To declare that something is “where it all began” – well, it’s dangerous, because if you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe. But here, in a way, is where it all began (a series of three tweets from August):
So! How are you? I am a student – yes, that’s how I am.
The main purpose of the higher education system is to teach the more pompous boys and girls, who wish to postpone behaving like a proper person for a few more years, and so who go to university, not to put bread in the microwave oven. But I actually discovered that secret a few years ago, which raises the question of what the hock I’m doing here.
Well, clearly I’m still desperate to postpone sensible behaviour for a while longer, no matter what I already know about the interaction of wheat and radiation. But besides that, it doesn’t really feel outrageously expensive – of course, I just screw up my eyes and ignore the debt, but as well as that, means testing is just rather kind to me: like, I can afford to have two keep two different kinds of extra virgin olive oil! Nobody expected that.
The unicorn is made from out of concrete, and goose poo, and automatic doors that are just slightly unsettlingly late to start opening when an approaching pedestrian is detected. But more importantly, some people live in it, and they are largely nice, which is a relief.
People to whom, in many cases, means testing is less kind. It turns out that an endless source of fun is looking up people’s former schools on Wikipedia to find how many dead Home Secretaries are “notable alumni”. It also turns out that braying received pronunciation is right annoying in the dead of night. I do wonder which category people guess I must fall into – but there’s no way, no way at all, that I’ll ever find out, clearly.
People, as well, who are overwhelmingly distressingly handsome (an adjective whose use I am championing for use with nouns of all genders, by the way) – but I’m already strangely inured to that.
What I really want to do is direct, and after I promised myself to give up doing soul-destroying PHP (especially WordPress) stuff, of course I then went and helped redesign a ruddy student newspaper website. The most recent part of that has been to make very minimal updates to a five-year old fantasy football game, which I mention only as an excuse to include this tangentially related video:
What else is there to mention? I’m sure there was more. I bought and ate a Pot Noodle (which should surely be some noodles?), believing it to be some kind of rite of passage, and I felt degraded afterwards. On only one night so far have I imbibed too much liqour and wound up in fugue state, in a field of cold mud without my shoes. There’s nothing else – that’s the end.
Richard “Richard H Cooper” Cooper calls Breaking Bad “a post-traumatic masterpiece”. Now, some “major spoilers” are contained there – well, not many I much remembered or even remember again now, but the warning’s in place – well, clearly I was in a fugue state for most of my viewing, but that didn’t impair my enjoyment. Hey, what’s so bad about downforce, anyway? (Do you see what I did there?)
Cooper’s “Finger-Steepling and Sharks”, there, is a whole thing of that kind of stuff. It might all be interesting. They say blogging is dead. Now, can he tell us why they don’t make marmalade with proper sugar any longer? And can he make us some barrels? (Do you see what I did there?)
The morning. Out from beneath the many, restrictively heavy quilts – this weather, eh‽ – and off to a hospital, to be imaged medically. (It’s fine – I am, happily, very much not on on the brink of death, or anything like that.) I am given a set of headphones, ostensibly for masking the noisy clangs and clunks of the medical imaging machinery, and relaying messages from medical professionals, but really so I can pretend to be a contestant on the Saturday evening quiz programme Eamonn Holmes used to present. Or a Cyberman.
I am heartened by this measure, but disappointed that Radio 2 is the piped-through sound of choice. Sort it out, Jeremy Hunt, I think. (I think “Andrew Lansley” at first, and he seems like a more deserving scapegoat, but apparently he’s no longer the Secretary of State for Health. Who knew?)
Of course, it’s not all bad, because the abominable Ken Bruce does prompt me to reflect on my frankly shocking lack of knowledge of the works of Suzi Quatro, and for that I am grateful. While I do not then proceed to do anything about it, I promise that I will. Well, probably not.