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Thursday 5 October 2000
For my course entitled "The Tale", our first assignment was to read "Aesop's Fables". It only took me about an hour the entire thing, but before I could, Bryn found the book, and we read the shortest tales together. "The Moon And Her Mother" was bad enough: "The moon once asked her mother to make her a little cloak that would fit her well. "'How can I make a cloak to fit you?' her mother asked. 'Right now you're a new moon, but soon you'll turn into a full moon, and later you'll become neither one nor the other.'"
1) Since when does the moon have a mother? Or a voice, for that matter?
But it was "The Mountain In Labour" that drove us into hysterics: "Many years ago a mighty rumbling was heard from a mountain, which was said to be in labour. Thousands of people flocked from far and near to see what it would produce. After a long time of waiting in anxious expectation - out popped a mouse!" It wasn't so much the mouse, just the idea of a mountain getting pregnant in the first place . . . Friday 6 October 2000 I have never liked Thursdays. I think it dates back to when I was five or so and Noj and I had to spend every Thursday evening in Lanercost vicarage watching "Catchphrase" while Mum sang in the choir. I like most quiz shows, but for some reason, I flipping hated that one, although it must have done wonders for my knowledge of sayings. That might not have been a Thursday though. However, throughout the ages, the day has been associated with all sorts of badness. Between the ages seven and thirteen, it meant spending an extra two hours in the most boring place on earth: my parents' shop, since they had late night opening. The suffering only lessened during the brief interval where the TV worked, so we could watch Kris Kross and Chesney Hawkes on "Top Of The Pops". The only timetables I can remember are those I had in my first and final year at secondary school. The former featured (shudder) Religious Education on Thursdays, and in the latter, while nearly everyone else had a triple free on Thursday afternoons, Roe and myself had to attend double Maths. And of course, at work, Thursdays posed the standard problem: I was sick of the week, but it wasn't Friday, so I had no excuse to mess around. Now, however, it is confirmed in my mind as a Scank Day Of Death. Most of my days here are favourably structured. I have a single lecture on Monday, a single seminar on Friday and bog all on Wednesdays, Saturdays and Sundays, a welcome change from my days at Cambridge where I had 9am starts six days a week. Tuesday is busy but bearable: five hours of classes, but in the form of a seminar, a lecture, and a film screening. Who can object to watching Charlie Chaplin films in the name of education? Thursdays, however, are evil. While I was happy that what I thought was going to be a nine o'clock seminar was positioned later in the day, the current arrangement suits me not at all. Not only do I have a seminar in the morning, but a lecture on The Tale is immediately followed a Social Policy lecture which is immediately followed by a Making Of Contemporary Europe seminar. How am I supposed to keep all that straight in my head? More to the point, the lecturers readily admit that no one's attention span lasts more than twenty minutes even in the most riveting of classes. How am I meant to last for three consecutive hours? Admittedly, yesterday was not so bad, in some respects. The seminars were mostly administrative, and I stayed awake in The Tale by counting double entendres. Well, what's a person with a mind as dodgy as mine supposed to do when the lecturer keeps mentioning long tails (I'm sure he meant 'tales', Zed) and saying, "It's good to be an oral person"? And Bryn came round. Twice. However, in other regards, the day was not so favourable. We would have the first proper fire drill on the first cold and wet and windy day, wouldn't we? And Bryn came round. Twice. Yes, like most of my friendships, it is a love / hate thing. But this is good. Still, in general, Thursdays are not. In the evening I went on a Literature Society pub crawl. I was a little unsure as to how it would go, since I'd missed the first meeting (I was at The Concert which now feels like it was a lifetime ago - this can only be good) and I'd been warned that approximately 99% of the society was female. (Not that I have anything against females, but as an atypical one, I feel more comfortable in mixed company.) This proved true, but everyone present was really nice. Deep Philosophical Thought: If people who have astronomical gastronomical interest are foodies, Duran Duran fans are Durannies, people who follow trends are like sooooooo totally trendiez and people who like fairs and fairies (well . . .), are people who continually use their mobile phones phonies? (I'm stealing the theme of Tim's October 4th entry here, but no one will remember by the time I get my computer working again. Sigh.) I will confess now that I have a mobile phone (if only because my Dad gave it to me). I even think to switch it on occasionally and admit that it has proved useful on a few occasions in the past. However, in general, I object to the objects. When a couple of people my age first started using them, about three years ago, everyone said, "Oh my God, how poncey." And now everyone's got one! Someone's always goes off in a lecture, and if I hear one more conversation about who's getting the best deal, I will probably throw something at someone. (Quite possibly my phone at someone's head.) And they are deeply annoying. Imagine you're in a pub with a friend and their phone rings and they embark on an intense conversation. You feel like a right geen. You can't exactly join in, after all. Or how about this? You're in a pub waiting for a friend and feeling really pathetic. However, you want to take solace in the fact that there are other people just like you here. Heck, you might even strike up a conversation with one, if there's anyone good looking. But a quick scan of the room reveals that everyone who is technically on their own is talking on the phone - and you don't have yours. (And in any case, you don't want to spend a few pounds talking to someone for ten minutes just because you're bored.) Or what about this? You're in a pub (do we notice a common scenario here?) with a few friends and the conversation's died a bit. So everyone starts fiddling with their phones, playing Snake or sending text messages to their boyfriends, when you can't because you've only got a pants old Ericson which can just about make calls and that's it, and you don't have a boyfriend. And indeed, last night, all of my companions were on the phone to their assorted significant others. (Although I suppose they could have just been pretending and were really talking to their mothers. ["Last night was great, Mum! I love you!"]) Oh well. My phone bill will be lower than theirs. Deep Philosophical Thought #2: Canterbury is full of nutters. I know I should feel at home, but instead I feel scared. What country is this anyway? I know it's near France, but a very North American trait is in evidence. Once, when I was in America, I was on a bus for five minutes. During that time, the dozen people on the bus, most of whom had never met before, ended up having a conversation. It wasn't even a conversation about anything! And this was by no means the first nor the last time I ended up talking in depth to strangers, that occurred just for the heck of it, during my holiday. British people do not this. This place seems to be an exception to the rule though. Last pub crawl I went on, some guy started talking to me as if he'd never seen anyone wearing black before. He found the sheer existence of a rock society an eternal source of fascination. And this time, there was Bloke Who Gave Us 800000000 Fliers For The New Nightclub And Said We Could Get in Free, Bloke Who Started Talking To Me About Pink Floyd, Scary Blokes Who Started Talking About Guy Ritchie Films and Blokes Who Sat On Us And Asked If We Were Married. (I said, "Yeah, thirty four times", forgetting Flink's website [sorry Flink]. That baffled them.) Right, better get some sleep now, as I won't get any until 4pm on Saturday. Sunday 8 October 2000 After my single seminar on Friday, I headed into Canterbury, on my own, on a mission: to find something to wear for the rock society trip to the Electric Ballroom that night. After four hours, five phonecalls to Bryn and walking for about six miles, I became the owner a black faux-pleather mini-skirt. Unfortunately, that was all. Pleased as I was about the amount of leg it revealed (read: keeping legs pressed together while sitting down is a good idea), the amount of upper body it revealed was not so pleasing, so it had to be teamed with Ye Olde But Trusty Tight Black T-Shirt. I was the first person to arrive at Canterbury bus station that evening, but was quickly joined by Vice-President-Of-The-Rock-Society-Nick (as opposed to Bryn's-Housemate-Nick) and Fran. We decided to go to McDonald's, went to McDonald's, decided we didn't actually want anything from McDonald's, and returned to the bus station. Over the next half an hour, about twelve other people joined us. We embarked upon The National Express, and waited one hour and fifty minutes while it took us to London. Upon arriving, we went to a pub to kill the remaining time before the Electric Ballroom opened, and then queued. While using the Underground, whenever the thought, "Help, I've lost everyone!" crossed one's mind, the "Spot the freaky people" method never failed to work. At this point, however, its success rate diminished enormously. My five hours in the nightclub were enjoyable up to a point, but not intensely so. They played industrial music on the ground floor, metal upstairs and jungle on the third storey, the so-called chill-out zone, although it was no easier to talk there than down below and only 134 degrees centigrade instead of 135. Naturally, the latter didn't appeal much, so most of my time was spent at the fringe of the moshpit (given my inability to maintain much balance in high heeled shoes) on the second storey. Trouble was, although the night ended with "Poison" by Alice Cooper and "Paranoid" by Black Sabbath, most of what they played was nu metal, which I don't know much of, or think much of, to be honest. (They played Enimem tracks, the geens! Although I believe they also played "Sucker" by 28 Days, which the radio station gave me to review a few days later, which I promptly fell in love with, so I'll forgive them.) I would have probably preferred it downstairs, but sticking with people I knew seemed the wisest course of action, since I got chatted up by enough strange blokes as it was. I know - what the beep? Since when does this happen? It's flattering, I suppose, and Bryn made the valid point, "If you get chatted up, you're in the right place", but it still wasn't necessarily welcome. I mean, I like people with good taste in music, but couldn't they at least be good-looking too? I doubt there's any correlation between level of appreciation for rock music and natural attractiveness - I mean, look at Bryn! No, on second thoughts, don't, you'd probably have nightmares if you did. (Only joking! For the record, he doesn't normally wear whiteface.) But, you would have thought similar taste in music = similar sense of aesthetics, and since these people are notorious for altering their features, you would have thought I'd fancy them. But no. Though I really should have said yes to the guy offering to buy me a drink, even though he must have been twice my age. London prices are evil. We left at three and were faced with the question of what to do until the first coach to Canterbury left at seven. We discovered a Sainsbury's which was open all night, where we bought stuff and ate and messed around. We didn't kicked out for about an hour. Then, we took a night bus back to Victoria railway station. Having heard multiple horror stories about night buses recently, the reality was rather disappointing. At the station (which was open, if not officially - that geen was lying!) Bryn vanished and Laura swore at a pigeon a lot. Then we walked (hobbled, in my case) to Victoria coach station, where seats were more readily available. Laura fell asleep on the floor and got decorated with rubbish, Gill fell asleep on Graham, Simon and Tasha fell asleep on each other, Fran hunted for a toilet, Mr Street paced back and forth (ok, he's actually called Ramsay, but how can I resist the temptation to modify it? [if you've never seen "Neighbours", never mind, you're not missing much]), Bryn stood and rambled, I took photos and froze to death (cursèd be the pleather mini skirt!) and everyone else tried to maintain conversation but eventually dozed off. I eventually got into a state of slumber (it took a while - even with my eyes closed, I could still see Mr Street wandering around), but the coach arrived a couple of seconds later. I slept and hallucinated for the entire journey, shared a taxi back to campus, and then - Well, rather than going straight to bed, like any sane person, I went to an eight-hour training session for The Organisation Which Must Not Be Named. I fell asleep for about thirty minutes of it, but felt quite proud of myself all the same. Afterwards, Bryn came round to my room. "I feel like going to Slimelight now," he said. Slimelight is a nightclub, also in London, which lasts from 11pm until 7.30am. In spite of everything I'd just been through (I'd barely slept on Thursday night either), I said, "Yeah, me too." One minute later, I was asleep, and remained that way for the next fifteen hours. Interesting Things That Happened In Mid-October
1. Xye realised she didn't like her course and left UKC. Woe!
Tuesday 17 October 2000 I have reached the conclusion that they put something in the water at northern universities that eradicates morals. Case Study #1: Bradford University. Now I only know one person there particularly well, Chris, but the effect that the place has had on him has been startling. Believe it or not, he wasn't always a dodgy geen. Back at school, he always fancied everyone, but there's a big difference between fancying multiple people and kissing several while in a relationship. When he phoned me tonight, however, he revealed that everyone else is just as bad. By the sound of things, a game of truth or dare turned into an orgy. Heech! Case Study #2: Sheffield University. According to my online friend Helen, who's just begun a course there, not only do Sheffield's night clubs give out free drinks for people who get off with total strangers in front of the bar staff, but they have events called "Snogathon" or something. Heech! I don't know! Here, there's nothing of the kind. Well, nearly nothing. There's subliminal messages on several of the doors (they say "Pull" - I'm not sure what "Push" refers to, mind. Drugs? Childbirth?), but the only meat market-ish event was the aforementioned traffic light party. However, while the Kent University students may not be slutty, they are daft. Or at least, I am. Chris suggested visiting me this coming weekend, and I agreed. (Update on Zed / Chris situation: I am very much over him, no doubt as a result of liking Someone Else (no prizes for guessing who!) The tension I always experienced whenever I spoke to him over the course of the last year vanished entirely the first time we spoke this term, and it shows no sign of ever returning. Consequently, we get along better, and of course I want to see him again.) He, however, has not changed. When I mentioned Bryn to him, he said, "Any chance of a threesome?" Heech! Thursday 19 October 2000 After three further phonecalls, I learnt that Chris isn't going to visit after all. I was disappointed, but it's quite understandable - Canterbury's a long way from Bradford, and I may be visiting the much-closer Sheffield in the near future. Bryn's first reaction: "Shame, I was looking forward to beating him up." When I pointed out that this was probably impossible, in an unarmed combat anyway (since Chris is considerably taller and heavier), he said, "Ok, shame, I was looking forward to having a threesome." Um, does this sound at all familiar? Heech! Why am I continually drawn to the dodgy? Sunday 22 October 2000 Yesterday morning, my friend Ibid and I went shopping in Canterbury. After a year of looking, I finally found some decent Lego and bought it. The bloke working in the shop commented, "Surely you're too old for Lego?" but I replied, unphased, "You're never too old for Lego." Ibid also showed me where HMV was (after numerous trips to Canterbury, this was the first time I'd found it - probably a good thing, though, given my track record for CD-buying) and introduced to the joys of Netto's. It's the most grim supermarket on the planet, but is also the cheapest. I bought some Dairylea cheese (which you can't get in the campus shop), orange squash and air freshener (since people keep telling me that my room smells) for £1.49! When I returned to my corridor, I heard the tap in Matt's room running. I thought, "He must be having an improvised shower" since the shower in our corridor has been declared out of order since Thursday morning. Anyway, despite my intentions to do some work, or at least check my e-mail, all I did was read Geri Haliwell's autobiography, which I'd bought earlier. Mike came round at one point, and asked if I'd seen Matt, since the tap was still running. I said no, but thought nothing of it. Then, at 5pm, I suddenly noticed that half my floor was covered in water. Heech! I tried to phone Matt, but to no response, so I ran over to reception and reported the problem. "You're joking, that's the third time this has happened today!" cried the receptionist. After what seemed like forever, she came round and turned the tap off, and then told me to stay out of my room (like I'd want to be in there) in case the electricity caused problems. She told me it would probably be cleared up sometime that evening, but if I wanted another room for the night, I could have one. I said, "No, it's ok, I'll go and stay with someone" thinking Bryn would oblige. Luckily, I had plans to go to the cinema with Ibid and Soppygit, where we saw "Not One Less". Then we went to Soppygit's room, wandered around campus for a bit, then returned. We were all really tired, so Ibid left at 10, and I said, "I'll go too. I'll just call Bryn." So I did . . . only to discover that he was in Folkestone or somewhere equally convenient. He had told me he'd be there, but I'd forgotten. D'oh! Anyway, Soppygit told me I could sleep on her floor, so I collected my sleeping bag and did just that. Apart from her waking me up on numerous occasions by talking in her sleep (sadly I was too annoyed to work out what she was saying), it was an all right night. However, my room is still really mingin. They've cleaned it up a bit, and it doesn't smell too bad (although the corridor can now be smelt all over the college), but the carpet squishes when you walk on it. I asked at reception if I could have another room, but the bloke said, "I don't know, come back at 2 and ask the woman." One thing, though: much as I was looking forward to a threesome (not!) it is a very good thing that Chris did not visit this weekend.
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