I didn’t win the moot finals, but I’ve never cared less about losing something in my life.
I’d spent the entire night (well, the entire night after watching King Lear at the Globe) trying to convince rebellious hordes of personal junk into neat compartmentalized existence (apologies to corridor-mates whose sleep might have been interrupted by country n’ western, gospel and opera renditions of The Star Spangled Banner, which was one of the ways I was trying to make myself less miserable, in between swigs of Jack Daniels), and the standoff didn’t end till noon the next day, where I had to switch my attentions from packing to writing my submissions for the moot, which was in seven hours (in terms of preparing for a moot, this is a ludicrously short amount of time).
So I didn’t win, but the girl who did win obviously put a great deal more effort into it than I did, so hey, congratulations, Dee. Now I might have to take part in the damn competition again next year just to beat you.
Meanwhile, today has been spent smiling sweetly at Budgens, Cullens and Boots employees in order to persuade them to give me boxes (of the cardboard, not bruising, variety), booking debating tournament rooms with Mark and the very conscientious but rather bizarre room-bookings lady, who felt the need to tell us that her skirt was riding up and how embarassed she was, and battling dust demons in the loft.
I’m tired. And dusty.