Half-Term or Spring Break! WOO!

So, I've just come back from my final half-term break before my contact ends and I am once more cast into the choppy waters of unemployment. Knowing this would be my final vacation where I actually had something resembling money, I decided not to waste it. The vacation, I mean; I wasted the money big time.

First up, I met up with my sister and her beau in Paris. It was a lovely visit, somewhat hampered by the French public transport system, which decided to not work for the first half of the day, meaning me and my sis weren't reunited until around three in the afternoon. Alack.
The first thing we did was go and grab some very delicious pastries from one of the many boulangeries that dotted the neighbourhood in which we were staying: I went for the tried-and-true pain au chocolat, while sis opted for something green which turned out to be pistachio but, as I lovingly noted, could easily have been snot or, worse, lime.
Anywho, after we went for a walk through the streets on our way to see Notre Dame, which I've visited no less than five times in as many months and of which I am starting to get slightly sick.

What did you say?!

We also dropped in on Shakespeare and Company, which is always lovely, and we perused the books and I tried to be funny and not reveal how startingly ill-read I am. After this, we went and got crepes, and then off to dinner at Chez Janou, a suggestion of Dani's.
A precursory glance on google suggests that Chez Janou is relatively well-known and that this is mainly due to one thing. We'll get to that in a moment; first, I want to inform you that I had snails and that they were actually pretty delicious: I mean, they tasted more like garlic than anything else. A bit chewy, but certainly not slimy and honestly not deserving of the scorn that the French recieve for eating them. There are so many things to mock about French people, why choose their cuisine, which is clearly the only area where they have us beat?
Anyway, why is Chez Janou famous you ask? Two words and a mild expletive: Chocolate. Friggin'. Mousse.

Those pictures do justice to neither the scale nor the deliciousness of the mousse involved. This stuff was divine. It was heavenly. It was ambrosia. It was unlimited. I really hope you understand how big the bowl pictured above is so you get the implications when I tell you that that was one portion.
One. Portion.
There were three of us, one of whom was me, and we didn't eat half of it. It was incredible. I asked the waitress if anyone had ever eaten all of it; she replied 'c'est rare'.
So it happens.
I need to track down the people who have consumed the entire bowl of that smooth, chocolatey mana and worship at their feet because they are better than I am. I had the chance and I failed, even with help. I am seriously gonna spend the rest of my life wondering who these people are how it must feel for them to have to live among mere mortals.

The next day, we went to the catacombs and I finally found the place where I want to have my wedding.

There were a lot of bones is what I'm trying to get across. I would totally have done the Hamlet thing except that a) they have this dumb 'don't touch the bones' rule and b) you can apparently get anthrax from touching skulls.

Naturally, after viewing such a place, we were all hungry so we stopped off and got some chips. After that, we went to a puppet show in Parc Luxembourg (the same one I attended on my birthday, you may recall). The show was Puss in Boots and starred this stalwart fellow:

Who may star in your nightmares in future. For some reason, in the French version of Puss in Boots, the Ogre just gives the cat his castle, which, to me, kind of dilutes the message. But then, the message of Puss in Boots just seems to be 'coast off your hypercompetent friend', so it can't really be diluted too much anyway.
We then went and paid another visit to Shakespeare and Company so I could show off my sister to Dani and vice versa and then we had to say goodbye to sis' boyfriend, as he had work the next day (I made sure he understood that, even on a non-half-term week, I would've had the Monday off; he needs to know to be envious).
Sis and I went back to the flat, drank strawberry wine and reminisced about the old days.

The next day, I was flying to Edinburgh at five, and we had to leave the flat at noon, so we had a few hours lugging our bags around Paris. Still, we found a cool elevated walkway that had gardens and gave you great views of the area around Gare du Lyon, so it was worth it. Soon after, I left sis with a promise to see each other soon (we normally average about four sightings a year) and flew off to Edinburgh.

It's hard for me to describe my time in Edinburgh, partly because I forgot to take any pictures, and partly because it was pretty much just me seeing old friends and catching up, which was lovely and exactly what I wanted but unless I give transcripts of the conversations, I don't have much to say, sadly. However, I will tell a couple of funny happenings that occurred (and maybe some funny occurrences that happened), and try to mention everyone I saw at least once if for no other reason than to have loads of people to tag so this post gets megahits from Facebook (if you read this whole thing just because I tagged you then joke's on you, sucka) (also, please still be my friend and continue to support Devil's Inkpots).
When I first arrived in Edinburgh, I tried to take a bus and immediately managed to jam the ticket machine with my gummy old coins (all legal British tender- I checked), so everyone after me got a free journey. That felt pretty good. However, about twenty minutes later, the bus window shattered, which felt no good at all as we all had to get off the bus and wait in the dark for the next one and, I'm not kidding, it started snowing. Anyway, I got a new bus and, the snow blocking the windows combined with my diminishing knowledge of Edinburgh geography caused me to miss my stop entirely and then have to walk, twenty kilos of luggage in hand, through the snow and whipping wind, to D21 in Leith. There, I saw Jen, Alex and the rest of the Collider crew, and got to hear one of my scripts read aloud so it was all worth it in the end.
I then met up with Jari, with whom I was staying, and we talked into the night (well, not that late into the night: I was nackered and he had work.
The next day, Tuesday, I saw Ian for lunch, after running into James Beagon on the steps of the library who said, bemusedly, "aren't you meant to be in Luxembourg?".
I then went to the Chrystal Macmillan building where I ran into Kirsty- whom I have literally met only once each year since I started uni and always in different circumstances. Henriette was also there and she updated me on the HBO dramedy that is her life (I mean that in the most loving way possible). Then, I saw Rachael and Izzy in Teviot, and also ran into my old boss, who either blanked me or has legitimately forgotten who I am: either is fine for me.
On Wednesday, I met with Becky who has a kitten who was fond of my ponytail, which sounds adorable until you realise he was standing on my neck for half an hour, batting the thing about and using his claws to hold on. On the way to the centre, I ran into Stephen, who was lugging around the largest kettle I've ever seen. This was either for his job or this was his job- I wasn't quite clear. After this, I met Rachel and Kirstyn for lunch and caught up on all the Bedlam gossip (I am, as Emily later put it, "Bedlam's Grandmother Willow"). Then, Rachel and I went and did a linguistic experiment on accentism, run by Ian, and it turns out that some first language English speakers don't know what diamonds are. This boggles my mind. And then, I met Esmond and we talked. And talked. And talked. We met at four in the afternoon and still had stuff to say at two in the morning, when his flatmate came in and politely asked us to be quieter. We still had more to say, but, y'know, that's kind of a good indication that it's time to go to bed.
The next day, I spent the majority of the day applying for jobs (more on this later) and then met Luci in the evening. We chatted and she invited me to a party the next day, and then I went to see Kingsman at the cinema on her reccommendation. It was in English and there were no subtitles. I liked that.
On Friday, Bryn and I met for breakfast and then James Woe and I met for a liquid lunch and I spent the rest of the day feeling mildly lightheaded. I went to the party with Luci that evening, and made several new friends all of whose names I have forgotten. Smooth move, Ferguson. I remember one of them had a ponytail that seemed to be made from the black of night itself and was as long as history, so there's that. I also tied someone's shoelaces together, which I haven't done since First Year, when I realised it's not cool and quirky, just annoying and vaguely offputting. Alack.
Saturday was when the band got back together. By which I mean the old brunching gang of myself, Jari, Johanna and Rik. We dined, drank and made merry and then Rik and I went to buy glassware before drinking some more, which was definitely the better way round to do those two things. After that, I went to Equus, directed by the fearsome Emily Aboud of Death/God fame; while at Bedlam, I also ran into Lucija, Joseph, Amanda and Niall, so they all get a tag.
Sunday was spent largely in the company of Emily- we moved between Olly Bongo's, where we met Ailish, Teviot, where we met Sophie and Victoria, and then Emily's flat where we would have been alone had it not been for the massive, staring pictures of Cliff Richards on the wall (also, Billy Watt was kind of there. As a picture*). We also briefly ran into Jodie, a previous winner of Best Quote of the Year, so she gets a tag.
Jari and I then went to see It Follows, which was based on that story that you've heard about the couple making out in the car and there's the guy with the hook hand and did you know that happened near where I live, yes it did, because my dad told me so and he never lies. It was fine.
Monday was spent packing, flying, travelling and then planning lessons and I didn't run into anyone I have on Facebook, so I won't bother writing about it.

Going back to Edinburgh was lovely: too lovely. I saw so many people, had so much fun, and it made coming back to France really difficult. At the moment, I want nothing more than to just move back to that magical place and live like that forever. But I can't, I know I can't: it's only brilliant because it's a holiday: in September, I was pretty ready to leave.
However, I must make a confession- I've been pretty lonely in France. I hardly know anyone. I stay in my room a lot. Sometimes I'll go see Dani, or Grace or John, Naomi and Nicole and that's wonderful but it's not enough. I want more. So, I've been applying to jobs in Edinburgh- I probably won't get any (everyone I spoke to about this said how difficult it is to find work in Edinburgh), but at the moment, the prospect of living in a city where I actually know people is too tantalising to refuse. I've tagged you all, yes, to get your views, but also to say that I appreciate you meeting with me, even if it was only by complete chance. I'm actually coming back to Edinburgh in a few weeks for a job interview (for China, weirdly), so hopefully I can see some of you again soon. Until then, please, no one move away (I'm looking at you, Sage). I want the city in one piece when I come back.

*The Screen Actor's Guild of America would technically count this as an appearance and we would have to pay him a full episode fee.



Chimeric Sexy Times and Jemmy Politicos: Pal-entine's Day

I had quite a hard time at work last week: another teacher was away, so I had to cover his classes. I was only meant to cover three, but because of miscommunication between various school offices, I was left in a constant state of paranoia as to when I was meant to be taking his lessons and when I was meant to be doing my own. It was terrifying, stressful and thankless- the children certainly didn't appreciate my being there and stopping them from having a lesson off. I planned lessons as best I could, but the same material was way too difficult for one set while being way too easy for another. It was a tightrope walk between lava and icewater and there was killer whales in the icewater and magmars in the lava and they were throwing stones at me and I was blindfolded and my feet were too wide for the rope.
The perfect antidote for this was Pal-entines day. Apparently, 'Palentine's day' is an actual thing (I knew I wasn't gonna be the first one to have thought of it, but I didn't realise there'd be an entire organisation around it) that happens on the 14th August, but screw that noise- I need my distraction from the most cynical day of the year on that day. So, I went to Brussels to see my beloved Bitsy and, wouldn't you know, she'd changed her hair again.

And grown several feet; apparently, she had the spots last time and I'm just unobservant.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You can't see it all that well, but in that picture her hair's dark blue; apparently, her coworkers now call her 'smurfette'- WHICH I TOTALLY FORESAW.

That's not Bitsy (I'm pretty sure...) but she did take that picture just moments after having climbed in that mushroom house herself and looking as natural as a moth in a cloth.
Anyway, Bitsy and I started off with a lovely lunch surrounded by couples having less lovely lunches because they weren't with Bitsy and thus their valentines was subpar and they never even knew. Fools.
After that, we went to the Brasserie Museum in Grand Place, which took about as long to look around as it does to say its name- but you did get a free glass of beer with the price of admission and since Bitsy doesn't drink beer, I heroically got through one-and-a-half glasses of beer before Bitsy stopped me on account of my stomach making really unpleasant noises (I don't really drink beer either).

After this, we went to Autoworld, which would have been perfect if it had just had a few more cars.

I especially liked the cars which bent the boundaries between the inside and the outside of the car,

whereas Bitz felt a particular affinity for the racing car- I mean, if she was a moth in a cloth in the smurf house, then she was a mole in a hole in the race car. She wouldn't get out. She COULDN'T get out. She fit so perfectly into that world that it simply wouldn't give her back, like the unicorns in the garden of Eden (which is why we don't see them anymore). Bitsy looked so comfortable in that car that she wouldn't let me photograph her, lest she look out of place by comparison for the rest of her life, but you can see me enjoying myself immensely (though not fitting in as well) in the pictures below:

"This is the happiest I've ever seen you,"- James Woe

After this intensely satisfying experience, we parted ways at Brussels Midi, where all kiss-offs take place (more on this later), and it was off to meet Jonathan.

I don't remember much of my meeting with ol' Jonno, because on top of the one and a half beers I'd had earlier that day, I chugged down another five or six (or maybe, just maybe, seven) and I REALLY don't drink beer. I know we went for chips. And we talked about brown bears. And he quoted Patrick Stewart. And he drank from possibly the coolest glass ever.

I also know that I found out the answer to a three year mystery, though how we got onto the subject, I don't know. The mystery regards the identity of a hot guy I spoke to at party to which I was invited but at which I was not expected; the host was very drunk and sat us next to one another because we 'had a lot in common' (he then leant in and whispered 'you're both GAY!'). Anyway, from my description, Jonathan managed to identify him and thus something I'd completely forgotten about was finally laid to rest.

I woke up the next day very early because the hostel room didn't have curtains but by some miracle (I suspect the chips) I was not hungover and so went into the world for Palentine's day part 2. Bitsy and I met and exchanged extremely belated birthday presents of sugary delights from one of the many chocolateries which treat candies like fine wines, including blind taster tests and wanky comments about the taste ('paradoxically delicious'- ugh!). After, we went for lunch and then off to a media centre/museum to watch  Toy Story (even French dubbing couldn't destroy the joy of that film) and they also had Victorian 3d Pornography in the exhibitions part. It was educational, to say the least.
After this, we went for coffee, then to Sablon where we found a children's literature shop which had a Tintamarresque which lead to possibly the most horrific and confusing image in the entire modern photographic canon:

Look at that flesh, pink and plump.

Yes, both those faces are mine and no, I won't tell you how that effect was achieved (hint: voodoo). After scaring various French children, we retired to Gare du Midi for one final goodbye coffee and this is where the greatest ever piece of modern detecting took place: the evidence? A plate, some crumbs, a coffee cup and a reciept for one donut cake and one cookie, covered in tears. The verdict? A break up followed by a reconciliation. The proof? A second reciept found, charged to the same card for a share poppy muffin and  latte. And Grace deduced this all on her own while chewing gum like a nineties badass.

I departed, and was back home by ten. Still, it was the best Valentine's day I can remember followed by the best Lupercalia ever (look it up.)

Old Friends

Yesterday, dear readers, I went to Paris to see a couple of old friends: first up was David, whom I met at the Union Theatre 24 Hour Play and who later played Rob in the original Australian production of Rob and Roberta and has also apparently done other things since. In fact, he's travelling around Europe at the moment, with his friend also called David, whom I also met briefly in Melbourne. I asked them if their shared name ever caused confusion between them, realised that that was a ridiculous question and it turned out that it actually does because David 1 (Rob-David) likes to talk to himself and, better yet, address himself by name.
Anyway, they asked me for the 'Rory Tour' of Paris, to which I responded that I knew how to get to Notre Dame (it's near where Dani works), which they'd already seen, but we decided to go anyway to see the indoors and climb the tower. You're not allowed to take pictures of the inside (not that that stopped people), but the view from the top is just amazing:

Those other guys that she could dangle...

After we'd drunk our fill of the cityscape (and once the next group had ascended the incredibly narrow staircase) we returned to earth and ate lunch. The amazing thing is, even after eighteen months of radio silence, David 1 and I fell very quickly back into the gentle patter of regular friends. It was pretty much immediate- we met at Gare du Nord, he remarked upon my hair, and then it was just like the olden days. We discussed Marvel and theatre and Australia and uni and films and work and my mum (whose emails I was always relaying in my Melbourne days). I was absolutely delighted to find out that Laura and David 1 are still an item: I was there on day one of their relationship and was indeed the one who gave them their portmanteau couple name of 'Burger' (Barton+Worger). David told me all about a load of people I haven't heard from in years (my own fault, admittedly) and I loved it because apart from the note on my Degree, the stamp on my passport and my ponytail, my life in Australia doesn't really seem to intersect with my European life all that much. It was really nice to hear that it was still there, that my friends from those days still spoke (if only occasionally) and that I am, in some small way, remembered (mainly for my relationship to Vodka, it would transpire).

After lunch, we met up with Dani, who had been looking at unis at which to do postgrad stuff. It was lovely to introduce one of the friends from my Australia life to one of the few remaining friends from my time at Sixth Form: two people who have known me at two completely different times in my life. If only someone from Edinburgh had been there.
The Davids then departed to recouperate at their hostel and I finally got to see Dani's flat- it was exactly what I was expecting meaning lovely and very, very French. She showed me her chandelier and her cuckoo clock and then made the only decent cup of tea I have had in France.

Then, today, I skyped Husnain for seven hours, nineteen minutes and twelve seconds. This is a long time to Skype, in my opinion (maybe I'm weird). We hadn't really planned for it to last that long, after all we'd seen each other less than a month previous- it's just that, when we speak, Husnain and I follow so many rabbit holes and tangents that conversations inevitably become incredibly protracted- fascinating, eloquent, enjoyable- but very, very protracted. Husnain also said something pertinent to the events of this weekend: that old kernel of wisdom that we're different people depending on whom we're interacting with. I definitely think this is true, although obviously the differences that various audiences cause can obviously be extremely subtle (this, to an extent, is what my dissertation was about). Anyway, I was a different person in Australia than to Shrewsbury, who was also different to my identity in Scotland- so, seeing David again obviously brought back Aussie!Rory, but then Dani evoked Shropshire!Rory, and seeing the two of them together created some sort of weird hybrid of the two. I kind of wish I could experiment with bringing together the friends from the different stages of my life and seeing how they affected my manner, but I don't have the resources, patience or self-awareness- I'll just have to settle for the conclusions I drew from my dissertation. Namely, I hate the library and I want to quit.

London Calling

I went to London this weekend. In theory, this was because I had a job interview there; but the interview lasted thirty five minutes and was finished by twenty to four on the Friday and I didn't fly home until ten past three on the Monday, so I wouldn't say it exactly dominated my time there.

The first experience I want to tell you about is showering at King's Cross station. Already quite a shady prospect in and of itself, to my mind, this is made shadier by the fact that to avail yourself of this amenity, you have to go to the Left Luggage and slip them a fiver. They then give you a ticket, which you give to the security guards at the toilets, who hand you a suspect towel and a bottle of shower gel stolen from a hotel. They then lead you to a featureless door and let you into a room with no shower curtain, no raking, no screen, indeed no method at all of keeping the water from going wherever it damn well pleases and a showerhead on one of the walls. There was just a motion detector with which to summon or dispel the flow of water- no control over the volume dispelled, certainly no way to alter the temperature. I asked the security guard if there was a time limit and she blinked at me as if I'd asked where I might go to contract smallpox in this fair city. She left and I got down to the main event- scalding myself, soaking my clothes and getting soap in my eyes; exactly the state you wish to be in when attending a job interview.
I returned the towel, pocketed the shower gel and tried to decide if I actually felt any fresher. And then headed off for my interview.

I won't bore you with the details of a job interview, but I will bore you with the details of my visit to Hamleys. I went there to unwind after the interview, on the suggestion of my mother, and was very disappointed to find out that toy trains are no longer in vogue. How else can you explain the downsizing? When I was young, I remember I loved the Hamleys toy train track- it was massive and ran the length around the two staircases between floors- there were at least four different trains on it, running at different speeds. It was marvellous. There was one track, smaller than what they'd laid out for the Scalectrix (Scalectrix, really, I mean, honestly). I didn't even bother to photograph it. Out of anger, I broke a toy car by driving it straight into a wall (this was an act of defiance and not just sheer clumsiness, I swear) and then left. Well, maybe I stopped by the lego first. And the UFOs. And the bubble machines. But then I marched straight out to meet Patrick.

Normally when I see Patrick a lot of time has elapsed since our last rendez-vous, because, like everyone else in my life, I seem to only be in the same country as him twice a year, but this time we'd seen each other twice within a month and so it felt a lot more relaxed. We retired to the UCL Scandinavian Studies common room with some crisps and cider and chewed the cud. It was lovely.
What was not lovely was the hostel I was staying in, as I discovered after I left Patrick to go there. It was only £29 for three nights, which I accept should have been something of a warning; still, there was no pillow, they hadn't changed the sheet or washed the duvet cover despite the previous occupant apparently having had a nosebleed or maybe haemorrhaged to death right there in the bunk, and left quite the stain on the bedding. I was also staying with the long-termers which is always an awkward situation because you are essentially paying to stay in someone's bedroom (and usually someone with none-too-great-a-life, if you're honest). The window was broken and there was no ladder to get up to the upperbunks, and, perhaps most stomach churning of all, there was no toilet paper. Anywhere. It was not a nice place, is what I'm saying. Still, what a bargain!

Next up was a day with Poppy- and it was fantastic. We ate pancakes, went to the science museum, where we we drank at 11 in the morning and coloured in the children's placemats

Perfect.

(apparently, there are also exhibits- I certainly didn't see any), went to the Victoria and Albert museum where we looked at the tea rooms and then left (yet again, not a single artifact on display), then went to Covent Gardens, where we drank some more, then to the apple shop where we dragged clumsy ninja around by his ankle for an hour and then to see Shakespeare in Love at the Noel Coward Theatre. I haven't seen Poppy since September and we immediately fell back into our old pitter-patter of random insults, deeply personal truths and non-sequiturs. In total, we spent more than twelve hours just the two of us together- I don't think I've spent that much time all at once and one-on-one with someone for years. But it felt amazing.

 

The next day, I went to see Whiplash (Oh, English language cinemas, how I've missed you!) and then met up with David of David K. Barnes fame. We met at the National Theatre, which felt very posh but was a lot less expensive in terms of drinks than other places in London. We laughed, chatted and exchanged theatrical anecdotes in just the right setting for doing so.

After this, I went to see The Play that Goes Wrong at the Duchess Theatre, which was extremely funny. But it did trigger a slight bit of PTSD (Post Theatrical Stress Disorder) in me, especially a scene where an actor spectacularly failed to untie a ribbon on an important document, which mirrored an earlier incident in my own life: during Oh My God in The Ten Minuters, I was completely unable to unwrap a shovel from its sheathing blanket and had to hand it to Alex, my co-star, who got it off in a matter of seconds. Very embarassing.

 

The next day was bissected by my flight in the afternoon, so I couldn't really do anything with the time, sadly. I mulled around a bit, returned to the Science Museum, nearly caused a security incident by accidentally leaving my bag under a bench and then left. Pretty standard, really.

Still, the weekend in total was an absolute blast and really makes me think I should visit the captial more often- it's expensive and exhausting, yes, but also exhilirating, experiential and exciting.  

2015 Resolutions (Accountability Index Coming in December)

• GO OUTSIDE EVERY DAY: I am ashamed to say that this will take quite a change in my lifestyle to accomplish, but the truth is I can spend entire 48 hour periods without stepping outside my hermetically sealed bubble of a room. But I will do this no longer. I am going to spend at least half-an-hour per day not in my room, and work doesn't count.  
• WRITE SOMETHING EVERY DAY: This is one I've set myself every year since about the time I first went to Uni. I've never kept to it, but I like to subscribe to Henriette Skinnes' theory that you have to make the same mistake or fail at the same goal a certain number of times before you manage to finally conquer it and hey, maybe this year will be that year. JUST TO CLARIFY: I count 'writing something' as something creative totalling five or more pages- this can be a whole script, a scene of a larger play or a chapter of a prose story (or even an entire prose novel if I can*), but it has to be complete. No more starting non-starters. This seems like a scary amount to me, but then I just knocked out a five page script in, like, an hour and I can definitely spare an hour a day to try and pursue this craft I love.
• GET A TATOO: I've always kind of assumed I'd end up with a tatoo at some point and then I realised that I'd actually need to get one if I wanted that to happen. You don't just wake up with them**. I've had an idea for a design for a while and I might use that or I might go with something else. I also don't know where I'll get it- my mum, who has a butterfly on her back like someone with an interesting story to tell or Ted Mosby.
• GO SKYDIVING: This is the one I'm least certain I'll do- not due to cowardice, as I've been reliably informed that skydving is much more comfortable and pleasant than bungee jumping, which I've already done- but Skydiving is quite expensive and, despite my job, I am quite strapped for cash right now. However, it's not like I never splash for luxuries and so maybe I'll just have to invest in this one really cool experience and then eat the crappy bread from Carrefour for a while.
• VISIT AMERICA: Yet again, due to money, this one will almost certainly not happen. A man can dream, though. Honestly, this might have to be a roll-on dream that I just hold on to and big up to unbelievable and inconceivable levels so that when, years later, I finally do achieve it it has no choice but to be a massive disappointment like that House episode where it finally was lupus. In fact, I'm only including it on my 2015 list because Jason is going to be moving to Virginia in September and so, with Kristen having already abandoned ship from Long Island to London, my circle of friends around Manhattan will be reduced to just Emma (who is singularly splendid on her own, but does objectively provide fewer points of contact than three people). So, it'd probably be wiser to go in the first half of the year before Neato flies the coop- maybe I can swing it, but I'm fully expecting to not score great on either of these last two come the end of 2015, but that's OK because at least I'm gonna try.   

And so, that's five. Quite a few, but, hey, look at all the shit that went down in 2014: gotta top that somehow.
* I most definitely can't.
** Lots of people, in fact, do. Alcohol and all that.

2014: A Retrospective

This year began and ended in the same place: Rik's house, surrounded by friends, alcohol and Cards Against Humanity. It's not only a very enjoyable way to spend New Year's, it also provides a lovely pair of bookends to 2014. This is preferable to the histrionics, betrayal and crying that began 2013. So, so preferable.
The bookends thing also appeals to me because I am nothing if not a purveyor of shlocky dramatic flourishes and well-worn narratives. Thus, I love that this has been a year of milestones: I reached 50 plays; I graduated; I started my first full-time job; I left my first full-time job; I moved country (again); I started my first skilled job; I finally won 2048. 2015 is gonna have to try pretty hard to beat that in terms of sheer character development.

It feels funny that this time last year, I was sitting in the exact same room that I am now, with almost the exact same people, but feeling so much more nervous about the future- at that time, I was still faced with the threat of failing my exams and impending joblessness. In actual fact, I achieved a reasonable grade in my degree, and I spent only two months (January and September) of this year unemployed and am in fact currently the only one in my family to have a job, which makes me feel very important. Of course, my contract runs out in April, and then unemployment looms once more, but I'm less concerned about it than I was last year, knowing that I have been able to find a job once and will hopefully replicate that trick soon.
In terms of jobs, I think I'm going to look for more TEFL positions once my job in Laon finishes- I've actually quite enjoyed teaching. The students are slightly unpredictable, but it's great when you really feel you've been able to impart something to them:

ME: What did you do over the weekend?

STUDENT: Nothing. 

ME: Well, then, lie; it's allowed.

STUDENT: I killed a lion.

ME: Cruel.

--------*TWENTY MINUTES LATER*--------

ME: What are you writing?

STUDENT: What you just said.

ME: It doesn't look like what I just said.

STUDENT: Well, you told me to lie to you.

ME: Aww, my baby's all grown up.

I'm very glad they couldn't understand the last line, but that was a high point for me.

Although it was quite a busy year, I am struggling to find things to write about and I've just realised why, and it's another milestone that I forgot to include above and am too lazy to go back and insert and, besides, it now gets a paragraph to itself: this is also the year which I have most consistently historiographed on this blog. This blog, The Devil's Ink Pots, is now my longest lasting web log, having surpassed The Wizard in Oz by 158 days as of now. You may wish to count Criticisms and Witticisms, which I also started in Australia and some would say is still technically going, but, much like Amelia Earhart, the Green Lantern sequel and my career as a telemarketer, it may never have officially been given up upon by pretty much everyone knows it's dead.
I don't know how long this blog will last, but I certainly intend to keep it going for at least another while longer; I like having a record of all the stuff that happens to me, especially in a year like 2014, when a tonne-o-stuff went down. I think I'm also going to take a page from the book of my absolutely favourite blogger, Jenny Trout, and do a resolutions post and then have an accountability recap at the end of the year to see how I do. Maybe knowing that I'll have to pubically acknowledge my failure to do what I said I will will motivate me to do those things, like political campaigns always do. Expect a Resolutions post very soon.

I've also just realised that this was the year when I moved the most: eight times, in total. Which seems absurd. And I ended up spending the best part of a month living with Jari, all in all. I hate moving, and it was annoying having to rebox and unpack and then unbox and then repack all my stuff, over and over again, but I also lived in some brilliant flats with some lovely people (and heard the best quote of the year from Jo Shaw while sharing a kitchen with him).

Truth be told, I'm a little nervous about 2015, cos this year has been so monumental and, all in all, a resounding success: obviously, I wasn't manically happy all the time and not everything to which I turned my hand spouted gold, but I still got where I needed to at least 80% of the time and, really, most importantly, I had an awful lot of fun. Let's try and keep that up, shall we, Rory?

Belleville Rendezvous

I had a lovely surprise this weekend.
I was summarily summoned to Paris by Dani, where I was told there would be people waiting for me. At first I thought this might be Ron, our old French teacher, but it turned out to be none other than Purzelle and the Nurp themselves, Patrick and Ella.

Purzelle(L), Nurp (R).

Before I relate all the fun we had in the city of lights, I just want to relate one absolutely terrifying moment that occurred in Gare Du Nord. I should preface this story by saying I fully acknowledge that I overreacted and it was only really scary because I'm a country bumpkin who's not used to the big city ways and sees terror everything like the bloody Salem Town Council. But, as I was going to meet Dani at the Paris metro, I smelled a strange smell, very unpleasant, and my mouth began to dry out and tingle as though I'd just eaten something extremely spicy. It wasn't only me, either: all around me, what looked like hardened Parisians were pucking their noses, covering their mouths with sleeves or 'kerchiefs, and moving very quickly away from the area. Then, the police shoved past me and bolted into the underground station below- they literally (and I do not misuse that word) jumped over a couple, bent over their luggage, to get there quicker.
You may be able to guess where my mind went after it put these events together: I was embroiled in some sort of horrible gas attack, and, worse, I'd dragged Dani into it, too (she was waiting for me on the platform). For a moment, I considered just running from the building and gulping in the uninfected air. I wanted to warn other passengers from entering the platform, but all my French had suddenly abandoned me. But then, my sense of proportion returned, and I realised that, were there some kind of gas attack, there might be a few more people panicking than just me. I got myself together and went to meet Dani.
Soon, after a couple of misdiversions, we were united with Patrick and Ella and went to dinner.

The restaurant at which we dined was called 'La Cantine de Belleville', leading to Patrick, Ella and I all making the same joke (hint: it's the title of the blog post), revealing that Dani had never seen or even heard of that film. It's also meant I've had that bloody song stuck in my head for the past three days, and now you will, too.

If I could set that to autoplay, dear Reader, know that I would.

Anyway, after a delicious dinner, Dani said her farewells, and we retired back to the flat in Montmartre which Paddy and Ella had procured for the trip. There, we got blind, stinking drunk on a mixture of wine, apple juice, tonic water, vodka and sugar cubes (Patrick called it 'Portuguese Sangria').
We laughed, and sang and took incredibly stupid pictures:

She's very deer to my heart (she's holding a Reindeer's heart, for the uninitiated).

And then Ella, like Travis and Smallface before her, found the joys of playing with my hair.

She also made me pose like this, I swear.

I liked them so much, I left those Bear Ears (note the incredibly masculine name) in all weekend. I kid you not. Honestly, unless I could actively see my silhouette, I kind of forgot I had them in, and so I was just puzzled by all the strange looks I was getting- although, they might explain why I kept on being given Silly Straws with every drink that I ordered. I was also given a free chestnut:

It tasted like parsnips. I don't know why people eat these. I can only presume that this was a reflection of my hair, as well, which would explain why Ella and I got normal chestnuts and Patrick got a dud.

Anyway, after checking out Montmartre cathedral,

 

 And the view therefrom,

We went back to the flat for more Paella and Portuguese Sangria, cos we're pan-European. There was a lot of hugging and water to the face and improvised French/German renditions of 'Baby, it's Cold Outside'.

SIDENOTE: I love how they put in so much effort into adding consent to this song (notable by absence: "The answer is no" and "What's in this drink?") and then still manage to make it incredibly creepy by synching the voices to children.

It was the perfect way to spend the last weekend I have in France before I head back to Shropshire. It makes my final week of work this term much more faceable, and has given me another possible hairstyle to rock.