Friday 27 December 2013

At Home with the Kellys

I'm currently sitting with my sister and her boyfriend watching Coronation Street: they don't really want me in the room, but are happy to be watching their show- I don't really want to watch their show, but want to be in the room. Everybody gets something of what they want, but also something they really don't. What a perfect microcosm for the Kelly family Christmas!

In terms of presents, which has not really been what has exhilarated me about Christmas since I was about twelve, I did very well on both the receiving and the giving front: when I was younger, I never really understood that old maxim that it feels better to give than to receive, and I'm still not entirely sure it's true, because I really like getting presents, but I get it more now that I no longer want the entire day to be a marathon of me opening presents while my sisters watched on green-eyed and slack-jawed and presentless (see above re: when I was twelve).
Now-a-days, I've taken to simply asking exactly what people want and, if they fail to answer, a voucher to a non-descript store of my choosing. It amazes me that I used to get personalised presents, all thought up in my own head, for up to twelve people- I used to bother with friends, you see- with cards, all containing a personalised present, and properly wrapped. I don't know how I found the energy or came up with the ideas for the gifts. My mum probably actually did most of the work, looking back on it.
The downsizing of Christmas is a common theme of conversation among the Kellys this year: we're all waiting on someone to have a baby. Probably Orla. I've been relieved of duty on that front- apparently, they'd rather I got a job. I think I would, too. But, six wilful adults, three of whom really don't want to be up before ten and three of whom don't want up to be up after nine, none of whom really want to compromise and only half-want to spend time with each other, are rather hard to shepherd into performing any kind of productive, or even enjoyable, activity. So, our Christmas morning comprised mainly of not really doing anything, but doing so very busily and with everyone stressing. For some reason, we think adding a human infant into the mix will increase efficiency- it's hard to see how it could decrease.
We eventually got to go for a walk- one of our family traditions- and eat far too much and of an extremely rich and completely delicious dinner, and then we played Dixit and, for the first time that I can remember, literally in all my life, we all enjoyed a board game. So much so that I actually skipped Doctor Who (having set the Freeview Box to record it, natch).
That really is a Christmas miracle.

I met my old Drama teacher, Mr. Petty (whom I now allowed- nay, expected- to call 'Robert'; oh, I'm so oooooooooooooollllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllldddddddddddddddddd) at a party at my neighbours, where I was one of only two people under fifty, the other being my sister. Sam, my neighbour's six-year-old son, who normally rounds out the Ironbridge Youth Set, was at a much cooler party in Buildwas. It was fun to see Mr. Petty again, because I hadn't seen him in six years, and thus got to inform him of all my theatrical exploits since starting Uni (it was basically a less self-effacing version of the middle paragraph of this post). He was happy for me, but a bit bemused; after all, I don't think he ever pegged me as a particularly promising student- I only got a C at GCSE, after all. (Maybe if I'd described all the shows to him in the exact way I did in that post, he'd have found it easier to believe.)

Patrick and Ella came to visit on Sunday, and we lived it up, Ironbridge style. Meaning we went to the Tea Emporium and then the White Hart and then they went home. And the Tea Emporium weren't serving coffee. Woo! #IronbridgeLife!

Coronation Street is over now- in fact, it ended a while ago; this post took a lot longer to write than I'd anticipated. I enjoyed Corrie more than I'd expected, as well: Orla said it was funnier than one would imagine and I agree. Not that I'd ever watch it again. I have my pride.

...Somewhere.

Saturday 21 December 2013

Me Vs. My Brain

It always surprises me how uncompromising my brain is: I thought one of the only advantages of my sixty one hour journey from Melbourne to London would be that, surely, no other voyage of lesser length would ever seem long again.
Nope.
My trip home from Edinburgh will take approximately three hours forty minutes: and fuck if my brain isn't going to scream and whine 'I'm bored!' every single second of the way. I should explain that, at any given time, I have about three different 'voices' in my head: Melodrama, who's currently kicking against the proverbial back of the hypothetical driver's seat of my brain and muling 'are we there yet?!'; Logic, who's countering that we survived much worse not six months ago, but whose voice is, sadly, much quieter than Melodrama's; and, my favourite, The Journalist, who's using his energy more constructively to write this post.
It should also be noted that Melodrama, despite moaning about how bored he is, is also refusing to do the logical thing and go to sleep; annoyingly, so is Logic. I didn't get very much sleep last night, because my end of term christmas party lasted so late into the night. Ha, no. I was actually, surprisingly enough, cleaning- mainly so I'll be able to tell if someone breaks in while I'm away (this would not have been evident in my flat's pre-cleaning state): in the process I unearthed several nostalgic items- chief among them, the goodbye poem Charlotte and Simon wrote for me- which lead to a bout of, what else, narcissistic introspection which Melodrama really wants to write about, but, luckily for you, the thumbs are the domain of The Journalist.

Tuesday 17 December 2013

Postera Crescam Laude

So, this semester is over. I am seven eighths of the way through my uni career.
Holy Fuck.
This is the eleventh hour, people.

I just had my final exam of the semester, First Language Acquisition, and this means I am now finished with both FLA and Old English, topics I have been studying, on and off, since first semester of my first year. I may, emphasis on may, resume studying FLA later in life, but I see no reprisal for OE. I have never been wild about historical linguistics, which is a shame as they're something of an Edinburgh speciality, and this course just confirmed for me that I don't have the patience or dedication needed to really make a good job of comprehending ye olde languages, much like babysitting Sam confirmed that I should never have children. I'm just too selfish to be a parent or a philologist, which are pretty much the only things that humans are put on earth to be.

I jest, but my future is ever present in my mind at the moment. I really don't know where I'm going to be or what I'll be doing there in six months' time, let alone a year's and I think that that's what's really terrifying: until now, the stages of my life has been measured in spools: Australia took a year, pre-honours took two, secondary school took five, etc. But now? What I start doing when I finish in May could easily be what I do for the rest of my life. I highly doubt it will be, but then again my father has worked at the same company for forty years, ever since he left uni. My mother has been doing more or less the same job- teaching languages- for the same amount of time, although in different capacities and, I think quite impressively, an array of different languages.
I don't know what I want to do with my life, or, I do, but it seems very unlikely: I want to be a professional writer, for both stage or screen, with the occasional best-selling, Pulitzer winning novel thrown in just to establish my intelligentsia cred.
I want to win an Oscar.
And this will almost certainly never occur.
I've always been slightly ashamed of this dream, probably because it's unfeasible, but also because it has a faint odour of the Britain's-Got-Talent-X-Factor-Make-Me-Famous-Now desperation about it. But I'm not Salieri, or Mozart really if we're taking from the same historically dubious source, I don't want to "blaze like a comet", I just wanna do something I enjoy and get money for it. I don't feel that's an uncommon or particularly embarrassing ambition; surely that's normal. And, actually, being a screenwriter is in no way an efficient way to achieve fame, even if you're good. To prove my point: tell me who wrote Argo, this year's recipient of the Best Adapted Screenplay Academy Award. Hell, name an Oscar-winning screen writer who isn't Woody Allen. See what I mean? (By the bye, twenty demerits if you didn't even know Allen had an Oscar.)
I like to think I'm a good writer, but the first few scripts I produced were very poorly received. And I can see why, looking back. Sweet Gay Baby Jesus was juvenile, unfunny and had an absolutely awful ending; Man Up and Shoot Me in the Skull (on which Rob and Roberta is based) was uneven with horrendous pacing issues; A Million Ways was two incredibly unlikable characters discussing their self-confessedly boring lives with occasional outbursts of Rik Hart which, admittedly, do make everything better; Cheer Up Frowny Face (you may also notice that I had an issue with titles) was, as The Student quite rightly pointed out, 'boring and middleclass'. I should point out here that I am not fishing for compliments: I like to think I've improved a lot, but to believe that I have to admit I was pretty terrible.
I have no idea how Rob and Roberta will be received: as previously mentioned, the cast are all fantastic, but I don't know if the underlying skeleton- i.e. the dialogue and ideas contained within the play- are worthy of them. I think it went down well in Melbourne- certainly, only good comments were passed on to me, but then these were always coming from a secondary source- I wasn't there myself to verify.
Only time will tell. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and Occupied were both very well received, but that's still two to one in favour of me being terrible (I'm not counting Aladdin or either of the two twenty four hour plays, because I simply have no info to go on re: their reception).
So, am I really any better than the really awful terrible contestants on aforementioned "talent" TV shows? You know, the ones who you really feel should know they're terrible. The ones who are so struck with the idea of celebrity that they ignore the very pressing reality that they're just singularly laughable.
I don't want to be like that. I don't want to be delusional and obnoxious and just generally pitiable, striving for a goal that is blatantly, patently unattainable and just pining for something that will never be. But I also want to give my dreams a chance, because the unseen counterside to this self-deprecating waffle, the only reason I'm even brave enough to admit that I have these dreams to people at all, is that there is a more confident side which tells me that I could make it. That I am good enough. And certainly, I don't wanna reach the end of my life and realise that I never even tried to do this thing that I really want more than anything, at least for now.
Part of the motivation behind this wall-o-text is that Laurie, star of Rob and Roberta, is applying for a scriptwriting course next year and I'm insanely jealous. Frances, my little fresher who I weaned and nurtured, has just been accepted onto a media production course for next year with an eye to screenwriting. Rosie Curtis, who I started out at uni with, is already working for a theatre in London. I so want to join them in their pursuit of this goal, but I promised, quite wisely, I feel, that I wouldn't rush into post-grad or anything like that. And I've already borrowed a large amount of money from my parents to do the TEFL course, and I should really deploy that in some capacity, at least for a while.
This is, of course, a very bourgeois dilemna that does not matter on a global, national or even local scale- it's entirely personal. It can also be left for a little while, as I should really focus on trying to get a halfway decent degree and, besides, almost no artist I respect started out doing the thing for which they later gained credit (the English translation of this post's title is 'Later I shall grow by praise' and is the motto of the University of Melbourne) started out their careers doing that thing. So maybe I can afford to take some time to do other things and see if this is still what I really want in a couple of years' time: just because my parents stuck to one thing all their lives, it doesn't mean I have to. I have to remind myself that uni ending is the blossoming of possibilities, not the death of opportunities for creativity.

Sunday 8 December 2013

Purgatory

Yesterday, Poppy and I sat on the mezzanine between the Ground and First floors of the library- a rather odd spot with Sofas, swing-desks, plugs and- perhaps most incongruously for the library- mobile reception. People often Skype there. I think it's intended as a spot for some quiet relaxation between revisions sessions for those to lazy to travel all the way to the vending machines on the ground floor.
Poppy and I were trying to think of a descriptor for this spot to explain to a friend where we were: I suggested 'The In-Between Space'; Poppy opted for 'Purgatory', which I admit is better.

This descriptor also nicely describes my frame of mind with regards to my exam tomorrow: I am in limbo. I've reached full capacity in terms of what my brain can store, but there's still five hours before I can justifiably call it a night and my score on the sample paper I just did wasn't perfect (it was still ok). So, now we enter into that awful stage of revision (aren't they all awful?!) where the student languidly stares at various websites, cheat sheets, notes and sample questions, the brain reticent to absorb any new information, but of the solid opinion that no fun should be had in honour of the approaching exam. So solid is this opinion that the student no longer can derive any pleasure from music, nor film, nor television, nor even the humble novel. The mind will release no serotonin until the end of the paper the following day.
"But, lo,"
cries the student,
"this toil is fruitless! I gain no new aptitude from this labour!"
 and the brain steadfastly replies
"Suck it."

Saturday 7 December 2013

Entropy

So, it's that time of year again, where we all question every single life decision we made up until now and regret any and all actions that we have ever undertaken. I speak, of course, of exams.
I was going to start this next paragraph with a barefaced lie, and say that I used to enjoy examinations, and while that has never been the case (I had to go to the doctors once due to stress induced headaches- I was ten), I never used to have such an antagonistic relationship with them. I certainly used to be much better at revising: my attention span was even above ten minutes at one point. I mean, I managed to fare quite well at GCSEs and even better at A2s, once I'd escaped the oppressive awfulness of William Brookes, but now I struggle to even make myself google useful resources. I leave the flat without my notebook, meaning I can't revise 'properly' and thus managing to convince myself that there's no point in even trying, and I'm convinced that I do it on purpose.
I used to think this was because I didn't enjoy my course (it's debatable whether or not this is still the case- I mean, no more syntax), but when I think back, I managed an A* in maths and I loathed that (I actually also managed, somehow, to get an A in PE). Plus, my friends who enjoy their course- Rachael Murray**, for example- expound a lot of energy listing the various revision-related woes in their lives. So, what's changed? Part of me thinks that it's that I no longer live with my parents, and, without patrimonial gravity, constantly looking over my shoulder and pressuring me, I simply float off into the outer-atmosphere of lolloping. This is worrying because it casts a serious shadow over plans for post-grad I may have, unless I want to undertake them at Wolverhampton Uni, the only institution within commuting distance. The other answer, which is even more worrying, is simply that I peaked at Sixth Form and now entropy has set in, and all my energy is slowly draining into the environs until I'm left cold and completely lacksadaisical (I also got an A* in GCSE physics, so you can be assured that this is how entropy works).
Of course, if I give up on myself entirely, then I am assured to never get any work done and to that end I have taken on someone to work with- a ""Study"" ""buddy"", if you will- to try and motivate myself. Poppy is quite a good influence, as it turns out- I've certainly done more than I would have without her companionship, including making a cheat sheet and writing out various grammatical miscellanies (my mother suggested writing these on my arm and then 'weakly washing them off' before the exam, and she has an MSc, so maybe it'd work). But, that being said, I've now spent an hour writing out this blog post, so obviously she's not all that.

And now, I really should get back to work.

**Editor's note: Academics often note this as the first appearance of Rachael Murray in the Kelly Canon; however, an earlier reference to 'Rachel Meyrick' is believed to be an incarnation of the same character.

Tuesday 3 December 2013

Direction

There is an anecdote about Orson Welles, and, like all stories that are fun to tell and illustrate a point in a concise and interesting manner, it's probably untrue. The story goes like this: Orson Welles, on his first day of directing Citizen Kane, his first feature film, walked onto the set to find hundreds of people, ostensibly under his command, waiting for him expectantly and, I like to imagine, staring up at him moonfaced and doe-eyed like little Oliver Twists. He turned to one of the more experienced set hands and asked quietly, 'so, what do we do?' to which the man replied 'you're the only one in this room who's not allowed to ask that'.
Orson went onto make one of the most seminal films of all time after that little incident, so I feel enspirited that I had much the same urge when I walked into the Bedlam Café for the first rehearsal of the 2014 production of Rob and Roberta. Yes, I have returned to directing after a two year absence which I hope future generations will refer to as my 'wilderness years', during which it's rumoured that I travelled to the other end of the earth to study under the twin-headed director-chimera, Shaw Keegan, who taught me about Opera and stubbos. It was kind of unnerving to return to a situation where everybody is looking to me for what to do, and I am not only allowed, but expected to tell other people how to improve what they're doing. Luckily, I cast the show extremely well: Izzy is grand and theatrical, Emma is awkward and neurotic, Daniel is shy and flighty, Adam is confident and affectionate, and Laurie is a...saint. What a saint, that Laurie.
I am also going to use this opportunity to apologise to Declan, who directed the Melbourne production of Rob and Roberta: I didn't understand how much of a bitch the final scene would be to realise when I wrote it. You may rest assured that Karma has now served me for my lack of foresight.

In December 2012, I attended the Bedlam Christmas party, got intoxicated in a bad way, had to be looked after by Rik and Colm, twisted my ankle and then walked home on it and then had to catch a train at seven the next morning. Not my fondest memory.
Still, it was with a very heavy heart that I went to my (probable) final Bedlam Christmas Party over the weekend, and got very drunk very quickly. This made the party a lot more fun and the next day a living hell. My brain felt like it was trying to worm its way out of my skull. And I had to sit in Bedlam for four hours and watch people read my words back at me: normally, I'm delighted to have that kind of validation, but this time it just made me feel slightly ill (this may also have been the questionable Korma I downed after returning from the party- not a weekend full of great decisions, I'll admit). This is not to put down those who auditioned at the weekend- it's just that Comrade Napoleon was dying and that makes me sad.
Of course, these auditions were for The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, and we now have a cast! Of the original production, only two people are returning- Jari and Leyla- and in completely different roles to the ones they had before. But the point of restaging TWWOO isn't to do it exactly the same as before- it's to try new things with the same basic idea, so I embrace this change. Bring on TWWOO two.

Scooby Panto is over, and I could not be more delighted with how it went: I had an absolute ball doing that show and I got to establish a reputation with the lower classes (read: the freshers), as a rather formidable force to be reckoned with and one who will not hesitate to castrate you.
Speaking of direction, I was really impressed with how Callum and Craig managed to strike a balance between cast creativity and control: at the end, as a present, we gave them hats which read 'Good Cop' and 'Bad Cop' ('Bad Cop' going to Craig, and 'Good Cop' to Callum), but it should be said that they both beautifully juggled the twin responsibilities of keeping us happy and getting what they wanted out of us. This is really not an easy act to pull off and they deserve so much credit for doing it.
I am so glad I did Panto, especially since it's looking likely to be my final acting performance on the Bedlam stage. I know that technically any show I do could be so, but as I near the end of my uni career, this obviously grows in probability with every show I do. I couldn't audition for any of the shows this time around because of the commitments of doing TWWOO (I gave a very half-hearted audition for Harvey, and got a callback for Aunt Chauverlet, I think just so they could see me in drag again). There are two more shows to be decided for the Bedlam season, as well as some miscellaneous pieces (an anachronistic Grecian theatre festival and Candlewasters, for example), but nothing's guaranteed and Daphne could well be my swan song in terms of Edinburgh acting. And what a brilliant motherfucking swan song she was.


Beautiful.

Thursday 28 November 2013

Firsts

On Monday, I had a dream that I got a 68 on the essay that I stayed up for thirty hours straight to finish. I've been jokingly telling everyone that this is how comas are born, that I would gladly have never seen my family again to live in a world where I get 68s on essays. And then this happened:
Seventy. Motherfucking. Eight. That is a motherfucking first, motherfuckers. I can't believe this. I genuinely expected the grade to have polymorphed into a 46 as I was writing this post. Even in Australia, where my academic achievement skyrocketed (I mean, I actually managed to pass syntax), I never got a grade this high. And, unlike my Australian grades, this one actually counts toward my final mark for my degree- yes, you understand correctly, for this brief period at least, I am averaging a first on my degree.
HELL YEAH!

On top of this, my dissertation is gaining momentum quickly, and it looks like the online survey that I shall be deploying in order to gather data may be going live this week, and then, I do believe the shit has officially hit the fan on this whole degree malarkey.

In other extremely exciting news, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz is being remounted- this time in none other than Bedlam theatre herself.
This is brilliant because a) I absolutely adore this story, this show and this script and b) I haven't even been able to pass production merit (i.e. the decider of whether or not the show is even good enough to be voted upon) on a show on Bedlam since October in my first year. It's no secret that there was a major stigma attached to my name, and I like to think that, through hard work and perseverance, as well as just waiting for most people to leave, I've managed to eliminate that stigma. It's like I said a while ago: 'I got what I wanted because I tried'- in that post, I tried to make myself remember this during 2013, and, since it's November, this is definitely my longest-lasting New Year's Resolution ever.
I am very excited to execute this script again, but with a bit more money and no bloody pillar in the centre of the stage this time. Some members of the original cast have said they might audition again, but pretty much everyone involved has gone onto bigger and busier things since the show, so it'll be an entirely different experience this time around, I should imagine.

Panto has also begun and it's a lot more fun this time around. I really had almost nothing to do in Harry Panto, and, were it not for the fact that I got to play tonsil tennis with Chris Craig Harvey, I would wish that my part had just been a cameo so I could've gone home and not had to sit through all of act two in the freezing backstage of Bedlam Theatre. But now I see Joseph, playing the same role (although his Santa definitely has more to do than mine did- for one thing, Santa's apparently immortal now and so can't die in the first ten minutes), and having an awful lot more fun with it than I did- ad libbing lines, adding in jokes and giving himself awesome new minor parts as propmty the line-learning elf- and I wonder if this is one of the few times I can't shirk the blame onto someone else and should actually take responsibility for myself.
And then I think that's stupid.

And finally, I have a face like a wombat.

Monday 25 November 2013

Sister Sister

My youngest sister (who's still older than I) came up to see me this weekend, boyfriend in tow. This was the first time I'd met said boyfriend and, as previously stated, my sister had justified reservations about such a meeting. However, it went nearly perfectly- I found him charming and easy, and he apparently thought I was 'hilarious', which is exactly what I was going for.
Comedy personified.
Sis and I got along great- although she insists she visited me in first year, which I'm pretty sure is nonsense- and I was genuinely, acutely sad when we thought we might not be able to meet today. Luckily, we managed to squeeze one last walk before she set off back down South. It was lovely and refreshing and reassuring and then I remembered that I'd be seeing her in, like, a month and wondered why we'd even bothered with the whole thing.

We had a first act run-through of Panto yesterday, in which I debuted some of the improvisations that Craig and Callum had requested, nay demanded, and they went down pretty well. I always feel slightly bad putting extra lines into someone else' script, especially as someone who writes scripts myself, but I've been given free reign, so expect ad libs ad nauseum.
As is traditional, the panto contains a lot of explosions, and this means that tiny little mines have to be planted throughout the stage. During the run of Harry Panto, I managed to knock over an impressive six of the little devils, earning me the Lillis Meeh Award for Fire Safety. Last night, Jodie managed to reach half of my record in a run-through of the first half of the show. The force is strong in this one: I may have to retire (I still managed to knock out one, for old time's sake*).

*Ruth and Charlotte, if you see this, I'm making a joke- I understand pyros are dangerous.

Wednesday 20 November 2013

Vainglorious Bastard

The last time I got a good review, I wrote a frankly vainglorious post about how it made me feel. This time, I will say just this: "the Robbie Coltrane of our time".

In other news, it is freezing. I was flyering today and I thought at one point my fingers were going to fall off- then, even worse, I stopped feeling the pain and they went this weird white colour. When my shift finished and I went to open the door to go inside, my finger clunked unbendingly against the handle and made a hollow sound. Ow. Still, I'm typing this, so they're still attached for now.
Esmond, who spent last year in a post-apocalyptic, frozen wasteland, says he is also effing cold right now, so it's not just that my time in the sun spoiled me for other weathers.

It was Bedlam thanksgiving dinner on Wednesday, and it was as fun and ludicrous as ever: we all sat and broke bread and stuffed our faces together, and then played a huge-ass game of ninjas in the café. After, we made hand turkeys and then had a dance fest on the stage to, what else, Disney songs. Niall chased me around the theatre while nearly blind, which was funny as hell, and I managed to steal Izzy's shoes, which I'm pretty sure obligates her to give me her pot of gold.
I remember my first year, when, after having never had anything to do with Thanksgiving before and only vaguely even knowing what it was, I was suddenly invited to three Thanksgivings and, in classic sitcom style, I tried to have my turkey and eat it too and attend all three events and ended up going to all three and enjoying myself immensely, because life doesn't always imitate bad television. The climax of this paradisium (that's what she said) came in the form of Emma's inimitable pumpkin pie and, having celebrated two thanksgivings since (apparently, it's not a thing in Australia, despite Jason's attempts), nothing has quite lived up that treacley delight.
The most notable part of Bedthanks, as no one but me is calling it, was how at ease I felt, despite being surrounded by Freshers. I even let one of them hug me. I disinfected myself afterwards, but that's just common sense. I mean, you don't know what they've been rolling in (I'm looking at you, Bussom).

It was Henriette's birthday yesterday, and I managed to show up, still sporting my goblin make-up, to the dinner in a fancy restaurant.
Like this, but less lovelorn.
Needless to say, I dazzled everyone with my rapier wit, amusing theatrical anecdotes, and complete lack of dining etiquette.
Afterwards, we went to an Australian-themed bar, and, in the immortal words of Rosie Swayne, "I saw an opportunity to talk about myself for two hours", but I was trounced by the presence of an actual Australian (and a Melbournian, to boot!), to whom I graciously deferred on matters Antipodean. Still, it was a very fun evening, and, even better, Henriette's parents footed the bill so I can also eat today, huzzah!

Tuesday 19 November 2013

Urban

Adam gave me a lift home from rehearsal yesterday. As several people remarked, it would actually have been quicker for me to walk, since he was parked more than halfway between my house and the rehearsal venue and it took us a while to get to the actual vehicle itself due to having a lift war with Izzy. But, it wasn't the (lack of) time saving in which I was interested: it was the car journey with friends. In Melbourne, I was in a car every second day, and sometimes, yes, we would drive places to which we could easily have walked (I remember several trips to the McDonalds in Clifton Hill; especially the one where Victoria snagged me the number of the Drive-Thru server). I know it's a ridiculous thing for which to be nostalgic, and that being in a car with my friends is more confining than walking with them, so there is no inherent gain to spending time in such a manner, but I can't help it: I remember the car ride to Michael's, where the CD player got stuck, and we listened to 'The Name of the Game' ten times in a row; I remember when Andrew took us driving out around the countryside, and then we parked right next to a couple dogging in a red bull vehicle, and they stopped; I remember Aspen and I considering running over pedestrians, just to see if we could get away with it. I remember all this, and the thing I take away is 'cars', not 'friendship', proving just how terrible a person I really am (because the pedestrians thing left if ambiguous).

I chased a fox around for a while last night, because that's just how exciting my life is. I don't often see foxes in Edinburgh, which surprises me, because they seem to be all over the shop in London. This particular vulpine was quite brazen- he was just sitting in my neighbour's garden, eating quite a large chunk of meat (I thought he was a dog at first), and he really only left when I was more than halfway towards him. And even then, he only went three houses up the road. He was obviously an urban fox, is what I'm saying, and what surprises me is how unafraid of foxes I am. I'm very nervous around animals usually, and this is a feral beast with both claws and teeth, but I followed him for a time, just to see where he was going. It seems a contradiction, when I will balk at a dog, which is supposed to be domesticated.

The time may be drawing near where I have to actually put my mouth where my money's already been spent and deploy my TEFL qualification: three separate interlocutors- my mother, Rik's sister and Lydia- have bought it up in the last week and I got an email the other day saying that now is the best time to look for jobs teaching the old English-as-a-second-language.
This terrifies me, much more than any fox ever will, because once I start applying for jobs post-uni, I am officially admitting there will BE a post-uni and that it is near. I know logically that my degree must end and that, were my tertiary education to be interminable, I would, in fact, not appreciate it. Uni's only good because it's evanescent- it's a time to experiment and do stupid things and sleep all-day and stay up all night and take on five shows at once because you can put the rest of your life on hold for a while. But the energy would dissipate if it had to be sustained for too long: I had much the same thoughts about Australia- I liked it because it was impermanent, and so I knew that I had to do all I wanted within the space of a year. In the end, I completed most of my Australia bucket list, but there were things left that I wanted to do, and I can see the same situation arising with Edinburgh. By which I don't mean the city of Edinburgh, but the university lifestyle I lead here; I know there will be classic student larks that I have not undertaken by the time I graduate. I'll probably never make it to Big Cheese or GHQ, or sled down the crags, or walk into a random lecture theatre, say 'your professor's ill and asked me to fill in' and then proceed to blag my way through a lecture (this might, in fact be for the best). And I doubt I'll make it to fifty shows. Oh well, better luck next degree.

Sunday 17 November 2013

Vino

I met Rik's girlfriend, Johanna, for the first time yesterday. This was a bold move on his part, as I have a habit of making an atrocious first impression, especially on my friends' significant others: I consistently referred to Ella as 'Mrs. Joel' during the early days of our acquaintance; and the second time I met Emma, who was introduced to me as Fraser's girlfriend only the night before, I completely forgot who she was and why I should know her. Naturally, things got better in both these friendships.
However, from what I remember I didn't do anything too awful. I did drink quite a lot, though, which is quite an easy thing to do in Rik's company. He's the only person with whom I drink wine, mainly because he's just so damn insistent on it; one of the first things he said to me upon my return was that, by hook or by crook, he would make a wine-drinker out of me. He has certainly succeeded to the degree that I no longer refuse his frequent profferings of vino- but I don't consume it with quite the vim he desires, I think. Part of the reason for this is that wine makes me so damn sluggish- it's a lethargic kind of intoxication, and it means it takes me a long time to finish one glass simply because moving the vessel to my mouth can take upwards of a minute. And the morning after is even worse- I woke up at half-nine this morning and didn't manage to actually get out of bed until one. And I was constantly moving in that time.

Rob and Roberta was accepted to BedFest earlier this week, meaning it will have broken even more ground for the Kelly Canon, as no one but me calls it, being the first Kelly script to be performed in more than one country. I've also taken it down from the Writings page (and deleted the link from that Rose Middlehurst's wall) for the time being because I don't want to spoil the surprise twist ending to those who have yet to read/see it, A.K.A. most people.

Goblin's Story is heating up, by which I mean both that rehearsals for the show have increased in frequency and intensity and that the sexual tension between Jonathan and Adam, two of the minions in my heinous group of scoundrels, is becoming unbearably prevalent.

They're just so lost without one another.
Theirs is a rare chemistry- the kind of Grant-Hepburn, Astaire-Rogers, Colbert-Gable, Lockwood-Sparks relationship that can elevate a piece of art to new heights of sparkiness. I'm delighted to say that they're both involved in Rob and Roberta, though, somewhat sadly, not playing legendary super-couple Flyby and Cheeto.

And finally, throughout my life, I've been called a bear and today that prophecy came true.
Feel pity for Craig, who walked in on me taking this picture.
Good lord, I'm terrifying sometimes.

Friday 15 November 2013

Death/God

Firstly, I would like to welcome Emma Patten to the blogosphere, and not to blow my own horn, but it was totally my idea.

This week has been devoted to runs/performances for Death/God, and I'd almost forgotten how much I hate tech/dress runs. It seems I was actually totally spoiled in Melbourne, because the theatres had central heating, not that they really needed it. Bedlam does really need it, desperately, but remains resolute in its chill, and as the saying goes, 'if you can't stand the cold, stay the heck out of Bedlam.'
Death/God, with which I fulfil my dream, admittedly somewhat tenuously, of working with Woody Allen, for it sprung forth from his pen, ended up being slightly more stressful than I had imagined, because an hour before we went up, our lead fell ill, prompting him to be replaced by a complete unknown with no experience and only grit and gumption to keep him going. Then, we didn't have anyone to staff the theatre, so we weren't legally allowed to open and then there was a genuine and rather pressing fear that someone would be choked to death live on stage. Of course, I would expect no less from mother bedlam on the night that I returned to her stage.
After all, the first time I was there, I evaporated.
In second year, I remember having a conversation with Callum wherein he lamented the dearth of intimidating Bedfellows, since this had lead to him playing a thug no less than three times. Poor, innocent Callum, a thug. Well, two years later it was my turn, in Death/God, portraying a mob enforcer with vague Catholic overtones. At the height of my nastiness, I snatched an umbrella off someone. Method.
At the helm of Death/God was Emily, a second year engineer and one of my favourite new additions to the Bedlam roster. If she weren't a second year, I feel I would probably count her among my friends now. But, as my mother constantly reminded me in my infancy, 'animals don't count as friends'.
Death/God had a very sizeable cast and thus included a lot of Freshers. This lead to that thing that most fuels this blog and my very existence: narcissistic introspection. I was forced to consider how other people, especially those who don't know me well and are unaccustomed to my sometimes brash persona, view me: Jonathan, with whom I shared a scene, said I was 'a lovable asshole' and Hona, whom I had briefly spoken to in a pub, said I had 'a heart of stone'. Someone with whom I'm more well-acquainted said that I gave the impression of being 'more violent than I actually am', but that I'm actually OK when you know me. On the other hand, I was also called a cunt twice during the runs. So, swings and roundabouts.

Last night, we had a panto fundraiser in the form of a murder mystery- I played Velma, cos the ladyfolk of Scooby doo are simply more interesting. Afterward, we went to play pool and air hockey and I fucking won, again! Yes, both times in my life that I have won a one-on-one sport, it was that most virile and physically demanding of endeavours: air hockey. I then topped this evening of intense masculinity by performing poetry in an underground bunker. Smell that? It's testosterone. And it's mine.

Friday 8 November 2013

Essaches

The title for today's post comes from my sister when she was two years old, and my mother, pregnant with me, would get up at five am to work on her dissertation for her MSc, and my sister would sometimes ask if she had been 'having essaches'; this is a wonderful portmanteau which I am now stealing.

I actually didn't know until yesterday that my mother was pregnant with me when she was doing her MSc in psychology- in fact, if I'm honest, I didn't know until yesterday that my mother had an MSc in psychology! Though, in my defense, and to her credit, she has never once boasted about it or used it to pull rank, which is what I would've done in her position.

I had an essay due in at noon yesterday; despite my propensity for being a perennial last-minuter, until this point in my university career I have never actually had to, in the vernacular of my peers, 'pull an all-nighter on an essay' (it's the use of the preposition 'on' in this phrase that I like so much- in other contexts when you pull something 'on' something it's either a gun or a con). This streak was broken yesterday, when I stayed up for a grand total of thirty hours in order to get this bastard out.
It was strangely easy- I didn't actually feel tired until around eight in the morning, by which time I was already well into the second draft. What was annoying was that, even though I found the subject matter- 'can one acquire language if one isn't exposed to it early in life?'- very interesting, I just couldn't put pen to paper about it. Every time I tried, it was like my fingers and the keyboard were both positively charged magnets- they adamantly refused to meet.
Eventually, though, I managed to spew out a few thousand words and slap a bibliography on it. I will know before the beginning of December, I have been informed. Can't wait.

A couple of days ago, during a rehearsal for Goblin's Story, Laura asked me if I have a pool of anger from which to draw for the purposes of being the nefarious nasty Nurgle.
That's Daniel's replacement, Sandy Alice, that I'm lifting
What a dick.
Immediately, James Beagon burst out laughing because he knew me during first and second year and the thought of anyone questioning my ability to rage back then would have been laughable. After all, I was voted 'Most Likely to Punch an Alpaca'.

My hair was so much shorter then.
Plus, I used to do this.
But it was nice to know that people who have only met me recently don't think of me that way- they don't know me for shouting or apoplexy. Who knows for what they do know me, but it's a boon that I've moved on at least a little from just being angry. It's like when Charlotte and Simon said they had a hard time imagining me as the livid neo-fascist that I described in my accounts of Pre-Melbourne Rory, it makes me feel that I've improved.

Wednesday 6 November 2013

Fireworks

I ran into Flo the other day. For those not in know, Flo was the only other Burgher who I knew in Melbourne, though I'd really only say that we properly met one another in Melbourne. This is the first time I've seen Flo since coming back, and it was nice to have a tangible link to that year, especially since she echoed many of the same sentiments I've been expressing recently: it feels like longer than four months since we left; it doesn't feel like we were there for a year; it seems like it didn't really happen; and, most importantly, Edinburgh feels like a goddamned fridge-freezer in a way that it just didn't before we left- Melbourne has stripped us of our ability to withstand the weather here in the frozen wasteland that used to be Scotland. This last one is particularly interesting, because Flo is from Dundee originally- so it's not just me with my inferior English blood being a wuss; doing a year abroad actively changes your genetic make-up and makes you better than other people more susceptible to changes in temperature.

Another unexpected side-effect of my time in Aussie-land is that I have a newly acquired disdain for Christmas decorations. Seeing them out of context (i.e. in a land which is pretty much green all year round and where it's light and hot during winter), made me start to view them in a completely different light. And I now can't help but harrumph when I see weird blue star shapes in the windows of the shops on the high street.
Jason giving his famous Hannibal lecture about how ridiculous it is that Australian Hallowe'en decorations include orange leaves, when it occurs during their Spring.
I can't help but feel that this is the start of my transformation into that thing I hate the most: a contrarian. Those people always complaining about Christmas and birthdays and anything else that makes people happy becoming something designed to make people happy (admittedly, with the added cost of massive consumerism) rather than the original pagan festival/unmarked day/whatever. I like getting excited about silly things- it adds spice to life- and this newfound ennui is an unwelcome change.

I have had a complicated with fireworks ever since I was three years old and a firework went off right behind me while I was sat upon my father's shoulders, which understandably made me somewhat...recalcitrant towards fireworks shows.
This is a shame, because one of the few interesting things to happen in Ironbridge every year is the Power Station Fireworks Show, which is so utterly spectacular that it makes us all forget the horrible, horrible things that that station is doing to our air. I especially had a problem with the noise- I remember covering my ears and then complaining that my ears were too warm because I was wearing gloves (I cannot overemphasise how irritating I was as a child). Anyway, I eventually began to get over this insecurity and actually enjoy watching technicolour explosions in the sky, especially the one time Becky gave me a ticket to the Virgin Fireworks Concert in the park. That was just magical.
Anyway, I had a rehearsal last night, and some of the Fresher members of the panto cast were discussing climbing Arthur's Seat to view the pyrotechnics from on high and I flashed back to when I did this in my own first year and realised that none of the people I climbed that hill with- Dillon, Callie and, if I remember correctly, Rosie- are here anymore. This made me sad even though all of them left of their own free-will and, in the case of the first two, they weren't expected to stick around and it would just be odd had they done so.
Due to an essay which I am meant to be writing even now, I ended up watching the various Meadows-centric fireworks displays through the Library windows, which may actually be the perfect way to do it: with none of the noise that used to cause me such duress, and the warmth of a building that students aren't paying to heat. Lovely.

And, finally, I saw Gem yesterday. Gem is someone with whom I had a fraught relationship- she would utterly agree with me about this. However, before I left, I apologised and lamented that she and I had not been friends. She agreed, and we left with a hug. When I saw her yesterday, it was smiles all around. It's nice to see that buried hatchets don't always have to resurface.

Monday 28 October 2013

You can sleep when you graduate

The Bedlam Hallowe'en party was this weekend and I was faced with the quintessential student dilemna: the party started at half midnight and ended at five in the morning, but I had a commitment at nine the next day and a full day of studenting thereafter. On top of this, this was my projected final Bedlam Hallowe'en party, so I decided to do the immature thing and just stay up all night and complain about it later, because I can be mature when I'm older.
I had a great time, got quite smashed, danced a lot and then was chased down by the corridor by this ghoulish spectre:
by the light of day, she doesn't seem so horrifying, but at the time I was so scared, I actually fell onto the cold, unforgiving floor of the Box Office, begging not to die and, bizarrely, laughing my lungs sore.

The panto rehearsals have begun, and I have been given free rain to ad lib some of my lines; the thing is, that my last rehearsal ended up just being me and Craig Methven, and adlibbing in front of Craig is like showing your chemistry homework to Stephen Hawking- you may have got the answers right and he might give you a smiley face, but you can't help but feel he'd have done it better.

Last night there was a fundraiser for Goblin's Story, which involved a Shrekian mixing of fairytales, as well as a Carterian reimagining of all those fairtale characters as horrible, deeply disturbed people: there was a cannibalistic fairy, a kleptomaniac leprechaun and a gingerbread man who kept handing out his children to other people to eat. The fundraiser took the form of an interactive adventure, in which participants went from one character to another, trading coins for information or necessary items and supposedly helping the characters along the way, but I couldn't help but feel that the real way to help these characters would have been industrial grade therapy.

And finally, I got lost while walking to the Omni centre on Saturday- I then got lost walking to Lothian Road on Sunday; these are both places I have been many times and I don't tend to consider the route as I'm walking there. But it seems I might have to start, because I discovered that roads don't seem to lead where I think they do. It's times like this that I remember I've actually only really been living in this city for a month and a half.

Wednesday 23 October 2013

Time Flies by in the City of Light

I climbed Calton Hill today for the first time since coming back: it was night, freezing cold, but very beautiful. Edinburgh from above is so pretty, and very bright- I know light pollution is a blight of modern life et cetera, but all those man-made lights glowing in the darkness was actually quite captivating. I will miss this city when I leave, and I acknowledge that I've been very lucky, aesthetically speaking, in my choice of university city.
It's reading week for me, which means that I have no classes- yay!- and also that we're halfway through semester- boo! There is so little time left in my uni career, that I can hear it dwindling, like a fuse being burnt through. My Dissertation Supervisor actually wants me to move on to the data collection portion of my experiment, whereas I had envisaged myself doing so around late February. Once the data is in, I have to start analysing it, and then I have really crossed the rubicon. The point of no return.
Esmond and I took a walk on Monday, and wound up at debate corner, where we sat on benches and realised that we don't argue like we used to. And, it's odd, but I sort of miss having near diametrically opposed views to my best friend- I could always count on him to bring up a (completely incorrect) stance that I hadn't considered, and I liked the challenge involved. Still, having a relationship based on mutual respect and shared values is good too. I guess.

Sunday 20 October 2013

Don't You Forget About Me

On Thursday, I believe I did something which will undoubtedly make it into the inevitable biopic of my life: having not seen Freya for 16 months, something in my head snapped and I decided that this had gone on too long.
You see, I did not have her mobile number, email address or Facebook, and she never comes on Skype, so I knew drastic measures were necessary. To that end, I put on my extremely fetching wellington boots, and marched to where I thought she lived- I'll be honest, I wasn't entirely sure of the address. One glance through her second floor window from street level confirmed that I was at the right place- Freya has huge chunks of trees scattered haphazardly about her abode, a decorating motif that I believe is fairly unique- so, now I just had to play the waiting game. I won't say how long I waited outside her window, with the lit lightbulb as my only clue that she was even in, but the same man did walk past me twice, and gave me a look which suggested I was standing on the street for a longer time than is normal.
Now, I know that in certain circumstances, standing outside someone's home in the fleeting hope of seeing them is pretty creepy, but I think this was not the case here because: A) Freya had not rejected me, told me to stay away or expressed a preference for not seeing me (quite the opposite, in fact) B) if she had told me to leave, I would have C) I didn't remember which flat number she was, so I couldn't buzz up D) I had literally no other way of contacting her.
Anyway, eventually Freya passed fleetingly by the window, and I started to wave. She completely missed me and went back to where I couldn't see her (as previously stated, her flat was on the second floor, so I had to stand at the opposite side of the road to see anything). At this point, I had to make a choice whether to stay, or head home and start my sociolinguistics essay. I decided to wait it out.
About ten minutes later, Freya walked by the window again, and this time, much to the shock of the man walking past, I started doing star jumps and waving my arms about my head like a man possessed. Freya paused. The man walking past hurried his step. I started to point emphatically at my head, meaning 'IT'S ME!'. Freya looked confused, and opened up her foggied window. The look on her face was amazing; it was a mixture of complete surprise and total joy. She shouted to me 'COME UP!' and I shouted back 'I TRIED, YOUR DOOR'S LOCKED!', she disappeared from view and I heard the familiar buzz of a front door unlocking.
I jogged up and reached the top of the stairs just as she opened the door, and we embraced each other the way friends do when they haven't seen each other for far too long. She welcomed me in, despite the relatively late hour and complete unexpectedness of my visit; her mother was there too- she and I met once during Fringe in first year, but she greeted me like a long-lost son.
Freya and I drank, we went to a birthday party of her drum teacher and caught up with one another to a degree, but it's difficult to cover a year in a couple of hours, so we promised to meet again soon. I owe Freya quite a lot of alcohol, so she has a good incentive to see me again.

P.S. It should be noted, for posterity's sake, that we met again the next day in the meadows quite by chance, rendering my little window stunt quite unnecessary. Oh well, it'll make a nice visual for the movie.

Thursday 17 October 2013

Simple Pleasures

This evening, I rediscovered two pleasures that were denied me while in Australia: the joy of jumping in puddles while wearing wellington boots (this will definitely be going on the booty list), and the pleasure of Murder Mystery Evenings.

On the first: I have not actually owned a pair of Wellingtons since I was, I believe, ten, when I started wearing them to school after playing in my garden of a morning, tracking mud into the carpets of Coalbrookdale Primary and was eventually forcibly divested of them. However, my adoring mother offered to buy me one practical birthday present (after Daphne*, my laptop, pretty much used up my birthday/christmas presents for the next two years), and I decided on Wellington Boots, having used up my being-mistaken-for-a-hobo-quota during Amadeus which means my normal bags-upon-my-feet plan cannot be deployed.
The wellies in question, next to the bag they replaced.

There was only one very rainy day that I can remember in Australia, which means this most infantile of activities was not available, but I think, even if the weather had been wetter, my steadfast refusal to purchase sensible footwear there would have stumped me.
I had forgotten the catharsis of jumping into a puddle and not getting wet feet- I especially like that I can feel the water through my wellingtons, so it's kind of like paddling but without having to dry my feet afterwards or risk Wheeler's disease, which is the closest candidate for the Best of Both Worlds I've ever encountered. So, I danced through the rain all the way home, singing a rather predictable song to myself and feeling quite ecstatic.

And now to the Murder Mystery: I didn't know anyone there. Like, anyone. And I arrived in character and maintained it pretty much the entire evening (there was one fit of giggles, but I managed to cover it up, I think), so as far as these people were aware, I was Alexander Bernadov, russian-orphan-turned-mafia-hitman-turned-Edinburgh-student.
This reminded me slightly of my time travelling alone in Australia and New Zealand, when I would routinely give fake names and backstories to anyone who would listen- and some who wouldn't- simply to try out being some one else.
The mystery itself was also majorly enjoyable, and properly Casimovian in its incest-related twists. It was good to be doing improv again, having not tried it since the Amadeus rehearsal bootcamp. I arrived, met new people, pretended to be someone else for a couple of hours and then left- it was my court date all over again!

Tuesday 15 October 2013

Dames

There was going to be a different blog post in place of this one, but I was advised by a friend that its contents might have been a little too...vitriolic. And so now that and friend and I will be the only ones who know that post's contents, and its brilliance will be lost to the annals of history. That friend is Rachel Bussom, and she will probably tell you if you ask. As will I, to be honest: it was about Freshers.

I've been cast as the Dame in this year's pantomime, which makes me inordinately happy for a number of reasons- I get to work with a lot of my friends, it's normally a fun show to be in, I like attention- but the main reason is because it sounds suitably 'larky': David Mitchell devoted roughly two pages in his autobiography to discussing all the times he'd played women (This remains the finest such instance, in my humble opinion), and I'm hoping I can wrangle one or two good dinner-table stories out of it.
Of course, I've played women before (I even had a drag persona when I was younger- Mrs. Raspberry, who'd come in and tell off my sisters)- I was Flute in Midsummer Night's Dream, requiring me to don a dress and my most bored falsetto (Bored Falsetto could totally be the name of my autobiography, in which I pass THREE pages discussing the various cross-dressing shenanigans of my life) and I was Elderly Prostitute in The Good Person of Szechuan, requiring the most nuanced performance I have ever given.
"Searing"- The Academy of Prostitution Arts and Sciences
Look at the pain on my face. God, I'm talented.

Matthew came up to visit over the weekend, and I passed several pleasant hours conversing with him and secretly sweating over exactly what I'll do when I leave Uni; I phoned my mum after one of our talks and she urged me to see him again, as this is apparently something to which I should definitely be devoting brain power.

I'm still running into people whom I haven't encountered since leaving for Australia, and getting comments about my hair, including Matthew's rather tart 'short hair gets the jobs', to which I say 'pish'.

And finally, Travis has learnt to do Jazz hands, making me even more convinced and terrified than usual that he is somehow my son.

Wednesday 9 October 2013

And I said "What About Breakfast at Poppy's?"

I just passed an enjoyable ninety minutes playing table tennis with Jari and Daniel, and this made me nostalgic for my days as a score board while Adrian beat Jason; I'm finding a lot of things make me nostalgic right now- I could've sworn I saw a poster advising me to vote for Remy Chadwick as my NUS Representative the other day, and I no longer find Snax as appetising, having discovered the joys of Hot Poppy's with Charlotte.
I'll be honest: Australia feels a long time ago to me now. I'm still running into people I haven't seen since I left (and getting very encouraging comments about my hair), and it's weird to answer all their questions about how my year abroad was when it seems to me that that was a different time of my life. It's like if they asked me how Primary School was.
I understand that this is incredibly self-pitying and that, frankly, if this is all I have to worry about, I'm doing pretty great; but I don't like how easily my brain begins to fog past events even when they were one of the most joyous experiences I've ever had.
But I guess this can't be helped.

In other news, my dissertation is coming along quite well: I've made contact with BLoGS and am, overall, sensing enthusiasm to be involved in the project, which is so relieving. I've always viewed BLoGS as one of my few real failings, as I underwent a (completely unnecessary, I now see) self-imposed exile from the group after Bob, when I could've been reaching and making new friends since first year, if I'd just had more wiles.

I went to the careers fair yesterday, and found it quite disturbing: lots of the businesses there simply would not take me on, due to my choice of degree/area of interest and many of the graduate management schemes are not only starting very soon, but are also only taking on a pitifully minute number of graduates, and I now feel I've lost plan B even before I formulated it.
However, I did find that I am eligible to do a one-year Teacher conversion course, and that Esmond isn't, which made me really happy in an extremely spiteful kind of way (Henriette said I'm allowed a little bit of spite, now and then).

Thursday 3 October 2013

Don't Call it a Comeback

I meant to (and, indeed, began to) write several posts during September, detailing what had been happening regarding my fated return to Edinburgh. Sadly, I suffered from an overabundance of stimulus and thus, like a man to multitudinous business bound, I stood in pause and all neglected; there was just too much to write about. However, for the sake of completion, I will attempt to summarise over three weeks' worth of material into one post.

Those of you who read my previous blog may remember a post wherein, on the eve of travelling to Australia, I revealed how many pairs of socks I owned, and compared this to a point in time just before I went to uni for the first time. Chronologically, in the beginning, I had eight pairs, which went up to eleven; before returning to Edinburgh this September, my sock collection had soared to a massive twenty pairs. I attribute this solely to my mother, who bought me quite a lot of clothing before I ventured North, but it's strange to note that in the post on The Wizard in Oz, I claimed to like having what I imagined were fewer pairs than normal, as I thought it made me seem unmaterialistic, whereas now I am elated to have so many different pairs to choose from of a morning. Things change, I guess.

And then I actually returned to Edinburgh and found that, on the whole, people seemed to have genuinely missed me: I received lots of hugs and pokes and screams of delight at my first party back, as well as a fair few compliments for my dancing. I've reunited with almost everyone now (Freya remains elusive), and even when these have been chance meetings with those I did not consider particular friends, I was met with a smile and a wave.
It would also seem that I have been talked about to the Freshers, mainly with regards to TWWOO; when I tell people I was the director, I receive an inevitable 'Oh, you're that Rory!'. Esmond says that I was actually more of a celebrity than I knew, at least in Edinburgh theatre circles, as I presented quite a unique persona, and so shouldn't be so surprised at the mystique that formed in my absence.

I read some of my poetry at 'Shorts and Bloomers', which is what Cabaret Noir became after the Edinburgh Revue dropped out: not only did my set receive high praise from all assembled, including someone, who, for the sake of politics, shall remain nameless, but until that fateful evening I believe thought herself to be much above me in terms of talent and society. But of even more delight to me is that I finally conquered my goddamn shaking problem: until now, whenever I would perform my prose, I would quiver and shimmy about the place, in a manner betraying my nerves. The trick to circumvent this, it would seem, is to get drunk before going up. I think I have now solved the mystery of how so many great wordsmiths came to rack and ruin through drink or other drugs: they were just trying to overcome performance anxiety.

So far, work has been manageable, but I get the sinking feeling that it's only going to increase and not, as would be preferable, diminish. Reading Old English has a lot of homework, but I just make myself sit down and do it and at least it doesn't come with much academic reading (yet). First Language Acquisition is the opposite, with many articles/chapters assigned (thankfully, they've all been uploaded online, so I'm not expected to shell out), and little interactive work. Honestly, I find this approach lackadaisical and unhelpful: I do the readings, but retain very little, unlike in Old English, where I'm forming concrete, accessible knowledge bases in my brain for how the verbs conjugate et cetera. This is distressing, because I never plan to use Old English after my exam in December, whereas I could see myself pursuing First Language Acquisition in the future.

Then there is the matter of my birthday: like the spoilt princess that I am, I decided to have two birthday celebrations, mainly to confuse my friends, who now can't tell if my birthday was when I had my first celebration, my second or, in fact, when it says it's my birthday on Facebook. But I had a lot of fun anyway- I went to see the new Woody Allen picture on the eve of my birthday, and it was everything for which I'd hoped (though more than a little Williams-inflected), went to the zoo with Esmond on my birthday itself, which was amazingly fun (there will be pictures soon), for I love both zoos and Esmond, so what was not to like? Then, on the evening after my birthday, I went to the Freshers' Play afterparty. Originally, I had imagined such a shindig to be the last thing with which I wanted to be involved, but as the time grew nearer, I found the prospect of alcohol and people I sort of knew more and more attractive. And then a drunk Callum O'dwyer started revealing his inner-most secrets, so that was a barrel of laughs.
A word on Freshers' Play: I still don't know a great deal of the Freshers (in my terminology, a fresher is anyone who started Uni after I left- meaning that Niall, my grand-fresher, is classified the same as Widget, the nickname I will be giving to all my great-grand-freshers, should I ever meet them), so I feel free to say that when one is not directly involved in Freshers' Play, it really is awful. I consumed copious amounts of alcohol, as advised, and I really don't know which made me want to throw up more: the theatre or the WKD. I know on an objective level that this year's play was no worse than the crap presented to audiences in my first two years, but I just can't conceive how the skits I helped devise were anywhere near as abominable. But, thinking back, I do remember saying a lot of lines to a complete absence of response, so I think I'm probably being sanctimonious.

Tuesday 10 September 2013

The Booty List

I went to Birmingham over the weekend to attend a course in Teaching English as a Foreign Language (TEFL), a future career prospect that I have been considering; it was actually very enjoyable, with a firm focus on interactive learning and games, as opposed to rote teaching and grammar tables. In fact, we played so many games, that I began to wonder if indeed I was being taught anything, but that was actually one of the points of the course- you learn much more by this method than by sitting down and writing.
There were a couple of students on the course who blatantly did not want to be there- they almost said as much when they introduced themselves in the beginning: they'd graduated, found they couldn't get jobs, and decided TEFL was better than nothing. They sat there, sullen and refusing to participate, scoffing and whispering among themselves, and all I could think was 'you're only wasting your own money'. I am, by nature, inclined to participate quite fervently in these kinds of courses, and I always seem to attract disdain from folk such as I just mentioned, but I am quite beyond caring at this stage- they can sit there cynically if they so wish, but they don't have the right to judge the rest of us, who are just trying to take an interest. Not that it matters, since I passed, and I suspect they may have not- the man running the course was telling them they needed to be more enthusiastic or else they wouldn't get anywhere in TEFL. I hope he's right.

While in Birmingham, I was invited to dine with Husnain's family, and decided to attend, as it would probably be more fun than sitting alone in a youth hostel. It was, indeed, much more fun than that- and what's more, the food was delicious! I believe all the food in the kebab shop next to Bedlam is Halāl, but apart from that, I have never eaten such food before, and it was absolutely delicious- rich and filling, fresh and tantalising, after two weeks of cooking for myself, it was a godsend. 

I return to Edinburgh in three days' time, and I am becoming increasingly trepidacious. I keep thinking back to the words of wisdom William gave me the last time we spoke, where he informed me 'you make your own universe', meaning that Edinburgh will be what I make of it- but at the moment, I seem determined to make it a stressfilled nightmare, as that's what I keep imagining. 
To try and allay this, my mother and I sat down and made a list of all the little things I can do to relax and make myself happy- not grand gestures like going to the zoo (of which I am inordinately fond), but little things like running a bath or taking an evening walk. I hope that, if I aim to do at least one of these things every evening, I will never go a day without having at least an hour to myself where I'm not thinking about work. My mother said she made herself such lists when she was younger and that they were called 'booty lists'; I briefly considered changing the name of this blog to 'The Booty List', but then realised I don't want that kind of clientel.

Thursday 5 September 2013

Guests

I had Jari and Ella down to stay this week, and found myself in a role I don't play very often, that of host. Jari came down first, and I cleaned the house to the best of my ability, which is to say very little, but that was fine because he very sportingly kept repeating that the clutter added to the rusticity.
Jari was a complete neophyte to Shropshire, and was astounded by the silence, the space, the atmosphere and the extreme differences between Telford and Ironbridge (to be fair, I myself sometimes get caught out by that). It was nice to see my home through the eyes of a stranger, especially the things I take for granted that are absolutely stunning, like the view from the front of the house and the multitudinous picturesque walks within a stone's throw.
We also watched some films together, and I was once more struck by his taste in media: he seemed genuinely upset by A Serious Man's missing ending, and disdained Burn After Reading throwing away good comic potential and becoming a more serious mediation on violence and power. I very much enjoy citing Jari, a mathematician with a PhD in maths from Oxford, as a counter to the belief that intelligent people somehow abhor comedy or appreciate art house cinema more.

Whilst I was touring Jari around the local museums, I came across an old school chum curating one of them (not as impressive as it sounds, it's a room with an old price list inside), and I was delighted to find that he not only remembered my thespian exploits, but explicity cited my delivery of the line "Listen to me!" in Les Miserables. That was eight years ago.

Ella then took Jari's place, appearing a scant hour after he left. Ella is one of the few people I know my age trying to make it in the arts and actually drawing a wage. She's a photographer, and we sat for hours discussing the ups and downs of creativity, the worst stories we've accrued of art gone wrong, how we'd really like our lives to pan out, and how industries are changing with the advent of the internet; she also bought me pimms and raspberries, both of which were consumed with alacrity.
Ella and I also took a walk in an area of the Gorge which I don't really know too well, and it was, in an odd way, gratifying to find that one can get lost even in the small valley where one grew up.

Friday 30 August 2013

To Return

I returned to Edinburgh very briefly- pretty much for just one day, in fact- this week. I was originally going to keep this a secret, simply because I couldn't see everyone and thus thought that seeing no one would be better; this plan came acropper when Esmond discovered me in the library, furtively charging my phone. He told me there was a leaving do that evening, and I originally thought it would be for someone whom I could afford to miss- when it transpired it was for Rosie, who I didn't even know was leaving, I felt I wanted to say goodbye. And so, I came upon the Bedlam social scene once again.
Unsurprisingly, people to whom I had nothing to say before, I had nothing to say to now, after we hadn't even been in peripheral contact for a year. I didn't really care, to be honest (this in itself is quite a success as at one point I would've been mortified at their apathy towards me- now, I know better than to pay mind to those whom I don't interest and, frankly, don't interest me). But there were people there whom I had genuinely missed, and to see them again was a delight. I'm not going to make lists of who was in which category, because I don't see how it will do any good, but I imagine that those who attended the party and who also read this blog- a population of around two, I estimate- can categorise themselves.

My reason for going up was to scope out my new digs; I found them to be pleasant, well-situated, and, most crucially, BIG. My last Edinburgh flat is best described as 'shoe-box', so it is nice to have enough space to open the oven all the way (oh, how I wish this were hyperbole). Here are some pictures of my new room:


I also saw Esmond's new accommodation, and I feel that, after having spent the majority of our sophomore meet-ups at his, we will be resorting to our first-year habit of hanging at mine this year, for the simple matter that he is about a half-hour from the university, whereas I am a mere ten minutes. But, Esmond (and Grace and Rachael and Carolyn)'s flat is lovely, and I certainly won't begrudge it if we do end up there more often.

And finally, I feel I ought to address the question of my feelings upon returning to Edinburgh; anxiety, dread, panic, confusion, nostalgia and, finally, relief.

Wednesday 28 August 2013

Lancaster

This will be one of the shortest blog posts I ever write, and not just cos I'm writing it on my phone and I hate that.
We've just stopped in Lancaster, which was originally my first choice uni and whenever I pass through it on the train- which happens quite often- I can't help but think 'if you lived here, you'd be home by now' and, since I inevitably have another two hours on the train, I smile at the prospect of a life not lived, where I spend a little less time on locomotives.
That is all.

Friday 23 August 2013

Rob and Roberta and Rory and Joe

So, Rob and Roberta is done, and it remains quite a superlative piece in the Kelly canon: it had the most performances of anything I've scripted so far, at 3, and thus had the greatest number of tickets available, at 300; it had the highest age certificate, being rated 15; it was the first to have a photo-based poster;
it was the first to get a teaser trailer; it was the most expensive Kelly production ever, costing $343 overall for set and props, but it also made the most money, topping £300 GBP, more even than TWWOO, and, in a twist no one saw coming, it will be the first production based on my scripting that may actually pay some of the profits back to the cast and crew. Lots of dreams come true, there.
I really want to thank Declan, Laura, David, Maddi, Leonie, Igor and Daniel for making my vision come to reality: any time something that starts in my head ends up in the real world I feel a real swell of pride and joy, even if that's on the other side of the world, and now that has happened seven times, because of you guys. Go B.E.S.T.!
P.S. I've put the script up for viewing on the Writings page.

I saw Joe for the first time since returning yesterday- he himself had been away to Ghana during the year, so we had a lot of stories to exchange about living in new countries and reverse homesickness.
He delivered to me the sad news that Frances wouldn't be in Edinburgh when I returned, and I saw the downside of deleting my facebook and then allowing my friendship circle to add me as they wished- I'd completely missed out on the news of Frances' departure.
I also learnt that Joe and I will be graduating in the same year, and this feels right, as I like to pride myself on having been in the background of all Joe's life (or, at least, all of it in the last four years), and now we'll enter into the 'real world' together.

Saturday 17 August 2013

Freelance

So, I've been meaning to write a post for a while, and kept on putting it off, so this post will be long.

I got some feedback from the guy for whom I did the editing on the Elvis book, and it was really, really positive; he's gonna send me another one soon. If I do the next one well as well, he might send me a couple more, and I can add 'Freelance Editor' to my CV; I mean, I've added it now anyway, but I could add it and it would be true!

Patrick has left for Sweden for a year. It felt odd to be on the other side of that equation. We met on Tuesday, and went for drinks, and I kept thinking  that this would be the last time I would see him for a year. And then I remembered that A) I've already gone a year without seeing him and B) he's gonna be back at Christmas, so it won't actually be all that different from how we met up previously. So, I regretted having bought him a drink.

I met Mel and Travis again on Thursday, and all the good work I'd done towards cementing my bond with Travis has been undone- he had no memory of who I was, and kept referring to me as 'JoJo'. For the first half of the day, he was very warm towards me, even imploring me to stay, mainly because I kept playing with him in this jungle gym thing- I actually managed to fit through the weird Car Wash squeeze columns they have, which made me feel my diet must be working. Then, Travis went down for a nap, and when he awoke, the cheery disposition was gone, and all that remained was the cold fury of a three year old. He kept on reminding me that I'd 'miss my train', which I admit is quite a smart move, even if he was two hours early. When I did finally leave, he said 'one kiss and then you have to go', which stung. Also, the kiss was slobbery, so no points there.
Mel and I had a conversation which only we could have, and I was reminded why she is possibly my closest friend: a complete lack of judgement, and a sense of fun that I'd like to think matches my own.

My father, with whom my relationship seems to be getting more candid, said he thought I was sometimes 'up my own arse' during my old blog. This is really nothing compared to some of things I've called him in the past, so I'm not really offended. This was part of one of the millions of 'you have so much talent, but no application' conversations we've had since I was twelve- they've doubled in frequency recently, due to the impending end of my undergrad course, and I'm really trying to ditch the 'no application' vibe, but it's not easy; I really hope I can get myself in gear for fourth year.

I hopefully have somewhere to live in Edinburgh, just one street over from where I used to live, so I can resume my overly-comfortable relationship with the Scot-mid on the corner, which I used to frequent in just my pyjamas and no shoes (though, in fairness, I frequented many places, including lecture theatres and libraries, with no shoes during second year).

My mother had one of her ex-pupils over for lunch the other day: a woman I used to call 'Lesbian Heather', simply because she was one of the only openly gay people my parents knew. It was weird to see her again after six years, now engaged and living a gloriously normal life, something which seemed impossible to me when I was fifteen.

The premier of Rob and Roberta is but a day away, and I'm very excited; I really wish I could see it, but it's also cool that a piece of my writing is being produced a continent away. It makes me feel exotic and accomplished (who has no application now, father?!)

I did something very bad on Friday and was, for the first time in my catholic life, tempted to go to Confession. It just struck me while I was swimming that the action I had performed was extremely petty and that I would probably receive some just reward for what I'd done. I was overcome with the desire to admit my sin, and be forgiven, to try and forestall the karma. This was worrying because if I actually start believing in divine retribution, then there is a plethora of worse things I have done for which I should, rightly, be punished. It was also worrying because the act itself was extremely petty and I'd hoped I was beyond that stage of my life. In the end, I confessed to my mother, who, though lapsed, is Catholicker than I, and she responded with a tried and true 'you're as good as the best and as bad as the worst', which I think is kind of like forgiveness.

I apparently charmed most-to-all of my relatives in Ireland, after my lengthy absence of five years. I've been invited back to stay whenever I please, and I think my mum envisages me moving to Dublin to live out my young adult years under the supervision of my aunts- a delusion I'll let her keep, as she paid for me to go.

I actually started crying at this week's episode of Futurama which, in my defence, was incredibly sad. This marks the sixth time I've cried since July, and the eighth time I've wanted to; I think that good sob I had when I was leaving Melbourne opened something up which cannot be closed again so easily.

I watched Silver Linings Playbook with my parents last night, and I found it interesting because one of the reasons I like that film so much is because it reminds me of my own family: the father is obsessed with sports and constantly trying to make his son share that interest and the mother is a busybody who just has to get involved with everything. My parents absolutely adored the film, my mum commenting that she loved the mother, and my dad feeling the other characters were unfair towards Robert De Niro, the father. Quelle surprise.

And finally, Moira is back. She's not staying very long, but it's good to see her, especially because her hair is long and shiny. She seems so well and effusive, that I'm actually quite proud to be related to her. She's even invited herself up to Edinburgh next year, and I may take her up on it.