One of my recent history websites on Firefox is the BBC weather page. I am praying for good weather in Paris one week today; one week today I will be on the Eurostar with my boyfriend, hopefully slightly fuzzy from wine and the elation of exams being DONE.
In lawyerly news: Some stuff got decided about assisted suicide today and now it's all supposed to make sense and so on but I'm not sure making motive the "key" helps in any way. I will write more about this but I'm really drinking too much wine in the evenings lately and it doesn't really help the clarity of writing.
I like the Radio Four Saturday play. I like a lot of Radio Four actually. Not the news (prefer to read it) or the drivelly comment shows or the programmes about wildlife, but the comedy and drama are pretty diverting. And The Archers, of course.*
Anyway. The last Saturday play was about Craig Murray. I didn't know who he was until I listened to the play, if I'm honest. He was a British ambassador to Uzbekistan before we invaded Iraq, where he came across some terrible abuses of human rights. He took it upon himself to help people. In the process he exposed the British government's complicity (the spell check thinks that's a word but I'm not sure) in the gathering of intelligence by torturing people. There's a lawyer in the play who actually defends this behaviour.
Now, it may be legally possible for the government to pass over their involvement. But the lawyer who allows that; how can he sleep? The law is cruel and clever, and those in a position of power can always manipulate it to avoid its devastation. But I could never do that. To support such awful illegality of anyone, let alone the group charged with leading this country, by telling them that it's okay, do what you want because the law lets you avoid morality; I couldn't do that.
This is incoherent, I realise, and I am going to attempt to work it up into something more. If nothing else it's helping me find a way to the kind of lawyer I want to be.
One abortive attempt (he forgot something) and a successful walk to the tube stop later, I wander home alone to read through my notes for tomorrow's exam.
The men who had crowded the path at the traffic lights, drinking beer, are now being arrested. One of the police cars involved is missing a side mirror; an officer holds it and watches the men in handcuffs, heads ducked into the car.
Sure there's a good short story in there somewhere.
Useless things people said while playing Articulate last night:
"It's not a prawn." [it was a shrimp]. ... "When something is put there to guide you to the incorrect answer, it's a red... come on, it's a type of fish..." "Mullet! Red mullet" ... "I don't know who this book is by... um, okay, first name of the title is the name of a guy I dated, we were talking about him earlier..." "David." "And the second name is... oh, you know, its famous..." [when timer has run out] "Rachel, David Copperfield is by Dickens." (Victorian literature is something I tell people I enjoy in order to be precocious).
Okay, most of these useless things were things said by me. Grumble.
Rescuing a roasting chicken from the oven today I burned my arm on the wire shelf. Annoyingly its the slender part of my wrist, the natural resting place of my watch. Perhaps it will train my to wear it on the correct side (its always on the right).
Want to sleep but not sure I'll find it so easy, tonight. Overactive imagination (burned in more ways than this).
Today we went to the cinema in Cambridge and watched Breakfast at Tiffany's, which I've never seen but I did read, once; I'd forgotten it was Capote, it is too long ago. It was beautiful and because I woke feeling sad it was an antidote I needed, a salve to the mean reds only Holly Golightly can provide.
The day before he brings me cake and a flower and a pretty mug, and we cook and talk and finally I make a decision about what I'll do for Lent. I will write, every day, nothing much perhaps but I'll publish everything I type. I give him more words this year, my own, this time.
The train home is crowded and I spend the journey not quite sure of consciousness, hoping you realise how important words are, to me.
I always delete my browser history (Firefox calls it Private Data, which I like) before my boyfriend comes for the weekend. At this stage in our relationship I'm really not sure why; he knows I read about food and fashion and celebrities. He knows where I watch porn. He knows this blog exists, though I don't think he reads it. He clears his own history before I visit, too.
He left today after a sunny weekend. The browser history I've got now reads as a map of the past few days, full of chocolate and brunch and the inevitable facebook stalk; a checking of e-mail and links to flights for August. A pleasing version of those research trails lawyers are so annoyingly fond of.
On another note - I know what's wrong with me, now. I had a wisdom tooth extracted at an emergency dentist appointment on Wednesday. I am much better already.
Yoga was packed yesterday. Savasana isn't terribly relaxing when you're trying to avoid sticking your toe in your neighbour's ear.
In the summer following my first year of university I caught a horrible cough. I couldn't shift it and eventually it took me over. My energy levels plummeted and I quit my waitressing job. Though I went to the doctor a few times I refused to do anything much about it. Needles in the artery at the elbow raise panic in me.
I got better.
But I still get that feeling of fatigue, sometimes. It's not a physical tiredness. It isn't depression, either. It's a disconnect from the world, a feeling of being underwater with sounds and faces blurred by the rush of liquid. Nothing seems quite solid.
I've felt like that more frequently, lately. I get dizzy when walking, a head rush whenever I stand. I struggled horribly in yoga yesterday, fighting dehydration (it is certainly a cause) and an overwhelming sense of collapse.
Everyone says its anaemia, and they're probably right. I am good at ignoring my health. I never drink enough water and I don't eat much protein, let alone red meat. I do eat, though, I promise. My bruises take an age to heal; my scars rarely do. I have an injury from 10 October that still hasn't disappeared from my shin. But that's nothing unusual.
I'm not unhappy; far from it, despite the tedium of college (and the fact I'm listening to Eels). I'm just so very tired. Maybe it's boredom? I'm trying my best to alleviate that.
I guess I may have to get over the blood test thing.
Listening to two girls chat beside me in the awful dungeon of a cafe in college, talking about how they don't have time to do any job applications. Yet, bizarrely, neither of them have actually done the preparation for today's classes; what keeps them so busy, I wonder?
This course is not hard work. Watch a few hours of online lectures a week, read up on anything you're hazy about and make a stab at a basic prep task. Turn up to all your classes and you're in college for about ten hours a week.
If you can't cope with this, how on earth will you be a lawyer? Will you sulk when you're not allowed to go at half past five on the dot? Will you ignore the tasks your supervisor sets you in favour of the pub and then moan about what a bitch she is, how busy you are, doesn't she understand?
I know, I know, I'm arrogant. I'm struck equally by reassurance and fear; these girls aren't really competition in the job market, but then again I've met people just like them who are qualified lawyers.