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.
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