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Wednesday 3.7.02 | A fire in my hall has provided the hot gossip (sorry) of the last 24 hours - at about midnight on Monday night all the alarms started clanging lethargically ('So that's what they sound like' Mark thinks to himself) - now, frankly, fire drills are normally as welcome chez moi as a fart in a space-suit and involve me pulling the covers over my head, merci quand meme, but I really didn't mind this time for several reasons - (a) there was actually a fire, (b) lots of mad French had just arrived and they all now know exactly where not to throw their cigarette-butts without risking Catholic (indeed and catholic) inferno and (c) we managed to clear the house in three minutes flat, which, for four chaplains, a few random students and lots of weird frogs is pretty bloody good. Anyway, it wasn't a big fire, just a small blaze, really, although it involved walking through smoke-filled rooms, smashing break-points blah blah blah blah all high drama, and, of course, looking at fit firemen. Thankfully, the damage is pretty minor and no-one was injured, so all is well and calm again. Marvellous. Thursday 4.7.02 Now starting to give serious consideration to bumping off the cloth-eyed bint of a nun whom I work with in the office. Problem is that I feel guilty even saying that because under the coarse, harsh, Irish, loud, shouting, illogical, insane exterior, she has got a heart of gold, and besides, I don't think St. Peter would be overly enthused about letting me past the pearly gates if I did dispose of her. The reason for my rant today is that we have spent the morning locking horns over invoices, which I have just been taught to do. She gives me the dates, I process the invoice. Now, a little puzzle for you. If someone stays from the 4th - 8th July, it means they stay four nights, right? Makes sense to me, makes sense to you. But no. Apparently the 8th July actually mens the 9th because they stay the night of the 8th so they actually stay five nights (even though this means out of the world of Sr-sodding-Brid, that they stay from the 4th - 9th.) Oh god, it's too complex to even start to unravel, I just want to work in an office where I don't get barked at in labyrinthine Irish all day. Monday 3rd November 2002 The defendant was found not guilty of murder today in a mere four hours by the jury after evidence was presented by the defence of severe provocation. The defendant's statement outside the court was one of simple relief: 'I told the insane witch that staying from the 4th - 8th was four nights, but she would have none of it, and kept just...barking at me until I had no choice but to shut her in the fridge until I heard the noise stop. I just want to get out of the country now as I've been planning to do for months.' Sunday 7.7.02 Goodness me, what a few days. Thursdsay turned into a rather late night in both the Shadow Lounge and Sweet Suite, but rah to that. Ash and I have started to play a game when we go out - notably, how many drinks we can get bought for the both of us my batting our eyelids and getting our arses felt. Score so far is 1-0 to me. Giggle. Anyway, I managed to get by only buying two drinks and yet got more pissed than I have done for several months, and this culminated (as usual) in me throwing my last drink down myself - this seems to serve rather well as a sign that I really have drunk enough and it is time to locate my bed. This time, the sign was rather more obvious - said drink was a martini, vodka and raspberry cocktail which looked interestingly like a stab-wound on my white top. I didn't think about this at the time (perhaps because I was off my face) but speaking to Max the next day, he asked about the consequential protocols of chucking drink down one's front. We concurred that 'get home to try and soak up both drink and mortification' was about right. So that was that - and the wonderful lady in charge of the chaplain's laundry at my hall got the stain completely out, so rah all round. Friday was - another - half-day at the office, not that I'm complaining in the slightest, mind, and then yesterday I sat on my posterior and pretended to work in a bookshop with my head in The Other Boleyn Girl which I've just finished, and which was fab. Now sitting at home and revelling in creature-comforts which I don't have a uni, notably my cat and a large, full fridge. So all is peaceful and all is well. Yes. Rah. Monday 8.7.02 Ooh, would you look at that - another afternoon off! God I'm stressed, I mean, all this time, and shite-all work to do to fill it, and five months in Nice on the horizon. Don't know how I'll cope. Anyway, lovely weekend at home went far too quickly, and I am back in my cage/office at the zoo on Gower Street. Few odd moments in the last few days, mainly things mum has said: 'Mark, can I borrow your old phone? The display's not working too well on mine. Must be because I drove over it.' 'Boys, you will tell me if I ever smell like an old charity shop, won't you? 'Gran's coming this week, but she's not here on Wednesday, she's going gliding.' My gran is 80. I hope I'm like her at that age. :-)
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