A week without Internet access leaves lots of blanks to be filled. More for my sake than yours, I propose to fill them. Here goes last week:
Ken has already given his/our impressions of Vertigo on Monday, except more coherently than we managed to express at the time through manic chortling on what I think was Waterloo Bridge.
Tuesday was a pleasant reminder of the fact that I’m still a moderately good debater despite a year of rustiness, and winning the friendly at QMW with Mark as partner was a fitting way to end our debating year. Dinner was my first ever carbonara, and then mixed-bag hip-hop and cringeworthy stand-up comedy at 93 Feet East. A sign attached to one of the bar tills said FUCK OFF in big red letters. It was a flyer for an upcoming Sonic Mook Experiment night. I brought it home.
Wednesday was the first day of the beginning of hell. Preparing music for Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday and Easter Sunday masses took the entire afternoon and most of the night. Choosing psalms. Compiling hymn packs for the choir. Practising everything on the organ. Photocopying, hole-punching, stressing, praying, cursing.
I realize it is probably inappropriate to describe making a joyful noise unto the Lord as hell, but even though the music all went splendidly well in the end and I’m actually really happy about that, I never, never want to go through that ever again. That is all I will say about the liturgical music aspects of last week, and, I suspect, more than anyone else would be interested in reading about.
At some point on Good Friday, at the same time as I was ploughing through Bentham as Proto-Feminist? in my room, Alec and Mark were apparently cosied up in Mark’s room having some lesbian tea. (On inquiry I was told lesbian=herbal in this context. Perhaps this is reassuring. Perhaps not.)
At some point on Holy Saturday, when asking choir members to get themselves hymn packs, which I had by now started referring to as fun packs, I nearly called them fanny packs. (Note: if you are American, your understanding of the term “fanny” is quite different from ours. Over here the fanny is the bit even bikini bottoms cover.)
Later that night my hallmate was using a window-divider as an improvised pole against which to pole dance. It was a ground floor window opening out onto Gower Street. Gower Street’s a busy street.
Alec describes the content of this site as “pointless meandering”. I’m beginning to see what he means, but don’t care. That was the week. Some called it Holy.