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Wednesday 6.2.02 | This weeks comedy comes in the form of George 'n' Tony being nominated by some Norwegian politician (who has evidently been living on Mars for the last few months) for the Nobel Peace Prize. I would launch into a rant about the minor logical flaws of offering a peace prize to two people who are in the middle of a war (supposedly, anyway), but I fear I shall still be here tomorrow. In other news, I seem to have developed a menstrual cycle. Note added after a few hours' reflection: Perhaps that does deserve some sort of clarification. I seem to be randomly moody (about every month or so) for no apparent reason - this is probably exacerbated by the fact that Claire, annoying cow that she is, pushes me over the edge of tolerance and makes me shout at her, but the point still stands - which mystifies me. I would hate to be female... Thursday 7.2.02 If I go quiet until Monday, don't panic, I love you all. I am about to plunge into the scintillation and succulence (my apologies, running on four hours sleep) of this damn debating competition and then I am free for a week from Monday.To say I am looking forward to this would be to say that Tony Blair wouldn't mind running the world - I guess mine and Tony's problem alike is that we're going to have to wait so long (well, four days in my case, anyway - whether he'll end up running the world in a few years' time is, I guess, debatable.) Friday 8.2.02 My announcement that I am going to give up caffeine for Lent has been met by derision, snorts of disbelief and outright laughter by those whom I have told. I admit they have a point (bastards) but doesn't mean I'm going to try. So...6 weeks without a cup of real coffee. Splendid. I know that, strictly speaking, I can take Sundays off, but I've always thought this a bit of a cop-out to be honest. Michelle made the good point that I will probably lose all my friends if I do try and give up drinking from the substitute fountain of youth: no doubt they will merrily greet me at breakfast every morning with toothy grins and happy hairdos and the answer they will get from defcaffinated, leaning-over-cornflakes-in-a-manner-that-constitues-imminent-death Mark? 'Oh go fuck yourselves.' Perhaps not the best plan, then. Monday 11.2.02 It's all over. Sigh. Apart from a fairly problematic 20 minutes on Friday night (when we realised that we had registered the same team twice, and that all the rounds had to be re-jigged) the debating competition went really well. Small panic on Saturday morning when the first motion everyone was going to debate was 'This House would de-frock the Queen' - given that Princess Margaret was still warm, we decided that it wasn't the most tactful and respectful thing to do, and changed it. It was a small competition in the first place, but then lots of people left after the semis and the finals, meaning we had *far* too much food and drink. And goodness me, did I get bloated and wasted. Yesterday was spent in blissful listlessness; chugging and shuffling around London with Jo (alternately on foot and in Laa-Laa; this being what he calls his Landrover - I mean, what other name is there??) and generally commenting that neither of us had had any sleep. I then came back to the hall to try and re-enter the human race, and failed. The day ended with me drinking half a chalice-full of altar wine (neatly turned into the Blood of Christ by Fr. Jeremy) - possibly the last thing I wanted to pass my lips after Saturday, but these things happen, and I did feel a lot better for it, in a strange way. I think this might be because I began to feel pissed again - before going for a long-ish walk with Claire in which we bitched about life for a good hour and a half. And now I have a week off lectures and seminars for reading week. Things could hardly get better. Tuesday 12.2.02 Aww, Michelle. You're too kind. Working with you is always a joy (even if you do like Pop Idol,) despite the fact that I generally don't have a clue what I'm talking about, can never admit I'm wrong, played a large part in the near-miss with booking the bar on Friday, you still seem to think my wind smells of roses. Well, perhaps a minor exaggeration, then, and I'm not going to indulge in soppy 'You're so wonderful' slop, but thank you for putting up with me and my non-existent room bookings, my lack of knowledge about what's happening in the world - in short, thank you for being you. Debating would be so much less fun without you around. |
