22 May 2006
Respite from Solitaire
You gotta love pathetic fallacy; monday morning + dreaded weigh in day * exam season = the traditional miserable drizzle with the bone-chilling edge. Just what's appropriate for three hours in the sports hall, where the heater sounds like the gutteral wretchings and raspings of a thousand bronchial defected octogenarians. Times three. Decked out in four layers, complete with parka, my arms were somewhat restricted, inhibiting the flow of my hand guiding the glide of fountain pen across paper, thereby impeding flow of coherent thought and well-structured argument from head to answer booklet. Bit of a problemo for a couple of essay based papers. Well that's my story and I'm sticking to it, as those answer booklets that were so ceremoniously handed in ('Please STOP writing now and put DOWN your pen'- well, it was worth a try, but nothing gets past those wily, power crazy, self-important invigilators of varying oddness) were full of the most meaningless drivel I have ever had the misfortune to conjure. With the possible exception of this blog of course. Good luck to the examiner is all I say; hope they at least get a chuckle or two. More likely a snore, as they realise I have said exactly the same thing in about a three different ways, circulating the arguments and phrases when appropriate, so they'll be completely bored to.......zzzzzzz
An interesting way, I have found, of avoiding the whole tricky, ambiguous, confusing adolescent phase a propos the parentals is just to miss it out entirely. I went from child, to distant detatched stranger, to weird regressive dependant toddler, and emerged (as I would have it, though this is merely my perception) on pretty even ground with them, almost adult in nature, shock, horror, stupefaction etc. I have the relationship I imagine I shall now have with them for the rest of their days. It suddenly just happened, yet with all the murky, complex intricacies contributing. I don't even bother to hold my tongue in reference to the odd profanity or expletive any more (now do not be shocked dear reader, I know that it is beyond comprehension that anything other than sweet nothings could pass these angelic lips, but we are all human after all). Now that's what I call progress. I could even see myself going down the pub with them and having a...wait for it.....conversation. Dear lordy, I think it may be time to get out more.
I may have to get the house just to escape the infernal music-making. Don't get me wrong, I am no philistine, but there comes a point where the line is crossed. And we are so far away from the line now that 'the line is a dot to you!'. My heart dropped atleast a couple of near fatal millimetres I swear when it was announced that yet another instrument was to cross the kirk threshold. 'Hurrah! A keyboard for £25? Bargain! Go for it! Just don't get your hopes up, it may not be quite up to scratch...', increasingly hopeful 'Also, they may have a lot of offers, it may have already gone...' clutching at straws in desperation 'It could well have keys missing or some other defect...'And so I know have the same bleeding line of a self-penned ditty of N's filtering into my room day and night, gradually inching me over the edge and ceaselessly prodding me into realms of insanity. You have to admire his unflinching, undiminished determination though. Last week a mini-Monet, this week a mini-Mozart. Never ones to do things by halves, us Kirks.