did my stomach any favours. Whatever the cause, I have to call up God on the big white telephone. Like I said, one round only. At night. Fitful sleep occurs, and I feel like shite. I don't get up until it's time though, and like a good little idiot, don't tell my mother about it when she gives me a courtesy call to make sure I'm up and getting ready. I shower, shave hastily, and put on my best suit. Instead, the first person I tel about my chronic vomiting and digestive problems is my good friend and all-round mensch, Djinh. I discussed that I thought I'd be able to shake it off, if I just get on with it, I'll be fine. Mistake.

I lasted an hour into the rehearsal. A mere sixty minutes before I feel a projectile coming on. Thankfully La Directa gets wind, and gifts me a sit outside with a glass of water. This "glass of water", however, turns out to be a lukewarm plastic cup's worth. Blegh. Shortly after, MD lets me back in, and I cheerfully report that not only do I not feel any better, but that I was going to go and be sick again. And yea and verily, I was. Boom. There wasn't much. Bile, and warm water. Well, slightly warmer than it was served to me, anyway. I had to go home. I needed to. After surviving the taxi journey home, I went straight back to bed, for a good five hours, missing three texts and only waking up to a phone call...from Jody! Hah! No, I would not be joining you for evensong. That day was characterised by the most violent illness I have suffered and survived since...(notwithstanding last year's food poisoning)...I can't even remember. I had the flu, in one form or another in my first and second years, and now in my second and third years I've had terrible through falling through and vomiting episodes. I slept, off and on, for the rest of the day, and only managed to sit up properly by about 8pm. However, that didn't stop me from being very ill. Very sick. Really. Terrible.

Sunday night? Don't even go there. Every three to four hours I'd get up and take up residence in my en suite, and hold on for dear life, and then consequently retire as best I could again. Waking, doused in cold sweat? To wake to sit through your intestines having an argument? Fuck. My. Life.

Unholy week is over. My insides? Tender. What about that chest x-ray? Next time. There's always next time.

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.

Batteries not Included

So, as the more astute of you know, I've been back in Norwich for a while. At 3pm on the 22nd of April, it'll be a whole week. Yes, that's right fact fans, an entire week. The weather has been nothing short of excellent, and I have spent a lot of money on...well, the usual, really! Food, food, some more food, lots of booze, a laundry trip, books...last but not least a Transformer as well (about bloody time), the Cybertronian Optimus Prime, made famous by War For Cybertron, a videogame I still aim to own and play.

This last week, and it's logical extension to Sunday night, has all been in aid of my Choral Scholarship at the Church of the Parish of St. Peter Mancroft. I refer to this establishment through a number of terms, usually focussing on the fact that the offical contraction is "SPM", just one vowel short of the name of a canned meat product. Oh yes. It's Holy Week as you know, which is of course christened "Unholy Week", to commemorate the fact that a) I needs must be here and b) it has been an official part of #Banter2011. I have been immensely amused by the visit of one Toon; the mini-Marian tour we took, the Seaside Visit, the Norwich Crawl and the Towering Inferno that all happened while he was here. Good show!

And of course, at the beginning of the Easter Holidays, I went home for four days. I actually broke line and went home because you know what? Because I bloody well wanted to. Hah! No, seriously. The long and winding road that lead to the eventual completion and hand in of my dissertation almost (but not quite) finished me off. I had to go home or I would have buckled under the strain. The bigger man knows when he's beat, and I sure am in retreat at the moment. I wrote a total of 12021 words for my dissertation, 1857 words for my project, and then notised the bullshit numerology game I managed to play, as 12021 is what you get when you multiply four thousand and seven by three, and if you add the separate digits of my project total together you get 21, which also happens to be my age. BONG. I am crazy.

Without those who believed in me and backed me up every step, I wouldn't have been able to do it. But also, if not for those who do not believe, care or indeed, actively look for me to have failed, I wouldn't have been able to do it either. One of the most dangerous things you can say to me is "I bet you won't..." or associated similes. I have some sort of psychological need to prove people wrong. I almost lost that last year and gave up on everything. And I mean, everything. How I feel about it, and the way I tell it is unsavoury to say the least. I am managing to recharge, however, and claw little bits of myself back.

Now, of course, the weather is on the up again. One of the funniest things about going back home was the climate difference: double figure temperatures and shorts in Norwich somehow turned into chilly evenings and closing the windows at night to keep the warmth in. Also, it rained. Not exactly copiously, but enough. Funny really, as I do love the rain. It's getting a little dry round Norfolk at the moment, so a small shower would be most welcome. Especially with the after-rain smell. Oh yes. I know this is asking for trouble, but touch wood it'll be fine! Right?

Right. Rain is only a problem if you don't want to get wet.

I'd love to segue into some sort of relationship commentary, but I think I could only do so by being vulgar. Looks like I just marked my own blog with blue pencil. I really want to buy flowers again. Like, a lot. Seriously! I don't know if I will before I go back. I mean, maybe I ought to, but then disappearing for a week and a half isn't exactly the best idea, um, right? And anyway, if I leave it til after I get back, maybe I'll have managed to talk myself out of it. Who knows? Maybe I'll even have decided. I mean, there are a couple of people I have some major crushes on, and things will stay that way if I use my time-honoured tactic of doing naff all. Maybe it's still not time though. This is positively the most laid back I've been about things For the Longest Time. Maybe I shall have the patience to wait for my very own Uptown Girl. Dinner? A film? Whatever. There's time. Flowers though. Oh yes.

So what's left? Well, the sun's finally come out, and the air temperature is finally approaching sociable. I've sat outside and soaked up the rays, sometimes with and several times without alcohol, to great effect. I've said for a long time that I'm solar powered. IF ONLY WE COULD HARNESS THIS ENERGY. I've managed to catch the sun on my face and arms, but my legs remain as white as ever. Ho ho! I'm wearing my 'long' shorts at the moment. While they are shorts, they keep the majority of my arctic-hued legs away from public gaze. Sandals are in full operation, and I managed to get away with wearing them at Eucharist earlier. Hey! I turn out in a suit for every service, so I think I deserve a little consession every now and again. When the summer comes properly though, I will turn out in my whites, just like last year. I much prefer white to beige linen, even though a jacket will actually cost me the Earth. Literally.

And then, after all is sung and done, I'm going home again for a week and a half, to get the real R&R sorted. I'm really tired, and I don't mean physically. Metaphysically. Emotionally. Technically. Musically. I am drained. I need to take time off, and step out of the game. Just for a little while. If I really remove myself from this dread arena, I will lose the pulse entirely. Hopefully I'll be able to reboot my brain while I'm at home. The week's almost over, and it's almost time to go home, and have an actual rest. Oh yes. Deep joy.

Drunk again

Tonight was the last time I go out before my dissertation and project are finished.

I didn't even really mean to drink much! I'd gone to a J.D. Wetherspoons establishment for lunch after the Chamber choir concert (which thankfully went a lot better than the night previous), which included a pint of the black (I asked for that at the union on Paddy's and they didn't understand me). I've eaten quite a bit, so I thought it's be ok. Turns out it hit me a little harder than usual, but it was probably the stress.

So anyway, fast forward. I stuck with my excellent friend Kamei-san (Kamei-senpai, Sensei &c) after choir tonight and rode to the Schoolhouse on Earlham. We stayed for a small tincture, and then travelled to town, complete with the manager (or indeed the owner [perhaps both]) of Knowhere. I went to the Playhouse Bar for my usual pint of Kostritzer, because that's how I roll. It's great stuff. Anyway.

Before this had happened, I had rang my Lead for my Barbershop to find out his location, seeing as it was his birthday! Although like a damn fool I missed it. He was going home as I rang him. Tush and Tcham!

My next move after the Playhouse was to go home. I thought that one was more than enough, and it was time to go home. What happens? I pole up to the bus stop and before I get there it sails past me. Right. I decide to plunge back to a drink, as this is the only logical course of action...right? Yeah, right.

Somehow, I manage to get into the NUCA SU bar. For the unfamiliar, that means the Norwich University College of Arts Student Union bar. It's a really nice place! Very affordable, much more so than the UEA SU, a great building and a pretty good atmosphere. I stayed for two bottles of Asahi, the premium Japanese black beer. Delicious. I got a taxi home because guess what? I left my buss pass on my desk! What an idiot! I was cursing under my breath the whole taxi journey home. Thankfully, I found it straight away. Oy! What a fool.

Spamming wasn't too bad tonight. A fair bit of banter, and the Demon reared his head to deal with the Director. I may not be in the best of voice at the moment, but the unholy half of my person is fighting back. You have the right to kill me, but you do not have the right to judge me. And I ain't going down without a fight. I wear my toothed bracelet every day now, and it reminds me to bite back.

In lady news, that girl at choir is just as nice as ever, with her felicitous dress and delightful perfume...but I can't get her out of my mind. I'm coming up against all sorts of difficulties (there's someone else interested and my continual lack of spine) but even the firey spirit of chaos within will not move on. Obviously she is not a regret. Tomorrow, it could be her. The ultimate problem is that I do not know how to be successful anymore, having gone through somewhat of a dry spell and a regression as far as my social skills are concerned. Oh well. It'll work out. I have asked for some preternatural help with her, I don't think that's outside of my remit. It's time I had a chance, in all honesty.

And the kicker ending? I'm going home. 11th-15th April. After the dissertation. Fuck it all, I will need to go back and let the tension break. I deserve it, and I owe it to myself. Hence the £7 ticket. OH YEAH. The Captain's coming home.

Fatigue

Quite a while ago now, I wrote an entry called Catharsis. It was quite popular, if the statistics ran by the web service I'm using are correct, twenty-something views solid. Obviously it wasn't as popular as the last one, but then again we all like having a laugh at some sap who goes ga-ga of a girl, huh? Especially when that sap is old Capitain Pebblez, eh? You know what happened there, of course. A few days after it hit the net madamoiselle in question went and listed herself in a relationship...with someone else. Right. Fine. Same as it ever was. I should hate for it to have turned out any other way.

I went out on saturday night for Brill Bri's birthday booze up, complete with her friends from way back when and a good few Spammers. I bank roll for one, I buy a lot of booze. I generally enjoy being attached to her side. &c &c, you know, I think she's just lovely. So anyway, I discus the matter of this particular with one of the sops; I did her a favour, so I asked her to do mine. Quote? "Don't even go there. Really don't. You'll find someone eventually." Jesus H. Christ. Turns out, yes that's right fact fans, she's already seeing someone else already. Whod've thunk it, EH? As per usual, I can't tell anyway, but what the hell man, better to have found out this way? RIGHT. Fine. Same as it ever was. I should hate for it to have turned out any other way.

This leaves me firlmy where I always begin: Square Zero. Null. Nowhere. RIGHT. FINE. Same as it ever was.
As ever, I can do nothing about it. So, I must leave off for now. For good! No, not quite, but certainly for the next fortnight. I needs must complete my degree first! Women will always be outside of my sphere of comprehension, grasp, jurisdiction &c, but a degree is almost there. I've done most of the technical work as far as my project is concerned. The write up awaits, as does the tuning of the instrument, which I'll do on 3" wind in the UEA Christmas Cracker. A simple releathering of keys and sureing up of the case has worked wonders. It's nowhere near as good as it could or even should be, but it's ok. It should turn out ok.
As for the Dissertation, I'm stuck. I haven't done any hardcore work for over a week now, as I've hit somewhat of a wall. However, all is not lost, as it actually stands at about four thousand words. I'm going to pull through! I know it. There's no substitute for hard work, right?

Actually, maybe there is. I just haven't discovered it yet.

I have of late - but wherefore I know not - lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of excercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, - why it seems no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.

That's right you fuckers, how dare you call me inhumane, I quoted Hamlet. Let's get down to brass tacks though, and cut through all this crap, shall we?

I'm tired. I'm not just fed up, I'm genuinely wearing out. My patience is a nothing but a nasty rumour at the best of times, but now it's just a folk tale. My insomnia is peaking. My usually cast-iron eating habit is beginning to suffer as I start to forget to eat. Before long I shall stop concentrating on my sentences and start firing expletives at high velocity in every direction, including those you don't know about. A lot of things make me angry, and right now one of those things is Chamber Choir. Quite frankly we've bitten off slightly more than we can chew. Actually, it wouldn't be if various people knuckled down and just paid attention and just got on with it instead of fucking not. I couldn't give a shit that nobody else for your part has turned up tonight, you get the fuck on and do your best. Maybe you think it's not good enough? Maybe you think you can ruck up when you like and it'll all go fine? No. Actually it doesn't work like that. Sorry for spoiling your presupposed misconceptions about the world! My Bad! I didn't know you were so sensitive.

"Oh yeah", you say, "Here it comes, the bit where he says he's better than everyone". Well, frankly that's not true. I'm not better than everyone else. I still have to work for it. I work damn hard. Remember how much of a welcome I get for being a countertenor. I'll tell you what though, if you push yourself as hard as I do, I bet you'll even surprise yourself. I can take in a breath that last up to three times longer than an other beknighted member of the choir, because I know how to deal with my breathing and don't expect any less from myself. I pitch a descending flat 7th right every time because guess what! I fucking make it happen. I do the best that I can to keep in tune all the time. Sometimes it doesn't work, at least I admit to it. I haven't heard any of these pieces that we're singing unless I've done them before. I will find it inside myself to make them right without copying anything else. Maybe I'm not being fair though. Maybe I take it too far because I'm obsessed with singing. Funny, eh? An obsessive compulsive completely obsessed with the science and art of singing, which just happens to be his principal study at University? POW! WHERE DID THAT FASTBALL JUST COME FROM? JESUS H. CHRIST.

I've been snowed under from day one. You try being depressed 24/7 (actually, I wouldn't really advise it, but roll with it). You try feeling so empty and lost that you need an hour to look your door handle in the face and leave your own fucking room. I'm not saying that's every day, but I've been there more than once, and definitely more than I wish to be ever again. Looked in the mirror lately? Do you see a human being looking back at you? Good. I don't. What? Go ahead, read it again. Of course I don't think of myself as a human being like the rest of you. Newsflash! I will never be one of you. There's one person who seems to actually understand and critically, accept how I feel and think and work. I worry about him as much as some of you must worry about me. I've got his back and he's got mine; that's how we work.

I'm tired. I'm tired of all the things I said last time, you know. I'm tired of being alone and depressed and being single forever and importantly, being autistic and obsessive compulsive, and now I'm also really very tired of working myself to the bone for what seems to be no reason. I'm all but worn out, but I still have a way to go. I won't stop, because that's not part of the plan, and I know that I'm Indestructible. My last post isn't all that it seems; it's a second draft. I don't usually ever check these for vitriol, but I did last time. I had to start again because I was hating on myself so much for getting depressed and defeatist. I'll check for vitriol in this one, I won't be a minute...HA HA.
We're good. I'm an angry man at the moment. And I'm very angry about one specific thing more than anything else for once. I think that this should reflect a little clearer than I usually let it. I've been so bothered about trying to get a date/laid/whatever that I've taken my eye off the ball somewhat and not realised my temper's still on the boil. Whoops. SAME. AS. IT. EVER. WAS.


*collapse*

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

...Bring me a Dream...

Funny things, dreams. And I don't mean funny like the preceding post where I talk about having technicolour dreams with force feedback. I mean hopes and dreams, fears and ambitions. I'm really quite the dreamer. I regularly dream when I sleep, and I have a lot of hopes. Many of these come to nothing; the longstanding dream of being able to ask a girl out on a date still escapes me.

One day, a long time ago, it was my foremost hope to move out from house and home and go to university, and get a degree. Now, I'm in the final and most fatal furlong of that journey. One slip now...and I'm done for! Best not slip then, eh? When I was 16, I told myself that I could teach myself to play the Organ. Well, I'm having lessons now on a deeply important and excellent instrument, which truly tests me to the very limits of my admittedly poor technique. A year younger than that, I wanted to play the Upright Bass in my school Swing Band. That came and, because I left school, went, but I still play, and I want to get back to a band. Also, I want to play my Tenor Banjo in a Dixie Band. I'm a rythym section kinda guy. I love it.

But why did I really work up the effort to come to University? It would have been a whole lot easier to have just...not bothered! It's kind of the same thinking behind Lent this year though; I was going to give something up but then I realised I'm not a quitter. ZING.
Unlike what you may think, I didn't come here to get depressed, feel alone or even write a dissertation about Organs, even though I'm doing all of those right now. I came here to sing.

When I was about...I dunno, maybe 9 years old, I decided that I was going to be an Alto. I was a probationer chorister of Derby Cathedral Choir, and I thought that being an Alto was the Bee's knees, not to mention that incredible solo that came around every year, Orlando Gibbons' This is the Record of John. SWEET. I had my heart set on that bad boy. So, when I reach that age in a boy's life (behave, no sniggering at the back) when one's voice changes, I had the summer holiday off and then got straight on to the back row! Pow! Guess what?! BAD IDEA.

I wouldn't say the damage was irrepreble. In fact, nobody has said that. Sometimes it feels that way, but it isn't. I just have a voice which works in a very peculiar way, still quite strong in the upper half of the compass, levelling off the lower it gets and then a huge gear change into chest voice. We have a reputation, my voice and I.
So.

What's the problem? Well, truth be told, I find it hard to find anybody who really wants me to sing around these parts. Harsh. Maybe it's all in my head. Or maybe that's what some people would like me to think!
I was involved in a Madrigal group in my first year. We didn't do terribly much, but we did at least one recital so that was good. Yeah, Madrigals! I wanted to sing early music when I got to University. I was told that Countertenors were wanted and were the in thing and I'd be well in.
When I arrived, I had a head full of idealism and knowledge of Early Music. I can still tune up a Viol Consort almost off the top of my head, and used to be able to rattle composer's names and dates off like a crazy man. Can you see where this is going?
Anyway, Second Year dawns (ugh) and there forms an ensemble, dedicated to Early Music...Invitation Only, bro. You know, like the top of the pops Early Music, the big favourites, including big Tom T's Lamentations. Oh well. Funnily enough, that's not the only ensemble formed with no small interest in Early Music. Once again, Invitation only and once again lost in the post. Funny, I can't really start being an arse about these things because a) It was their choice b) It's been and gone but 3) I'm always going to be annoyed about it. Thankfully I was still in situe in the Chamber Choir, much like I am now, much like first year.

Mistake number one has to be voluntarily choosing to get Spammed. The strange bi-polarity of being invited to have a scholarship and attracting the look of death and several pointed comments every rehearsal about "someone's pushing the balance" meant that quite basically I went home in tears every other week. Ok, that's not nearly descriptive enough. I believed that singing was all I was good at, but thankfully I was still good at it. Turns out I almost got convinced otherwise, and almost gave up entirely. If I can't sing, then what else am I good for? Stage Management? (Too soon?) Things aren't quite as bad this year, as my improved living and study arrangement has allowed me to regain some thickness. And you grumblers over there, if I can't write what I like in my tell-all blog, then where can I write it?

I basically gave up on early music. Seriously. I am reliably and repeatedly informed that we of the old Countertenoring type are too loud, out of tune, unable to blend effectively blah blah blah...The only thing I may be fit for is solo work, a little questionable since I only have ensemble experience these days, no connections and...seriously, how often do you think I get asked to sing solo? (Oh Woe is me? Get real. This is my true perception). That and in all honesty, I don't often listen to early music for the pleasure of doing so. It has to have the driving motor of North German Stylus Phantasticus, or the Organic counterpoint of Weelkes and the avant-garde members of the English Madrigal School, or John Bennett's lusty fugal style...you get the picture. I often find Renaissance polyphony boring, because I'm not involved in it.

So. I didn't bother about early music for a long while, mainly during the summer. I did very little singing, perhaps the rest let my voice relax a little as well. It's certainly much smoother and I have more dynamic control than ever. A freshman, in his infinite idealism, posted on the facebook forum for the new intake this year that he wanted to start a Barbershop Quartet. The rest is history! Or, It'll have to wait til next time.

Turn the Wheels

I warn you now, I feel distinctly unwell. I've got four nights of Caberet ahead of me (more on that story later), and seem to be suffering from an indecent cold. FEH.

So, what's new? Well, not much actually. I still haven't started my dissertation, my room's still a tip, and I'm still going. Business as usual then! I'm still suiting up for more than half of the week and still refer to my learned lecturer, Dr. Alan Howard as "Sir". The rings have returned, but I really need a new one for my right hand. Not only am I getting a lot of feminine cracks about it, but also the fact that it came from a certain person for a certain reason (which also means I can't or won't wear it on my left hand) makes me a little loath to wear it. I'm very happy with having a ring on the right hand, and the white gold makes a nice contrast (in typical two-tone style) to my left hand's yello gold rings, but...well, you know. I'm looking for a sterling silver number to take its place.

This all seems to be part of a willing regression before the ultimate progression, my graduation. As I explain to people who question the appearance of my bling, I routinely and truthfully answer that I used to wear them all the time, not to mention wearing a suit every day, and also referring to my educators by honourifics. Dr. Waters I call The Boss, J of N I call Chief, and Dr. Howard and Mr. John Stephens are Sirs. I've gone back to playing the Banjo for several hours a week, and with Caberet have been playing Bass a lot more. (More on those stories later.) It is almost as if I am returning, in a way, to te good old days of one's Grammar School. The safety and security of these old habits is keeping me bouyed in a tumultuous sea of progress that is both inevitable and inescapable. It's a living, huh?

But anyway. Back in those Halcyon times, I was in a steady relationship. I can almost feel you rolling your eyes as you read this, but I have had much cause to remember this, not only because I'm surrounded by first years who are or are not in long distance relationships that are or are not working, but also because of the artefact on my right hand. Long time (or should I say new as well) readers and those who know me to any personal extent are familiar with my constant wailing about the lack of one now. Anyway, something funny happened to my thought process the other day. It's most heartening.

So, usual set up. Beautiful girl, admired and loved from afar by the Captain without him realising. After some though Captain becomes aware and therefore becomes too terrified to do anything about it.
Nothing new yet, eh? Read on.
Captain begins to become aware of a nagging feeling behind the forehead. No, it isn't brain death, that happened long ago. He feels foolish and ashamed about his fears! Even he himself is tired of his ridiculous lack of courage, when he has enough chutzpah to leave the flat every day. What? Even I'm tired of not doing anything.

So what will actually happen? Good question. One of my problems is that there are rather a lot of attractive ladies I would wish to take out; basically there's too much choice. OR I fancy neither one more than the others. The latter is probably more like it. It's not that I'm commitnent-phobic (far from it, in fact, I'm actually phobic of clowns (But not Papa Lazaru)), but perhaps I am in not commiting to the one. Or maybe, just maybe, this is what "playing the field" is all about. I rather feel that I'm the one getting played though, if the field itself is some sort of metaphysical player.

For once, maybe I will. I'm totally doing this at the wrong time what with my dissertation and all...but it'll be good. What's the worst that could happen?

Valentines, Schmalentines!

Well, would you look at the time! The last time I put something on here for public consumption it was last year! I didn't even post on/near my birthday to tell you all how OLD I AM NOW (seriously the old grey is getting settled in my precious barnet). I was sung the traditional Birthday 'ode' a grand total of five (Yes HQ quiz fans, that's fffffffiyve) times, including twice in the pub where I decided it would be best to hide under the table for one rendition. God's sake.

Anyway, beyond that, my birthday passed without any real incident. In fact, everyone was so nice to me that I thought "perhaps these people do like me after all". I know, deep folly! That was almost a month ago now though, and I can say that I am acclimatising to this grand old and edifying age of 21 in my usual fashion; slowly but surely. It is instead the next great calendar occasion that I turn my burning interest towards, that of Valentines Day (BOOM PARP KABOOM)

Saints Valentine are now long forgotten in what I can only describe as the world's worst Hallmark massacre. Cards, flowers, gifts, dinners, lingerie, chocolates and so on and so forth are all present and incorrect for this for this most consumerist ritual. It's almost as bad as Christmas! I can only be thankful that the pre-season buildup is mostly in people's minds, rather than actually starting up to three months early. Still, there's going to be a lot of red and pink tat going for cheap in the next few weeks, not to mention that single roses will be on the quick sale as they will be past their prime by the 17th.

A selection of heart-themed stationary jams the windows of every card and greeting shop up and down the land, seasonal gift aisles of Supermarkets and not forgetting the huge bouquets on sale from the floating Street Vendors on Gentlemans' walk. Pastel pinks and floral lilacs are the pallette of choice, and rose tints are standard equip for spectacle wearers. Right? WRONG

(it helps if you imagine the -ong of that echoing like a bell)

One of my flatmates asked me what I was doing for the day itself, hailing the 14th as "The Day every Girl hates". I pursued a road of obliviousness as to when this supposed day could be, even though the answer was glaringly obvious. I shared my poor statistics of giving and receiving with her and inquired as to her plans. Turns out that all but one of the delightful ladies with whom I am priviledged to share these two flats with are without a steady (or even inconstant) suitor, and will therefore be out on Monday night to drown this particular sorrow with large amounts of Alcohol. Suffice to say, it is my primary intention to join them on this mission, as Lord knows I need a drink.

We'll stop for a little break. You can collect your thoughts and I'll go slip into something more comfortable. Like a coma.

Let's not stop now I'm going though. I mean, I could write things that would make 14 year olds with fringes over their faces, an addiction to black eyeliner and scars (or fake scars) up their arms and a face full of piercings roll their eyes and say "puhhh-lease". Let's see, there was the one that broke my heart (ha ha there's always got to be one), the one that treated me like dirt, the one who tried to turn me against my best friend, the one who was sleeping with someone else anyway, the one who put me down so gently I felt like I was made of glass, and the one who dropped me like a hot coal, not forgetting the one that made a run for it...and that's only remembering off the top of my head. There have been a few that continually blow hot and cold, so I guess they get tacked on, except I haven't made a compleat fool of myself just yet by trying to make an awkward and uncomfortable pass at them. It's probably a bad idea to do so, so I shan't bother. What the hell is wrong with me, seriously? Am I that undesirable to the people I am attracted to? Maybe some of them don't get it. Ok, fine, I'm not the most obvious guy in the world where the expression of my feelings is concerned, but I try. In my own retarded and limited fashion, I do try. Obviously there is something in my limitations that causes every attempt to foster a relationship that is more than platonic to go drastically awry. And, unsurprisingly, I am tired.

As we've seen, I've basically ran out of people that I know and feel comfortable enough to ask out; my only option is therefore to try to meet new people. Yes, I put up a good front, and as long as you're all fooled and think that I'm fine and having a good time then that's all that matters. The less people ask me if I'm alright and what's wrong, the better. There is one girl who will not give up if I try to palm her of with a shrug and such, and I rather wonder whether it's worth asking her again, but I have a sinking feeling when I consider it, and having rocked the boat once I would rather not risk capsizing. It depresses me, and the more I think about or talk about my depression, the more depressed it makes me, which is why I try not to consider it. I was asked, recently, if I was happy and if I were depressed. The answers, of course are "no" and "yes", in that order. In fact, the "yes" is a most unsatisfactory answer in itself, because as long as I don't think about it too hard and just get on with things I'm pretty ok, but as soon as I start to talk about it WHOOPS there we go. Time is running out because I have to finish my dissertation as well, and my project, and every bloody thing else.

Also WHOOPS because it looks like I've just given the secret away there.

When I came back to Norwich, I bought a Valentines card. Yes, after all that Reefer Madness style decrying, I still bought in. Actually, it's a rather nice card. There's a simple picture on the front, and blank interior. I'm still trying to think of something to write in it, mainly because I have nobody I wish to send it to now. When I bought it, there were 5 people I was thinking about, including two that I was seriously considering asking out. Well, here we are, about to board the weekend and I'm drawing blanks. Every one of these fine females has either shacked up with someone else in the intervening time, or I have since found out that they're waiting for someone specific, or that they have absolutely no interest in me past the old faithful platonic boundary. Good job my shoulders are broad, eh? That's terrible, isn't it? The one time I want to give some small token to let a girl know I feel a romantic affection for them, I find that there's nobody that I can give to that would even end favourably. I give up. I'm tempted to take the card back to shop (oh yes, I still have the receipt), but surely that's even sadder? Admit defeat gracefully, boy. There is no other course.

Next Monday, therefore, can be no different to any other Monday. I'll still do my practice, and I'll still go to UEA Choir, and I'll still lock up at the end of the night. I think I gave three times in all, two of those times cards and two of those times with the same person in the last 5 years. In return, I have seen very little, and indeed, absolutely nothing from any further than 3 years back. I am most likely to go out, and beat my liver up and cause my bank balance to cry even louder. If I stay in, however, my house will be locked and there will be no places set at my table. Who knows! Perhaps I might get some work done, pursue some sort of constructive, academic evening.

Right, enough! Rant over.

For now.