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Thursday 10.10.02 | Couple of bits today. Uni started yesterday, which was an experience. I felt desperately sorry for the poor shitkicker-first years whose first lecture it was, because it was enough to put anyone off studying for life. Some old fart at the front lecturing on literary history; needless to say, the actual subject-matter wasn't the problem, but I was snoring before he'd picked up his chalk. Anna, Gillian and I have taken the collective decision to go to lectures rather than seminars, because we are here to listen rather than contribute. Fine, yes, OK, we're shit scared of opening our mouths and being laughed at too, but the point still stands. Also, entertaining oneself in lectures is much easier (techinques helpfully learned at UCL) as there are more people and you are further away from the source of the boredom. Yes. Other news is that Mark is now a fashion consultant! Got a call this morning saying that the interview was successful, although fuck only knows how. Anyway, I'm going in next week to bash out some times with them and meet the team. I'm more pleased about the fact that this is going to help my French than I'm going to be selling clothes; it's not exactly on the Oxford St of Nice and I think a lot of the work is standing around looking pretty, but I can do that :-) Well, perhaps, 'pretty' is the wrong word, given that I stupidly decided to have a haircut yesterday. I'm not going into too much detail because it was horrific, but I picked the only gay hairdresser in Nice and regretted it suitably afterwards. Walked in, and almost turned round and walked straight out again, but plucked up courage and sat down amongst pictures of naked men and things saying 'freedom to be ourselves' etc, and was beckoned by a scary-looking creature with a very slightly lazy eye. Not wanting really to go anywhere near him, I got up, and noticed that he was pointing towards a back-room, away from the safety of witnesses in the main salon. Cursing the day I was born, came to UCL, came out, my hair grew, I came to Nice and every other eventuality that lead me to this place, I followed, and found it was where hair is washed. So this was OK, and then we went back into the main place again, and he asked me if I wanted a 'fashion cut.' Mildly insulted that he thought my hair wasn't fashionable (gut reaction - know that Pol Pot was more fashionable than me, and that's after he died) but, more importantly, alarmed as shite about what he might do with my locks, I asked for just something that looked like it was, but shorter. Sort of. And bear in mind this is all in my crappy French. Emerged 17 Euros lighter, and sent a wailing text to Anna, telling her I looked like a pin-cushion. Actually, I sent it to lots of people, but I wanted Anna to know most to prepare her for the shock. Lovely, charitable, kind, gentle girl sent one back saying 'HAR HAR, a gay pin cushion!!" Friday 11.10.02 Dropped in quickly to express my sheer unbridled delight earlier at finding a bus-stop called 'Fanny.' This has kept me giggling all afternoon. :-)
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