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.