Thursday, June 29, 2006
Completely by accident, I just found out that the closing date for late UCAS applications is tomorrow. Luckily, mine is all complete (including wry reference form my best teacher ever) apart from the personal statement, which is about ten pages long and still growing. As I have to prune, pare and finish it off tomorrrow, I would welcome any suggestions for good things to say about myself... I liked 'great artisitc and literary talent' from afore-mentioned teacher... a step up from 'wayward indifference'...
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
I’m convinced we make our own bad weather in this country. Every May or June, it seems, we get a week or so of dazzling perfect weather, hot as you like, blue skies, the works. Now some higher being is evidently laying this on, and wants nothing in return but for us to be happy. And for a couple of days it works, everyone wears white sundresses and drinks Pimms. But very soon, people start worrying and sweating. They get sunburnt and are kept up at night by their mosquito bites. And the next thing is, they all start saying stuff like 'I like the heat, but this is too hot' and 'it's not just hot, it's humid'. Suddenly everyone thinks they're being oppressed by the fair weather, no one can sleep, people leave sweaty hand-prints on the lift wall-panels. And the next thing, all that complaining and worrying and feverishly applying sun-lotion and whinging and fanning ourselves has built up such an oppressive atmosphere that there's inevitably a thunder-storm. For the rest of the summer we all have to be content with crappy breezy, cool, sunny intervals bollocks. It's our own fault British summertime is so crap.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
I used some of flatmate's coffee while he was away last week, about half a packet, which I replaced with a full unopened packet. Then this morning I found I'd run out of coffee again, but when I tried to borrow some of his, I found he had carefully hidden them behind all the other food in his manky cupboard. Do you know, I wouldn't feel much of a twang if Lovebird and I were to suddenly move out... He (Flatmate) wants to read Thus Spake Zarathustra but is worried he won't understand it on his own. So every time I'm relaxing with John Le Carre he pops up and tells me how much it would cost if we all chipped in to buy a copy to read together. Four quid each, apparently. (With Flatmate, everything comes down to buying something in the end, whether it's reading Nietzche or camping out in the woods to gain spiritual enlightenment. Which he was meant to do all week, but he kept hearing animals outside his tent and so after one night he gave up and went to Preston.) How many times do I have to tell him I don't feel like reading Zarathustra? I feel like reading The Honourable Schoolboy and if he wants to join me in discussing it he'd be very welcome. I was slightly peturbed to realise this weekend, at my grandparents Diamond wedding celebration on the Isle of Wight, that I am in fact the most normal and well-adjusted person on at least my mother's side of the family. Which brings me on to mental health. My buddy Cat is coming to stay with us today, after a spell up North with her mum while she convalesces after some bad depression. (To my mind, the phrases 'up North' and 'with one's mum' don't describe an atmosphere conducive to good metal health, but there you go. ) But I'm slightly worried. During her illness she became exceedingly needy and instead of being friends like we had been, she mostly voiced her insecurities and moaned about her problems while I gave her a running commentary on my tips for a healthy mind and life-style. (Don't worry guys, I'll tell you them when I get a moment). But now the balance of our friendship has changed and I really don't like it; I feel like her mother. It's partly caused by this attitude to depression that it's inevitably chronic; Cat feels like it will always be lurking under the surface, even when she feels fine. Consequently she assumes that our new 'protector and invalid' relationship seems ok to her. Weird.