Personal

(Originally written Saturday 13 Jan, 4.51 AM)

I really do wonder why I keep deluding myself about staying in and doing work when it’s so patently obvious that this just isn’t meant to happen on Friday nights. I started off well, deciding to pass up watching Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon with Russ in favour of going for choir practice and a Singaporean Catholic prayer meeting type thingy, thinking I’d better show up for the first sessions of the year because I know I’ll skip enough of them later on. On the way into the hall, Lauren, Michael and Stephanie were on their way out to see the same film and asked me if I wanted to go along. Again, I held firm, said no, and marched resolutely into choir practice. After that, I found that there was no meeting thingy this week, so I went down to the dining room and had dinner.

At this point the cosmos, not content with its failed attempts to shove Russ, Lauren, Michael and Stephanie between me and mastery of concurrent civil liability, sent Matt as well on the same mission, asking if I wanted to go to University of London Union (ULU) for a drink.

This is how I ended up at ULU with Matt, Dave, Mary and Ruth till 1 am. On coming home, we joined Chris, Alec, Michael, Joseph, Emma, and Avril in the dining room, and after we’d helped them finish the two bottles of whiskey they were working steadily through, I went upstairs to get my litre bottle of Jack Daniels…

So this is how I’m writing this now, after four hours of drunkenly absurd conversation, which included topics like Matt’s grandfather’s cock, sheep versus goats, Irish pride (this involved very loud singing of Irish drinking songs, led by the very Irish James, who tottered in completely drunk somewhere along the way) and unorthodox erogenous zones.

The breakup of the party began when a comment about Jaco Pastorius led to a discussion about fretted versus fretless basses, and which Pastorius album was his best. This bored everyone else at the table except me, Matt, James and James’ friend, so they eventually drifted off, leaving us to indulge in more drunken arguments about which Metallica album was the best, which led to an argument about musical elitism and the fashionable practice of exalting some obscure limited edition EP just for the sake of oneupmanship over people who haven’t heard it, which led to an argument about whether music can be objectively judged or whether it is purely subjective, which led to an argument about…

I can’t quite remember when I left, but given that I now find myself here writing this, I must have left at some point. Hmm. Sleep looks good. Good night.

I really did mean to get something done today. I intended to get an early morning start on outlining my essay (due on Tuesday) in the library, and then meet Russ for lunch later. And I intended to make a definite start on the essay by today. That was, at least, the plan.

Instead, I’ve just got home from sitting in the Borders (Charing Cross Road) cafe till closing time, riveted to Bridget Jones: The Edge Of Reason, of all books. It all began when I went to the library only to find that it only starts opening on Saturdays next week, so I went to the computer room instead till Russ had finished working out or doing whatever it is that exercisey people do. We’d intended to give Soupworks a try, but its prices proved to be too exorbitant for us to be willing to buy more than a small soup each. It was nice soup, but not worth £2.60 for a tiny cup. After that we walked around Covent Garden a bit, with me on a frivolous but ultimately unsuccessful mission to find myself a pair of what Nick calls whore boots.

Just as we’d decided to go to Belgo’s for the fiver lunch, I remembered that I should see if Ken was at home so I could collect the stuff I’d begged my parents to send back here with him when he returned after spending Christmas back home. He was around, so we got a peek at his flat and his room, which was very him, and full of books I’d love to borrow, except for the fact that I have no credibility left after keeping his Fiona Apple album for the past two years.

So after a late lunch at Belgo’s, with Ken coming along for a drink, we finally hit Borders. And the rest, as they say…

It’s Michelle again. And cries of joy resound through the ether.

Yeah, right. Like anyone actually reads this.

Anyway, thanks go out to Russ for his invaluable tech support on the night before I had to leave for Glasgow. As a mark of my gratitude I won’t comment on his grammar or writing style except to say that no one reading it would “mistake these words as those of Michelle”… :P

One would mistake these words as those of Michelle, but alas I am not who you think I am. No. For I am Russ, the name that Michelle spatters across her blog like a 4 year old kid with a new paint set.

"What is this before my eyes?(!)" I hear your cry. Is this some form of black magick that has invaded Michelle’s World? No. There is no magick involved, this is not a trick. For She has given me the honour of sending a message on her behalf to inform you of her brief absence.

Where has She gone? She has gone to compete amongst the best of the Best at the World Debating Championships in Glasgow (sponsored by Accenture, formerly known as Andersen Consulting). Wish her and her partner luck by sending her your sentiments. She will be back in London on Thursday 4th January 2001.

Happy holidays.

Okay. This is something like the fourth night in a row I’ve slept after 6 am, and given that I have to go to Glasgow on Wednesday and radically adjust my sleep cycle to something more compatible with a gruelling debating tournament, I’m getting a little worried. And also a little concerned about the image I’m presenting to my hall priest, who tends to come out to pick up his paper at exactly the right time to meet me tottering in. With regard to Glasgow, my lack of research and the three weeks’ worth of virginal Economists lying unsullied in my room (please note the capitalization, I do mean the current affairs periodical) are also compounding my worries right now.

And you know what? In typical Michellian fashion, instead of trying to do something about any of this, I’m sitting here in Russ’s room typing this at 6 in the morning. I’d also be reading Josh’s blog if I could but I ordinarily access it from my bookmarks, and I can’t remember his URL. (There’s no point snooping in Russ’s bookmarks to see if it’s there, because Russ has crap taste in music.)

That was a joke. He doesn’t have crap taste in music. It’s just not as good as mine.

But enough of insulting Russ. First of all, it’s not exactly a practice that’s a novelty to me. :P Secondly, I’ve had great food and a great Christmassy feeling today with his family in his home, and I really do appreciate that.

All in all, my first Christmas away from home has gone fine. Dinner with the UCL Singaporeans on Christmas Eve, midnight mass at Westminster Cathedral, and Christmas Day with one of my best friends and his family.

My only dissatisfaction with this happy little Christmas collage would probably be the loss of one of my gloves, somewhere during the walk between Westminster Cathedral and Newman House. After a twenty minute search of my room and the staircase from the front door proved futile, I decided to accept it philosophically and go back to Bell Street to join the UCL Singaporeans and our good friend Jack Daniels, muttering “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away” under my breath every time my fingers threatened to drop off.

Come to think of it, even this dissatisfaction fades away because this morning I discovered a truly fortuitous circumstance which renders me fully gloved. My current pair of gloves is the same pattern and cut as my earlier pair of gloves, and I bought my current pair of gloves because I’d lost one of the earlier pair somewhere in Camden. This morning, I rooted around a bit for that earlier unlost glove, and found that it’s a perfect match for the glove I lost yesterday!

And there you have it. All’s right with my world this Christmas. :)

Man, it’s good to be back in freezing foggy expensive London again…

Yup, we’re back from Madrid, which was enjoyable, but more because we made our own fun than because it was fun in itself. I’ll write a little more about it in the near future – right now my backpack still lies replete with unpacked clothes in my room, my mail is unread in my pigeon-hole, and my dinner is unchosen, unbought and uncooked in Tesco’s.

More notifications came from Django in my absence. And, of course, they’ve gotten snapped up now. Guess I’ll have to wait a little longer for Grandaddy’s The Sophtware Slump and Beck’s One Foot In The Grave.

In absolute shamelessness, maybe I should give pointers to my Django wishlist (to view it, enter my email address as found on this page) and my Amazon wishlist, just to lend a grasping helping hand to anyone who has a burning desire to buy me a Christmas present. Of course, apart from the items listed in these, anything else from someone who takes the trouble to select a gift for the specific entity that is me (as opposed to generic catch-all type gifts like chocolates or toiletries) generally earns them much love and brownie points.