You never lose the art of wasting time no matter how long you’ve been out of practice. In the euphoria that followed winning my moot on Wednesday I managed to fritter all of Thursday away in languid nothingness, although given the blood, sweat and tears I’d been putting into the moot I contend (still using courtroom language, oops) the R&R was well deserved. It will, however, be short-lived, given my currently non-existent 8000 word dissertation, vaguely on Jeremy Bentham, specific topic as yet unknown, deadline April.
All the same, yesterday began pleasantly when mum woke me up with a phone call at noon, and continued in much the same vein with a surprise meeting and girliness with Jolene, rambling conversation with Tay where Spiritualized and Madonna were liberally pissed on, final retreat to my room for solitaire (literally, I’m not just smarmily including words in foreign languages in normal sentences just for that sense of je ne s’ais quoi) and eventually, reluctantly, work.
Today has been mostly lectures, mostly dreary, with this one little sunbeam of surreality – in the computer room, this overheard conversational snippet: “My dream night out? Ronald Dworkin, sucking my dick.” This probably won’t make much sense to you unless you’re a disgruntled jurisprudence student, but it’s insanely funny if you are.
[Addendum: French spelling mistake corrected by Russ – my thanks. There is probably a flippant remark to be made here about how I’m relieved he has enough proficiency in at least one language to demonstrate its proper use (I conspicuously fail to mention English) (I also remember our trip to Paris where he explained he could go into great lengths in French about his ambitions and what he did during summer but couldn’t ask if the restaurant was still serving food), but I guess I shouldn’t make that flippant remark.] :P