Belleville Rendezvous

I had a lovely surprise this weekend.
I was summarily summoned to Paris by Dani, where I was told there would be people waiting for me. At first I thought this might be Ron, our old French teacher, but it turned out to be none other than Purzelle and the Nurp themselves, Patrick and Ella.

Purzelle(L), Nurp (R).

Before I relate all the fun we had in the city of lights, I just want to relate one absolutely terrifying moment that occurred in Gare Du Nord. I should preface this story by saying I fully acknowledge that I overreacted and it was only really scary because I'm a country bumpkin who's not used to the big city ways and sees terror everything like the bloody Salem Town Council. But, as I was going to meet Dani at the Paris metro, I smelled a strange smell, very unpleasant, and my mouth began to dry out and tingle as though I'd just eaten something extremely spicy. It wasn't only me, either: all around me, what looked like hardened Parisians were pucking their noses, covering their mouths with sleeves or 'kerchiefs, and moving very quickly away from the area. Then, the police shoved past me and bolted into the underground station below- they literally (and I do not misuse that word) jumped over a couple, bent over their luggage, to get there quicker.
You may be able to guess where my mind went after it put these events together: I was embroiled in some sort of horrible gas attack, and, worse, I'd dragged Dani into it, too (she was waiting for me on the platform). For a moment, I considered just running from the building and gulping in the uninfected air. I wanted to warn other passengers from entering the platform, but all my French had suddenly abandoned me. But then, my sense of proportion returned, and I realised that, were there some kind of gas attack, there might be a few more people panicking than just me. I got myself together and went to meet Dani.
Soon, after a couple of misdiversions, we were united with Patrick and Ella and went to dinner.

The restaurant at which we dined was called 'La Cantine de Belleville', leading to Patrick, Ella and I all making the same joke (hint: it's the title of the blog post), revealing that Dani had never seen or even heard of that film. It's also meant I've had that bloody song stuck in my head for the past three days, and now you will, too.

If I could set that to autoplay, dear Reader, know that I would.

Anyway, after a delicious dinner, Dani said her farewells, and we retired back to the flat in Montmartre which Paddy and Ella had procured for the trip. There, we got blind, stinking drunk on a mixture of wine, apple juice, tonic water, vodka and sugar cubes (Patrick called it 'Portuguese Sangria').
We laughed, and sang and took incredibly stupid pictures:

She's very deer to my heart (she's holding a Reindeer's heart, for the uninitiated).

And then Ella, like Travis and Smallface before her, found the joys of playing with my hair.

She also made me pose like this, I swear.

I liked them so much, I left those Bear Ears (note the incredibly masculine name) in all weekend. I kid you not. Honestly, unless I could actively see my silhouette, I kind of forgot I had them in, and so I was just puzzled by all the strange looks I was getting- although, they might explain why I kept on being given Silly Straws with every drink that I ordered. I was also given a free chestnut:

It tasted like parsnips. I don't know why people eat these. I can only presume that this was a reflection of my hair, as well, which would explain why Ella and I got normal chestnuts and Patrick got a dud.

Anyway, after checking out Montmartre cathedral,

 

 And the view therefrom,

We went back to the flat for more Paella and Portuguese Sangria, cos we're pan-European. There was a lot of hugging and water to the face and improvised French/German renditions of 'Baby, it's Cold Outside'.

SIDENOTE: I love how they put in so much effort into adding consent to this song (notable by absence: "The answer is no" and "What's in this drink?") and then still manage to make it incredibly creepy by synching the voices to children.

It was the perfect way to spend the last weekend I have in France before I head back to Shropshire. It makes my final week of work this term much more faceable, and has given me another possible hairstyle to rock.

Find the Fun

I've envisaged this blog as many things at one point or another: a balm for those suffering from Post-Year-Abroad blues; a very public diary; the thing which finally catapults me to stardom and allows me to rub elbows with the finest; but today it's going to serve as an advice column for others teaching English abroad.
I had a moment of teaching triumph last week. One of my fellow profs asked me to prepare a lesson on Britain/British stereotypes, and I didn't spend long enough on it: what I'd prepared was dull and staid and mainly revolved watching this news report on French stereotypes of the British vs. British stereotypes of the French:

If you watch the above video, you may notice that it'd be very difficult to understand if you were a second language English speaker. Also, that it's not really news and that it contains Gyles Brandreth and so is terrible. My colleague rightly called me up on it, and said that this wasn't what he wanted or, more importantly, had asked for. He told me that I was being too much like a lecturer and not a teacher (and certainly not an assistant): I was just planning to talk and expecting the students to take notes. "The assistant is meant to be fun," he told me, "They only get to see you once every three weeks and it's meant to be a treat. You're supposed to be a break from the teachers."

He didn't mean it cruelly, but I felt chastened and he was right: it was a long time since I'd been in a classroom, not a lecture theatre, and I'd forgotten what I used to enjoy doing when I was a student. I sat in on a couple of his lessons and then went home and thought about what I could do that was different and fun but still educational.
The next day, I came in and asked the teacher if I could take his next class. He was recalcitrant, especially since he'd not been expecting me that day, but I wanted to make up for the class I'd missed. He eventually acquiesced but said he'd take over again if it looked like the class was bored or confused and took his place at the back with, I believe, some trepidation. I stood up before the class and told them that I was thinking of a British celebriry and they had twenty questions to guess their identity, but I'd only answer 'yes' or 'no'.
They loved it.
We played it four time, covering forty minutes, and for the final fifteen, we played a competitive game of Telephone, which is what you have to call Chinese Whispers in schools now- the kids all called it Arab Telephone anyway, which is the French name, cos they're all racists. Yet again, they really enjoyed it and I was vindicated.
The teacher congratulated me on putting together a much better lesson, and said that this was what he wanted to see more of in future. (He asked me to come back and play it with them again later today). And so I learnt an important lesson about teaching children which I'm pretty sure they already taught me at the TEFL conference I attended: Find the Fun. The fact that this lesson, for me at least, was first professed by Faith from Buffy does not lessen its impact.

She always Finds the Fun. (Spoilers/ In Killing people/Spoilers)

However, next week I've been asked to give another class on slavery, so I might be unlearning this lesson pretty quick.

Auld Lang 'Ockey

Guess what, friends: I attended a sporting event this weekend. Despite my illustrious sporting history, it may shock you to learn that I don't actually attend all that many organised athletic occasions, just as you'll be disappointed to hear that I haven't been to Mass in a while. Anyway, the last time I went to a game or match or throw-down or whatever was when my father forced me to sit through a match between Liverpool and some people who weren't Liverpool. After that two hours of my life that I will never get back, I swore that I would live each minute to the fullest and thus never watch a bunch of fully-grown adults chase an arbitrary object in pursuit of points that have no effect ever again after that game is finished.
So what tempted me back? All the cool kids were doing it.
The cool kids in question happened to be these guys:

Colm the column is really the glue who holds us together.

That's (from left to right): Naomi, Nicole and John. I first encountered (and blogged about) them at the conference in Amiens but as far as I know this is the first time they've actually been documented on camera and so, naturally, the picture's pretty blurry and we can't be certain it's not just a grizzly standing on its hindlegs.
The above photo was taken in Amiens, where the Ice Hockey match was, at the ferris wheel of the Christmas Market, for which you pay four euros and boy, do you get your money's worth: by the third go-round, we were starting to get sick of each other; by the fifth, factions had formed; by the eigth, there was an actual murder scene. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

After that, we did some exploring of Amiens and its various Christmas wonders, which included but were not limited to, a christmas display with some questionable upside-down cookie on fairy action:

In this much clearer photo, you can clearly see that they're actually just a weather balloon.

Another with some horrible racial politics:

The brown bear is being hidden from view in the box, while the white bear is allowed to frolic free.

And some really freakish animatronic Christmas trees which, when photographed, were not there. I'm pretty sure one of them followed me home.

Then it was time for the hockey game. It was actually very fun: they fight more than in football and this is awesome they're always carrying potential weapons in the form of massive bladed clubs. Plus, they can practically teleport from one end of the rink to the other using the power of physics and ice, so it felt like they moved much faster. Honestly, the most difficult part was trying to decipher what the yobs-cum-cheerleaders to our left were chanting: at one point, it was 'I love you baby' with what I presume were midly-altered lyrics; at another they seemed to be singing 'Auld Lang Syne' and I have no idea what they think that song's about; then, they moved onto just chanting what sounded like 'hockeys!'. Plural. We eventually deciphered that the goalie's name was the incredibly French 'O'Keith', which is basically homonymous with 'hockeys' said in a French accent.

After this, we went for drinks with Alberto, with whom John and I had stayed last time we were in Amiens, and who was very graciously putting us all up, even if it meant he had to sleep on the floor (I promise, mother, I offered to take this bullet, but he insisted). While drinking, I discovered two new cocktails which I just adore: the first is a brass monkey, which is just a banana milkshake with kahlua and the second is a strawberry daiquiri which is like grenardine but alcoholic. The next morning, I wasn't so much hungover as I was having sugar withdrawal symptoms.
After this, we retired to bed and I was sharing with John and yet again I didn't sleep-punch him. I think we can now safely say I'm cured and can see my teddy bear again. Oh, Snowy, how I've missed you.

Toddlers and Lighting Technicians

I'm applying for jobs, because there's now only five months until my current one ends and it took much longer than that to get this position. It's annoying, because the time elapsed between applying to work for the British Council and starting the work far, far outstretches the amount of time I will be working for them. I'd kind of like to be paid in retrospect.
That's not going to happen.
Anyway, job applications mean not only updating the old Curriculum Vitae but also writing personal statements, cover letters and just general boilerplate. I actually have to admit a slight passion for writing about myself (imagine that); especially when I get to make it sound like my own Wikipedia article. Case in point:

I am an active dramatist, humorist, journalist and poet.

I actually wrote that in an application yesterday. I guess what I enjoy about writing such things is the opportunity it affords me to pomp myself up: in certain circumstances in social interactions, we are allowed to admit to a particular strength or flourish that we believe we possess. However, more than one at a time and what was once confidence begins to feel like boasting or, worse, arrogance. I'm not saying I want a society where everyone is suddenly allowed to go around declaring themself God's gift or even just a particularly adept human being- I've spent too much time around toddlers and lighting technicians to know how irritating that gets- but I do wish that my parents hadn't instilled in me such a disdain for pomp. I wish I knew how to take a compliment, which is not something I was ever taught, despite doubtless being praised far too much as a child. See? I don't feel like I can even write about this subject without throwing in a healthy dose of self-deprecation just to show that I'm not arrogant.
I think arrogance and dullness were the two things I was raised to be most vigilant for: I remember very clearly my mother telling me I was being boring and to stop talking if no one wanted to listen to what I had to say. And I can recall word for word Mrs. Sharpe berating me for boasting. The thing is, I know that a lot of contemporary acquaintances will be rolling their eyes as they read this, and muttering how I've never seemed too bothered about being tedious or concieted, and I feel I have to acknowledge this because otherwise I'm not admitting the flaws that I have.
I feel I'd be a lot happier if I didn't care about such things. Certainly, I'd be less self-conscious and that could only be a good thing (yet again, I feel compelled to acknowledge the folks who would say I've never been conscious of anything in my life and to simultaneously acknowledge that constantly acknowledging these things is boring for you to read). I spend almost all my social interactions, except those with the people around whom I'm absolutely, completely comfortable wondering if I'm holding up my end of the conversation, if I'm coming across as too self-interested or banal and if the other person has picked up on the fact that only half my brain is dedicated to this conversation because the other half is desperately monitoring my even action.
I don't know why I'm writing about this, other than writing my personal statement made me pensive and I haven't updated this thing in a while. I don't believe there's an answer to this, other than alcohol- although that doesn't really silence my self-conscious side so much as take its hands away from the reins of my body and mouth. I also now feel that I must mention that I don't dare think I'm unique in this situation: although, like a lot of middle-class children, I was always told that I was special, I was somehow also simultaneously discouraged from believing this.
How does that even work?

Honey Badger

I can't sleep. A fire alarm just went off, but honestly I was awake before: naturally, this sleepless night before a full day of work follows a whole fortnight when I didn't have to work and therefore could sleep a full ten hours with no preparation or prevarication. I imagine this is no coincidence: the knowledge that I have to be up in the morning for some reason makes me wary to sleep now, as though I fear that, like Hugh Grant in Four Weddings and a Funeral, I might overshoot the mark and might as well go round the horn, the long way around.
Is it worry that's preventing restfulness? That seems ridiculous. Honestly, this insomnia far outweighs in seriousness any other niggle that might prey on my mind. I think back to a documentary I watched at the beginning of the holiday that has now come to a rather damp squib of a close with this bout of listlessness about Honey Badgers and how they tackle all their problems head on with a grand display of insouciance and casual violence. Were I a Honey Badger, I'd use this extra night alloted to me to go piss off some snakes, steal some food from a pride of lions or have weird, hurty sex in a hole I dug. Instead, I'm an omphaloskeptic narcissist, so I shall blog my time away.

I never made it to Berlin this halfterm, as was my original plan, but I did go to Paris, Amsterdam and Brussels.

PARIS

I spent two days in Gay Paris, as it was Dani's birthday and I wanted to repay her for the marvellous celebration she gave me. The theme for the party was 'Glam Rock Pirates', so naturally I dressed like this:

It was while in Paris, staying with Dani's friends Matt and Dave, that I watched the documentary which gave us the title for this post as well as the incredibly unnecessary opening paragraph.
After the party, Matt and I, as well as a new acquaintance named Cordelia, and two Italians whose names I sadly never caught, went for drinks. The reason I never got their names was that the bar we went to was so loud that we couldn't hear each other talk. This lead to Matt proposing a rather novel form of conversation wherein we wrote to each other while seated at the same table: interestingly, this elevated the talk above the level of idle chittero chattero that one would expect from such loose acquaintanceships and meant we learnt quite intimate, fascinating details about each other (our greatest non-physical fears, when we stopped considering our parents' house home) in a very short time. I don't know why physically writing our thoughts made us more prone to divulge information, but the effect was palpable and incredibly liberating.

The next day, I looked around Notre Dame

Through the rooves and gables I can see them!

Naturally singing 'Hellfire' to myself all the while. This bought home to me something I had suspected for a while: my appreciation of aesthetic beauty has become much greater as I've grown older. I used to disdain looking around churches or my parents' frequent suggestion of simply strolling around and looking at what was around me. But that's exactly what I did, and I was so overwhelmed I even tried my incredibly inexperienced hand at some photography:

Admittedly, very few locations on earth offer up such levels of aesthetic pleasure as Paris, but it definitely contrasts to the first time I visited the city when I was disgusted that the plan was to just look around.
After this, I returned to the same poetry-reading tea party that I attended on my birthday and then caught the train home. It was a great weekend.

AMSTERDAM

On a whim, realising I would be all alone with killer clowns in Laon, I decided to soujourn for a week in 'The Dammage' as Anna calls it. Booking my train twelve hours before it left,  I naturally was left with Slim Pickin's for accommodation and decided to go with a hostel on the beach, an hour outside the city limits.
It proved to be the right choice: I met so many cool people, it made the week so much less lonely and allowed me to relax about trying to see everything- if I was spending time with others, I didn't have to find something for myself to do. I'm not gonna detail everything that happened in that city, because I genuinely don't have words for some of the experiences and also I want to find gainful employment in the future (hint: 'special' cake was involved). Here is just some general life advice for you all: don't go through Daylights Savings time while high. It hurts. And here's some pictures I took, just so this paragraph doesn't feel left out:

The fact that they still had C&A there blew my mind more than any substances I ingested.

BRUSSELS

I spent a couple of days in Brussels because the delightful Grace was visiting there and I wanted my life to be the kind where I meet my friends in capital cities of countries where neither of us live. Also, Grace is tout sweet and I hadn't seen her in too long. We went to the Brussels Comic Strip museum where we learned how Smurfs live:

And also about their depictions in times gone by:

While there, I also met up with Jonathan, whom I hadn't seen or spoken to in three years. Catching up with someone after such an amount of time is inevitably a strange experience, as you're reminded simultaneously how much and how little you've done in that amount of time. Jonathan took me to the Delirium Cafe, which boasts over 3000 beers, and so I finally found a brew that I actually enjoy, and so now I only have to journey 100 miles to drink 'a real man's drink' in the words of my father and every other macho douchebag I've ever encountered.

Apart from the above journeying, I spent the rest of the holiday watching films and writing creatively. It was a lovely break and I only wish it hadn't come so early after I started my job: oh well, only 50 days to Christmas.

God Help the Girl

Hello again, dear readers. First off, I was mentioned on someone else's blog, after I mentioned her on mine while blogging about the same series of events, which is pretty fun: I'm hoping this will lead to the creation of a greater expanded bloggiverse, incorporating my blog, Naomi's, Emma's, Ella's and eventually leading to a giant clusterfuck of blog posts akin to The Avengers, wherein we fight Sir Laurence Olivier or Sarah Siddons or some other ridiculously overqualified thesp.
Also, note benne: I'm typing this on a French keyboard which I've modified to work like an English one, so I should be making fewer spelling errors, as long as I stare fixedly at the screen and don't think about what I'm doing or where the keys are or, God forbid, look down, at which point I get a form of vertigo and lose a few braincells.

So, after two false starts, I had my first class that was just me today. My mother told me that I'm not a real teacher and shouldn't refer to myself as such, but screw her, lecturing eleven nonplussed French teenagers about social mobility and an economy of scarcity qualifies me to call myself whatever the hell I like. It was awful and nervewracking and I have a new respect for teachers, because it is extremely difficult to try and communicate with teenagers at the best of times, let alone when they're in a situation they're predisposed to hate. I felt like I asked 'does everyone understand' a hundred times and recieved a chorus of indifferent 'yes'es but they still retained that glazed look of noncomprehension in their eyes afterward. However, at the end, they were all able to speak relatively eloquently about the topic at hand, so maybe that's just how they always look. Also, I did feel very self-important writing words on the board and underlining them and then turning dramatically, picking on someone random and making sure they were paying attention.
"But what were those false starts?" I hear you ask; well, you know how sometimes you can't read your timetable because it's not only in a language you don't understand but in a truncated form of said language so you have no chance in hell of knowing what's going on, but you don't want to seem like a moron or, worse, a nuisance, so you nod when you think they ask if you understand?
That.
In my defense, four students showed up at these various un-classes, and I taught them all half a lesson apiece until the secretary came and asked what I was doing. So, I'm not the only one who can't read the timetables and also those students are now ahead of their peers academically, and so will now be heroes in their eyes, right? That's how that works in school, I believe.

In other news, the incredibly convoluted web of lies I've been weaving when the students have been interviewing me for class has already started to unravel: they've evidently been talking about me to their peers outside of the lessons, because some classes come in anticipating my answers and asking ridiculously specific questions, for example 'do you know pamplemousse?' (no, it doesn't make anymore sense in context) without the preceding line of enquiry to lead them there. They also seemed puzzled by some of my answers to questions like 'do you like rugby' because they clearly were expecting the answer I gave to the last class, but they haven't counted on my cunning: to prevent them copying from other groups, I'm presenting a different persona to each set of students, Roger-Smith-style.

I save Rory Spanish for the really difficult classes.

I've also told the students I don't speak any french, so as to discourage them from talking to me in their native tongue (although it's also increased them insulting me in French and then laughing behind their hands at my supposed lack of comprehension). This blew up in my face when one of the teachers, upon hearing me engage in a conversation en Francais, shouted 'but you said you didn't speak French! You LIED!'

I'm also getting caught up in the face needs of French people: apparently, you're meant to say 'bonjour' to everyone in the room when you enter, even if you don't know them and you have no and never will have any business with them. Also, I've been referring to all my colleagues as 'vous' because they're older than me and I don't really know them, but apparently this comes across as me wanting to put distance between myself and them. This is really confusing.

On the plus side, I was asked in one class what my dreams were and I answered 'I want to win an Oscar', because I thought it would make the children laugh and it's also kind of true.This lead to the Head of English asking if I wanted to help out with the school play this year and maybe lead some readings of plays with the more advanced kids. So I guess what I'm saying is...look out for more info on the Rob and Roberta 2015 European Premiere! I swear to God, I'll do that play in every country on earth.

Amiens

Hello again, I'm writing to you on a French keyboard, which I can't change to English layout, so my apologies if this post is riddled with spelling errors: rest assured, I'm not losing my fabled pedantry.

Speaking of my fondness for correcting people, I thought this would be a boon in a job such as this; I'd pictured myself pointing out grammatical errors with gay abandon and being paid for the privilege. Not so. I don't feel confident when one of my colleagues makes an error that I'm high enough in the pecking order to say anything- I don't want to step on any toes; and, on the whole, the students' english is so bad that unless the sentiment is utterly incomprehensible, I just don't bother. It'd take too long.
So far, my only interaction with the students has been them 'interviewing' me for a profile: this led to some interesting questions being asked- my favourite was 'are you bald?' to which I responded by tugging my ponytail (it transpired he meant 'are you bold?' [see what I did there?], which didn't occur to me, not because it's ungrammatical but simply because it's such an odd thing to ask). My least favourite question, which all three classes asked, without fail, twice, and which was then repeated at the bank, was 'do you have a wife and children?'- I hope to God I don't look that old.

On Friday, I went to Amiens for a conference for Language Assistants, which I honestly hadn't imagined was the kind of job which needed a conference. I won't bore you with the details of the talks; suffice to say they didn't tell me anything I didn't know already and if they did it was in French and I couldn't understand it. But I met some wonderful people while there: Naomi and Nicole, both Scots with whom I had lunch and very consciously tried not to discuss the referendum (no such luck); John, a Chicago native with whom I spoke a weird kind of pidgin composed of French, English, Spanish and Italian, with me not speaking the latter and he not speaking the penultimate, but neither of us wanting to concede and just speak our shared native tongue.
I ended up spending the night on a former Italian assistant's sofa, as part of couchsurfers. He actually slept on the sofa with me- we'd been Gentlemen and given up the bed to a lady who was also staying the night- and I managed to share a bed with someone without physically injuring them! #Progress

On Saturday, I went to the bank to open an account and I... think I succeeded. They didn't speak any English (naturally), and there were a lot of words I hadn't looked up, like 'interest', 'savings' or 'bank'. Still, the teller handed me something at the end, and it has my name and a bunch of numbers on it, so it's either a bank statement or I'm in the Matrix now.
She also gave me her number and I really don't know why so...winning?

Midnight in Paris

I know you all want to hear about my trip and my first day at work and how I'm settling in, blah, blah, blah, but I don't want to talk about that: I want to tell you about my birthday!

I had just the best birthday this year, in part because it was so unexpected. I'd been planning to go and visit Dani, a friend from sixth form, for a while, but originally I was going to travel to Paris on the day of my birthday. However, upon finding the school completely abandoned during the weekends, and with an invitation from Dani to go meet her (and some lovely Americans) a day early, it was a hobson's choice. So, I stuffed some clothes in a bag and ran to the station and a stroke of luck: there was a bus going right to the station coming just around the corner! I flagged it down and arrived with eight minutes before the next (and, as it transpired, final) train to Paris, which was just enough time to buy a ticket and the French equivalent of young person's railcard and jump onto the train just before it set into motion.
The journey took an hour and a half- during which time I should really have investigated the address of where Dani works and looked into how to get there, but I'm an idiot and so I read my book. I arrived in Gare du Nord at 19.10, with no idea of where to go or how to get there. Naturally, I went to McDonalds and read some more. At 20.00, Dani contacted me and told me to meet her at Republique. I hopped on the metro and emerged in a grand square, with a huge column, ornate lights and a surprisingly underwhelming fountain. Dani arrived soon after and we made our way to the apartment owned by Dani's american friends with whom I would be staying, me not having managed to book a hostel behind the damn firewall on the school internet (more on this in another post). Dave and Matt, Dani's American friends, were warm and welcoming and their flat was bloody enormous and most opulent. Later, another American arrived named Elizabeth, with whom I had an unknown previous connection (more on this later). I was offered wine and pie, and then we discussed getting dinner, as nobody had eaten. We eventually decided to order a 'cheesey box' from a place called 'Burger 66', and this proved to be the Best. Decision. Ever. 8 cheese burgers, 12 onion rings and 24 chicken nuggets later, we were all full but then it was time for pie. It turned midnight just as the pie came out, making it my official birthday cake (complete with candle) and justifying the title of this blog post. I was completely stuffed, but it tasted so delicious and I was so happy not to be spending the first part of my birthday alone that I nearly cried for happiness. Dani had bought me some very lovely gifts from her place of work, and I opened these with a rictus grin of gratitude on my face; soon after, Dani and Elizabeth departed and I went to sleep on the sofa bed, thinking that the evening could not have gone better.

The next day, I woke up to my mother calling me. I don't normally transcribe conversations because that part of my life is over, but this one needs to be read in all its magnificence.

ME: 
Hello?

MUM (Fortissimo):
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU! HAPPY BIRTHDAY-

ME (Piannissimo):
Mum, please, I'm in someone else's house.

MUM (Massimo Fortissimo):
WHAT?!
  
ME (Piano):
I'm in someone else's house!

MUM (Indescribably Fortissimo):
YOU'RE IN CHURCH?! WHY?!

ME:
I'm in someone else's house!

MUM (World-shatteringly Fortissimo):
OH MY GOD, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?!

 Still, it's nice to remembered on your special day. After explaining things to mum, I went for a walk and got completely lost among the sidestreets- I ate breakfast in the only cafe I could find that was open (even in Paris, French establishments do not open on a Sunday) and then tried to figure out where the hell I was. Eventually, I found a metro and, having arranged to meet Matt and Dave for lunch, travelled to Odeon (I love that the Odeon metro stop opens right by a cinema) and ate some delicious Indian food with them. After this, I went to Luxembourg park where there is, no joke, a working indoor marionette theatre in the middle of the park. I paid for a ticket (the woman behind the till inquiring 'you know it's for four years olds?') and let the magic unfold before me: the show was Guignol and the Circus, and if there was a plot, I didn't follow it (although I think at some point a clown in search of a pay rise sicced a lion on the public). I didn't need to follow the dialogue, though; it was a joy just to watch the recreations of classic circus acts in puppet form.

After this delighftul diversion, I went to a tea party at Dani's place of work, the Shakespeare and Company bookshop, which helpfully provided another justification for this post's title:

Three guesses what film this is from.

The tea party is a weekly spoken word event run by Pamellys and once upon a time attended by Ernest Hemingway. I read a poem and was told that my voice was maginificent and that I was a fantastic actor and writer, and Pamellys even asked me to read a bit of Shakespeare just to hear how I'd pronounce it. I'm gonna be straight here: flattery always makes my day, and the fact it was my birthday just made it all the sweeter.

After this, Elizabeth and I went for a drink and she mentioned that she once went to Versailles with some friends. Now, I mention this because while she was there she met an old classmate who turned out to be...(dun dun dun)...FRANCES HEBERT, my one time Fresherling. Of course, I didn't learn that Frances and Elizabeth knew each other until I went on facebook later, and she didn't mention Frances by name when relating the Versailles story, but then Franny told me about meeting Elizabeth there, and I put two and two together. Truly, the world is a tiny place and the internet helps make it even smaller.

That evening, Dani and I ate crepes and reminisced about Sixth Form and then returned to Matt and David's to watch Kinky Boots. It was a lovely end to a lovely day and really I can't think how turning 23 (the age when my mum met my dad- eep!) could've gone any better. Let's hope this year continues in that vein.

COMING SOON: A post detailing my first days at work and moving to Laon. A bientot!

Single Pringle

I move to France tomorrow; I've packed everything, used up all the food that was going to go out of date and found that, serendipitously, my E111 card still has three years to go on it, which is jammy because I hadn't actually bothered to check until today.
I can't quite calm my pre-departure nerves, and I think back to Jason's preparation for life in Australia, which consisted of watching The Rescuers Down Under: I'm actually quite flush with Disney films set in France- Cinderella, The Aristocats, Beauty and the Beast, The Hunchback of Notre Dame... Sadly, all of these are seventy minutes plus and I have to be up in five hours. "Why are you staying up to blog then, you pillock?!" I hear my incensed readers cry. Well, 1) Aforementioned pre-departure nerves and 2) I care about you dear readers and want you to know what's been going on with my life.

Both my sisters and both their boyfriends came up to see me before I left last weekend: this left me feeling somewhat spare, everyone else in the family having a partner and all. This became especially apparent when we all went to play tennis, which consisted of a heated doubles game and me sitting on a bench reading my book.
Darcy, whom I shared a stage with in the Australian Amadeus, had a wonderfully evocative phrase: 'Single Pringle'. I think he used it only for its coy rhyme, but I quite like the image it conjurs- the lone pringle, left at the bottom of the tube, waiting to be picked, as delectable in its own way as its siblings but for some unknown cosmic reason, forlorn. For now, at least. Because no one ever leaves a pringle at the bottom of the tube for long. They're just too good: once you pop, you just cannot stop.
EVER.

Travis calls pringles 'tubas', because they come in a tube and this seems like a wonderful segue into talking about my visit to my apathetic godchild. He didn't know who I was and alternately called me 'JoJo' and 'Jamie', occasionally detouring to 'Rory' if his mum really pushed it, but even then he more often than not just ignored her. He seemed to like me nonetheless, although I suspect that he may actually have just thought that I wouldn't apply the same rules of 'no hitting' as his mother. No such luck.
He seemed appreciative of my hair, though, proclaiming it to be "much nicer than JoJo's", and since he was also calling me 'JoJo' at this time, I don't know how he held this paradox in his head.
He's also taken a keen interest in bats- I tried to relate to him the time that Josh took me to see the fruit bat colony in Melbourne, but he seemed quite bored until I said 'and then the tree just exploded with bats' at which point he turned to me and, with eyebrow raised in a perfect imitation of Spock, asked "but why did it explode?" I see that metaphor escapes him for another day.
Of course, I didn't just visit Travis but Mel as well. She is applying to rejoin the workforce, and I decided to dash her high spirits by relating some of the more irksome tales of customer relations from my time working for EUSA. She retorted that none of it could be as bad as some of what she has to put up with as a single mum and I suspect she's right: I sometimes forget that, as annoying as some of the douchebags in the cafe were, I didn't have to clean up their excrement.

I just met with Daniel for a drink, and it was nice because he's the only friend I still have who knew me not only from secondary, but also from primary school. We had fun reminiscing about teachers past and experiences in the classroom like when Ms. Fisher used to try and catch us out with math problems and then laude it over us that she was smarter than us, even though we were thirty years her junior. And how she used to heap affection on Alex Newton, smarmy prick.
In this same vein, I actually met one of my old classmates from secondary school in the park the other day: we chatted for a little while about where everyone is (she has remained much better connected than I- not that that's difficult), and I thought about people I haven't thought about in years. I often try not to think about William Brookes, because it just makes me angry and depressed, but speaking with Claire made me realise that all my tormentors will now have grown up and matured (except those who were teachers, obviously) and that I should really get in contact with some of them and give them a second chance, because Lord knows that I'm a better person than I used to be. But then I imagine what if they're as awful as I remember, and then I'll have the smugness of confirmation and then think how insufferable I'll become; better not risk it, to be honest. 

It's almost Midnight now and I really should be getting to sleep: writing this has not calmed me down as I had hoped it would, but hopefully I'll drop off out of sheer necessity. I'm trying to remind myself about what Will told me when I expressed my fears for returning to Edinburgh: "You make your own universe; if you want it to suck, it will suck." Of course, I don't want France to be awful, but if I go in expecting it to be les miserables, then I'll most likely look for things to affirm that belief (see above re: meeting old classmates). So, I have to keep my chin up and my hopes level: I can do this if I try, and maybe I can even enjoy myself along the way.

Edinburgh

I left Edinburgh early on Thursday morning. My last few weeks here were divided between frantically rehearsing two woefully underprepared shows and trying to make the most of my time in Edinburgh: taking walks (including to some places I'd never been before), supping at my favourite establishments and seeing the people who made my time there so brilliant. This culminated in leaving drinks at Paradise Palms, formerly Bristo Bar, with some of my nearest and dearest, which lead to this delightfully sleazy picture:

Callum definitely looks to be under some sort of coercion in this picture.

It feels odd to be gone. I definitely think of this as the end of my studenthood, even though that actually occured in May- it just didn't sink in until I actually departed the place where the majority of my studenting took place. I feel like now, at last, I am moving onto the stage of my life known as 'adulthood' and that it's time to put away childish things: you may remember that I said the same when I graduated and how long that lasted.

There's a description in One Day by David Nicholls of which I am very fond:

"Living in her university town felt like staying on at a party that everyone else had left."

Although Edinburgh never quite got to that level for me, I could definitely see it happening had I stayed much longer, or indeed had I not known that I was leaving at the end of the summer. There are still many wonderful people I care very deeply about there (eagle-eyed readers may even spot a recently-returned Esmond in the picture above), but I've lived there for three years and it was only going to get less fun what with having to work and everything- I think it better to just cut things off now, before my life there begins to stagnate.
I feel a lot less emotional this time than when I left to go to Melbourne, even though that time I had a definite return point- I guess now I know I can keep friendships up over a long distance and that, ultimately, life keeps going no matter where you are. I didn't feel the need to be emotional: I had done all this before and it worked out ok (this sentiment may come back to bite me- only time will tell). And, besides, I imagine I will return to the city: enough of my friends still live there to merit popping in now and then. Maybe, as they move on or die out, I'll stop returning, but Henriette's there for the next two years and that alone makes it a very favourite place of mine.

In other news, I didn't complete any items on my bucket list. I didn't do a Ghost Tour or go to Glasgow or GHQ or even visit the beach. I am strangely OK with this- in the end, those activities weren't necessary for me to enjoy the end of my residency in Edinburgh, and it's not like I can't ever do them in the future (whereas, it's much more difficult to get back to Melbourne).
I have very few regrets about my time in Edinburgh overall and even fewer about my leaving: I made a move then kept on moving, and proved the points that I needed proving. Someone should write a song about that.

August: Mid-Lothian County

So, I didn't update for the whole of August. You may have suspected that not a lot was happening in my life, but you'd actually have been wrong: the same thing was happening on repeat. I'd wake up, go to work, see a fringe show/meet up with a friend, then go home and sleep. Repeat ad Mensum.
I considered posting reviews of Fringe shows up on this site, but that's not really what I wanted to use my blog for; it's meant to act more as a diary. Also, someone tried to use me as a shill, asking me to promote their show on here, which creeped me out to an inordinate degree (and also made me laugh at their massive overestimation of my readership).
But now there have been developments which must be documented for posterity, and so we're back.

First, I'm gonna deliver the bad news, so the post can end on a more positive note: Esmond and Poppy have left. Poppy departed for London last Wednesday, and Esmond returned to his native Macclesfield two days later. I got to say proper goodbyes to both of them, and I'm fairly certain I'll see them again, but I still feel this void inside. Esmond was the first real friend I made in Edinburgh; Poppy, the last. I know that sounds needlessly poetic and oversimplified, but I feel it's true. I met Esmond on the second day of Freshers' week and kept in consistent contact with him throughout the next four years- he was my first port of call during a lot of tough situations, and one of my favourite sparring partners in debates of taste, culture, philosophy and ethics.

Unfortunately, his ears were also preternaturally sharp.

A couple of nights before he left, Esmond and I returned to our old haunt, Debate corner- the place where we would part ways to go home in First year, so named because we would often stand there for hours on end, continuing our evening's argument, neither side willing to acquiesce to the other's view. We tried to have a scintillating confab, just as in the old days, but found that there was very little we now disagreed on (excepting the correct pronunciation of 'Rabid'); over the years, we've both influenced the other to the degree that our philosophies are no longer so diametrically opposed. Though, I will confess that I think I've gravitated towards Esmond's point of view more than the other way around.
For the majority of my time in Edinburgh, Esmond was my best friend- I already know that our amity can withstand vast distances and long periods of incommunication, so I hope we'll keep in touch. My uni experience would've been very different without him and I can only hope he doesn't become a stranger.

I actually met Poppy not long after Esmond- she was in one of my tutorials during first year- however, we didn't become friends until October of fourth year, and even then it took a shared assignment and a lot of weedling from Esmond before we could admit our true feelings for one another. She contributed greatly to me actually passing my course, as we became study buddies and I doubt I would've done half the revision I did without her help. I don't think I've met any other true bosom buddies since October, so Poppy gets the accolade of being the last friend I made in this city (unless someone new pops up over the next eleven days). She was a good one to finish on, as well: effervescent, witty, insightful and quirky. I expressed a wish that we had become friends sooner to her, and she responded very wisely that we only truly meet people when we are ready for them- as I explained in the paragraph above, I've changed a lot since first year, and maybe Poppy wouldn't have like the preachy, angry, loud person I was back then. And, besides, at least I got a couple of months with her, which is more than most people will ever get. More's the pity for them.

In one final bit of moping, there's a university open day on right now and I can't believe that the people here haven't even chosen their unis yet; in fact, they won't be starting for another year at least and I'm already done with tertiary education for the time being, how did that happen? I can even still remember the open day when I visited this place. How time flies.

But now onto happy news! Yay! Henriette's back! YAY!

And flexible as ever!

And she got onto the MSc she wanted! YAY!!!!! And that means she'll be in Edinburgh for the next two years and I can come visit her and the city and not have to try and navigate Norway! YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I've already written about how much I love and admire Henriette, so she just gets the funky picture and the excessive exclamation marks. Next.

I finished working for EUSA. My feet are very happy: standing up for eight hours every day is apparently very good for you, but I can tell you first hand that it does not feel it. My feet feel alien now: they're weird and misshapen and I'm sure this is definitely what you wanted to read about when you clicked on this link. Anyway, I'm hoping that eventually my feet will return to normal; I handed in my fob today, which is the EUSA equivalent of a doctor hanging up their stethoscope for the last time. I got £20 in tips from Festival, though, which works out as less than £1 a day, but I'm trying not to focus on that. I may, in the future, write a longer post about working during the festival and working for EUSA in general, but at the moment I'm just happy to have some time to myself again.

I've moved once more: I'm beginning to think that packing and shifting my stuff might be the only exercise I get these days, but that's fine because I feel like I do it once a week. I've moved from Joe's to Jari's, where I will pass my final few days in Scotland before returning to Shropshire.
My parents came to pick up my stuff on Thursday (I've just got a bag and some pillows with me at Jari's), and took me to lunch and were generally very pleasant and complimentary about my ability to look after myself (which is unusual). I got a bit teary when my mother couldn't figure out Scottish money because it reminded me that my time in this country is coming to an end and also that there was a time when I was the same and now look at me, I've gone all native. I haven't cried in a while, but I had to have a bit of a dab at my eyes after that.
My mother also revealed that she plans for me to not really return to Britain (after France) until I'm in my early Thirties, which would be fine, except that she's refusing to help me buy any new bedding until then (I'm proud to say I still have all my sheets, duvets, duvet covers, pillows and pillow cases from First year. Yeah, that's right. I'm responsible).

I went to an end of Fringe party at Bedlam, and got very drunk and celebrated a lot- not because the festival was over, but because I'd gone the whole month and only gotten depressed once. I don't like talking about this illness, but I was first diagnosed during Fringe 2011, and so I feel it's pertinent (and quite relieving) to say that I only had one bout during August, and even then it didn't last very long. I'm proud of myself (although I know it was also a lot down to luck) for averting this possible downward spiral.
The party was also the best I'd been to in ages, possibly even my favourite Bedlam party ever- I was just the right amount of intoxicated: I did things I normally wouldn't do (like take my shirt off during 'Africa') but I didn't regret any of them the next day; I was courteous to folks I don't normally get on with but didn't waste time trying to woo them; I danced a lot, with a lot of different people; and even dispensed some sound advice to an old friend in need of comfort. I was at my best at that party, and so I'm both happy and sad to know that it's my last one (seeing as I'll miss Refreshers on the 14th).

Speaking of the Old Fat Cat, I have a couple more shows coming up at Bedlam and I'm actually acting in both of them and I know you're all tired of hearing 'this is the last character I'll play in Bedlam' but eventually I promise it will be true. Anyway, we couldn't really rehearse either of these shows over the festival and so are now frantically trying to make a cohesive piece of art and well, come see the results during Freshers' Week: EGM at 1pm on Monday the 8th September 2014 and Candlewasters (specifically, The Cosmic Corkscrew) at 7.30 on Wednesday the 10th.

Peace out, homies. Happy September.

Sonny

Apparently some people thought that this blog had run its course; that, having made it through a year since my time down under, I no longer needed the shoulder of this blog to lean on and thus could go out into the world, once more footloose and blog-free.
Since you're reading this, you might have guessed that this is not the case.
It's certainly true that I had originally intended this blog more to document the effects of reverse homesickness and the challenges presented by returning from a year living abroad, so that it might be deployed by future people in a similar situation. However, I found that I settled back into my old routine so unnervingly easily that this site quickly became just a broad-strokes substitute for my old one, the title of which no longer seemed appropriate.
Anyway, the sum of the above paragraph is that no, I do not intend to stop blogging just yet.

That being said, I was finding myself with a dearth of topics on which to discourse; I have done so little of note lately that it seemed like admitting defeat to blog about it, if you see what I mean. I didn't want to admit to you guys how much life had stalled for me recently. But then I was taking an evening constitutional and the song below came up on my randomised music player, and a blogpost planned itself out before my eyes, including this incredibly wordy preamble.

Now, if you clicked on the video above, you'll be aware that that is possibly the saddest song ever written, and may now be fearful of the content to come, but I assure you, I was inspired by the title and nothing more. Fun fact: I very often pick a title first and let my writing flow from that, even though Mrs. Weatherill always used to tell me off for doing it. Some small insights into both my writing process and my attitude towards being told what do do there.

The main reason this post is called 'Sonny' is because the main piece of news it will relate is that I have (temporarily) moved in with Joseph, my once and future heir. Joseph was in both my debate club at Sixth Form and my Freshers' Play group in 2011, and thus is the young mind I have helped to nurture most fully and thus the closest thing I have to a son. 
This latest abode is the first I will be paying for entirely with my own money, instead of my parents footing the bill. This is annoying because obviously it takes a big chunk out of my finances ('finances' is my new least favourite word), but is also a blessing because for once I will not have to put up with my mother insulting my sense of decor, my choice of accommodation/flatmates or my housekeeping abilities. I have informed both my parents quite clearly that, since I now no longer live under their thumb, there are new ground rules for their visiting:

1. There are to be no criticisms, no matter how veiled, of my lifestyle.
2. My mother may not start cleaning up without asking. I don't care how bad it is.
3. They only enter rooms that I say they can, and do not poke around in said rooms.
4. They will be limited to three questions per hour, unless otherwise explicitly stated, and these may not relate to:

• My love live (or lack thereof)
• My hygeine
• What I plan to do next

My mother did not see the need for these rules, but then my mother also doesn't believe she's a critical person, so I guess she'll just have to deal.

My fortress of criticism immunity is sadly not going to last very long, as I plan to leave Edinburgh shortly after the Fringe, as I imagine I'll be sick of it by then, especially having worked Full Time as a waiter during the Festival. Yep, I start, for the first time, full time work on Thursday (technically, I start tomorrow, but Wednesdays are my days off, so I start with a doss): I am terrified by this prospect, because I can only imagine that it will render me exhausted, grumpy and creatively dead inside.
I've recently started writing a new play, partially to honour those of my friends who have recently left or will do so soon, and also to test this hypothesis: if I can get back from working for eight hours and then motivate myself to write something, I know that I may still be able to pursue my dreams even while making my way in the world. Here's to hoping.

Also, Esmond said a while ago that he was feeling neglected on the blog, so here is an entire paragraph about him.

One Year Later

Today is the one year anniversary of my return from Australia and thus the beginning of this blog. Rereading that first post, one can tell how nervous I was about crashing and burning emotionally after what is still the best year of my life (sorry, year that's just happened). I'm glad to report that that didn't really happen: I found I was still crying up til about October, mainly when I was on public transport and certain songs came on, but even then, I never fell into actual depression. As previously stated, most of this is due to my mother, who even remembered that today was my returniversary, despite her inability to remember anything at all. We spoke on the phone, and she checked that I was doing OK.
And I am, I'm happy to report; although, I must confess I still see doppelgangers of lots of my Australian mates when out and about. There's a Charlotte look-a-like who lives in or around Blackford and always elicits stares of uncontained amazement whenever I see her (I had to restrain myself from poking her the first time we crossed paths). I think about Australia alike, and probably talk about it more, due to my propensity for speaking without actually engaging my brain; sometimes people ask me about it, or it comes up organically, but often I'll just shoe-horn it in like Cinderella's desperate stepsister, not to make myself seem more interesting (well not JUST for that), but also to remind myself that it happened. Because it'd be easy to forget. Not literally, obviously, but to forget the impact that it had on me- to lose the memories of the events and the people and the changes that I underwent. I don't want this to happen. I NEED for this not to happen. This is partly why I'm so happy I kept the other blog- it now functions like a diary, but one with hyperlinks and inbuilt videos. I can just click on the 'October 2012' section and see what I was doing at that time: working a job I hate, complaining about the heat, critiquing films...what's actually changed?

I was going to detail what's changed in the past year here, but honestly you can read the other posts in this blog if you want to know that. I'm not going to pretend that the year since I came back has been a complete bust or a complete triumph- as with most years, it's been mixed-to-very-positive (incidentally, I consider my year in Melbourne an almost-untainted triumph). But I think that this year was always going to pale in comparison to its predecessor, so I'm glad I can look on it with even this amount of enthusiasm. It was hard not to feel like this year was a bit of a step backward, to be honest, since I mostly resumed habits from first and second years, except with fewer people that I knew here; like a greatest hits tour after some of the members of the band have died. Still, those habits weren't entirely unenjoyable, so I don't have too much to complain about.

When I first came back, I was on a real I-must-go-back-as-soon-as-possible kick, but now that the emotions have had time to simmer, I see that really that's probably not a good idea. Or, at least, going back to Australia is no better an idea than going anywhere else exotic: none of my friends are in the same place as when I left them, and probably aren't all that close to one another geographically anymore either. Yarra, where most of my memories are based, probably wouldn't allow me on the grounds for fear I was an escaped inmate from the asylum next door (yes, that was actually a thing). I miss everyone so much, but I wouldn't be able to see them all anyway, they're so disparate now- Jason's back in the US, Will's in Canada, I think Daryl's returned to Malaysia and evidently Charlotte's moved in just down the road. I can't go back to Melbourne in July 2012 and resume my life, and I just have to accept that.

Back when I started writing this blog, I would randomly insert mentions of my friends back in Australia, just so that they would know I was thinking about them. Now, I find this practice kind of disingenuous, and I'm hoping my friends across the world will take it as read that I think about them a great deal (this also goes for my Edinburgh friends who've left recently). I won't forget my year abroad for as long as I can ensure that I don't; it improved me as a person, allowed me some incomparable life experiences and was just a whole load of fun.

Graduation

I was originally planning not to write about this, because academics have really not been the focus of my uni career and also I find the entire process quite tedious. However, I've reasoned that, in the future, I'll want to remember what happened around this time, and so for posterity's sake, here we go.

I didn't actually attend my graduation ceremony, because it cost a lot of money to rent the robe and also aforementioned tedium. I was given the option to stream the ceremony online, which I opted not to do and instead spent the morning entertaining a ten-month-old baby. Later, I went to the after-graduation party, where I got to meet the parents of people whom I know only very slightly and failed to speak to any of my professors, because, once again, I wasn't the most academic of students. It was a swelteringly hot day, most of the students were dressed in all black and they were handing out free alcohol; lightheadedness ensued. There were some boring speeches from heads of subjects whiched seemed to be entirely about them and when they graduated and I refused to clap at the end because I will not be an enabler to narcissism. Ahem.
The event was really more for families and I was there alone: I managed to make some of my classmates' parents jealous because I have an offer of 'proper work' (their phrase, not mine) starting soon. My family weren't there, and I wasn't wearing a robe so a fair few people presumed I hadn't passed the course; I took some photos with my classmates and then left.

The graduation ball was last night, and yet again I didn't attend due to monetary issues, however, at the last minute a shift working in Amphion that night opened up, so I took it and managed to taste whatever of the dinner got on my hands and see whatever of the various activities got in my way as I was carrying boxes.
The ball was also the last time I got to see Rose, which is a great shame because she's the originator of one of the most popular Quotes of the Year that I've ever documented.

We're currently pitching around a talk show based on the catchphrase 'You're Not Human'.

In all seriousness, though, she was funny, charming and I'm so glad Becky could pick up the courage to talk to her, so I could become her friend by proxy. I'll miss you, Rose; it was so much fun knowing you.

Another person to whom I said my final farewell this week was Grace. We went to get ice cream together, and I may have eaten too much, but it was still so much fun. Grace doesn't like photos, so just imagine the cup below was her, and that this photo is in fact heartwarming.

Yes, it was full of ice cream and yes, I ate the entire thing and yes, I am single.

 

Grace is another friend who I met through someone else- in this case, her flatmates. But, yet again, she became very important to me, not least because she coached me for my British Council interview. Goodbye, Grace; you'll always be my little Salt Girl.

A friend who I made all on my own was Emma, who hasn't left yet but it's very unlikely that I will see again for a long time. We had lunch this afternoon, along with Rik, and it was delightful- Emma and I, despite having known each other since Panto in second year, didn't really become friends until Panto this year, but I'm still going to feel it when she leaves. She was one of the title characters in Rob and Roberta, and thrived in what was a very thankless role. She's one of my favourite performers that I know and also just a good friend; goodbye, Emma.

And, finally, I've just come back from saying goodbye to Henriette. I've known Henriette since first year, and I actually cannot put into words how much she has helped me, and how responsible she is for the person I am now. I know that sounds gushing, but she talked some sense into me at a point in my life when I genuinely believe I could've spiralled into anger and become a much worse human being. She guided me, even when I resisted the change and tried to claim I was fine the way I was; she was never smug or condescending, she merely showed me that I was only hurting myself with my ways. I have thus bestowed upon her the title of 'Guru'. Thank you, Henriette; thank you so much.

This has been a rather sappy post with a lot of emotions and gushing, and I'm afraid the next post won't be much better, as it'll most likely be on the anniversary of my leaving Australia (and the beginning of this blog). I'll try and balance it out now with a most shocking announcement: due to the number of folk leaving my life for an indeterminate and probably quite lengthy amount of time, I've decided to start following select friends on Facebook again.
Dun dun dun.

It Happened One Night

I went down to Cambridge to visit my sister Moira this week; mom and dad were already planning to go down themselves to see Moi's graduation, and Orla decided to bite the bullet and join us, making it a royal flush of my nuclear family. We don't normally all meet unless it's Christmas, so this was slightly unfamiliar territory- it was also only for an evening, because Orla had to return to London. We all went out to this Thai restaurant in Cambridge which was amazing and actually made me like broccoli, so is obviously lacing the food with crack or something.
But you guys don't care about the food- you all want to hear about the crazy family dynamics! Well, I found out that I am by far the member of the family who sees the other members the least, despite being by far the least financially independent. In a small way this makes me quite proud because it means that I'm my own man and have successfully flown the nest, but it also makes me kind of sad because they all have a much stronger bond with one another than with me. Case in point: there were three separate in-jokes between the rest of my family of which I had no idea and didn't really understand; they tried to explain them but obviously something got lost in the telling, because I didn't really see the humor. When I expressed some regret at my relative (in both senses of the word) alienation, they were all very quick to point out that, at both points that I was given a chance to get away from them, I chose the furthest possible destination (Edinburgh and Melbourne). Indeed, when I was initially choosing my uni, I made no qualms about the fact that I wanted to be very removed from my parents at least, so I wouldn't have to see them.
If I could go back to that time now, I'd slap myself for saying that.
Not that I regret going to Ediburgh, but I really didn't appreciate my parents, or my sisters, until recently. Being reminded of that comment provided me with a very powerful reminder of how much I've changed over the past four years, as well as highlighting how my previous petulence has cost me- I feel somewhat removed from my family, especially when we all gather together.

While we were together, an interesting point of which I myself have made note several times: there are no photos of us as children after the time that I turn five (which is when the last of us stopped being cute). My parents, never the sentimental type, had not seen this as a problem, until they went to my mother's university reunion and all the attendees decided to pass the time by showing each other pictures of their offspring and my progenitors realised that they were indeed in the minority in being quite so blaise about capturing their children's likeness. My father tried to rectify this oversight while in Cambridge and take as many photos as possible; sadly, his photographic technique is to keep the camera in the same place and move his head around, hoping this will chane the angle of the picture being taken. Shockingly, this does not work, so I'm not hopeful about the quality of these images, but it's nice to know that there will be some documentation of the Kelly siblings coexisting for the future.

To get to Cambridge, I had to take an overnight coach to London- I was looking forward to Clark Gable style shenanigans, involving spontaneous singing, the walls of Jericho and lessons on how to hitch-hike.

How to stop a car.

Instead, I got a supposedly former alcoholic (his words, not mine) who downed a bottle of cider in front of me, kept saying how he was going to London to get smashed, and then treated me to a diatribe about how allowing Muslims to remain in Britain was a clear example of 'political madness gone wrong'.
However, going through London did mean that I got to see two West End shows: Let the Right One in, which was beautiful, haunting and innovative, and Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, which was fine, but criminally wasted Samantha Bond, which soured me against it somewhat.

In other news, I went to the Highland Show with Grace and Carolyn the other week, and it was amazing. There were sheep, and birds of prey and coos, which are distinct from cows by merit of their accent.

There were more photos from this event, but sadly they were on a phone which I lost. I'm beginning to think that maybe my family isn't meant to take photos.
On top of the animals, there were free samples of deliciously organic food, a harrier jet flight simulator, a burger that came with a side of steak and a cute guy (sadly, pictures were lost again) who told me all about various medieval weapons, whom I later met again outisde HMV, which I'm ofiicially taking as our meet cute.Yes, the Show was awesome, and that awesomeness squared by the fact that it was probably one of the last times I'll hang out with Carolyn, who left Edinburgh over the weekend.
More and more fourth years are leaving by the week, for obvious reasons- this week is also when  graduations take place, so that number is only going to grow from now on. I'm trying to see everyone before they depart, but I know that some of them are going to slip through my fingers; I just have to hope that in forty years, I can see them again at a reunion and fail to show them pictures of my offspring.