three

The third anniversary of my fall sort of passed me by. I forgot all about it on the day, but I realised I'd missed it last week yet haven't written. It feels a bit false reflecting for the sake of it. Though that's often the way I spend time, thinking for the sake of thinking. Let's leave it, for now. The year has been wonderful. It has been full of change.

I am tired after the joys of Eurovision last night and I am at a bit of a loss as to how to tell you about the last few weeks. Since Easter life has got progressively more stressful and it isn't going to let up until the end of June. The next month might be pretty fucking miserable in patches, actually, but I have at least come to the conclusion that it won't RUIN EVERYTHING (with wringing of apron and mad stare) and that life will continue.

Also, June is full of amazing things to anticipate, so I will cease to be grumpy about the stress and just get a decent night's sleep and look forward to the bright moments.

chill

There's a bit in the second Bridget Jones book (er, or the movie) where she's discussing how horrible Mark Darcy is. She's in the Thai jail with all those women singing Madonna and they tell her about boyfriends who beat them. And then she feels silly.

I feel silly.

The course I have to do this year I am finding more interesting than last year's. It is just that there is not enough of it to fill my working week. Three hours of college four days a week is hardly full time, and this is the "busy" part of the year. From February I only have to be in three days a week. The homework they give us is mostly asinine (apart from this thing about shares that I haven't got a fucking clue about) and besides, who wants to be doing homework when you're 23?

I'm bored out of my mind. I'm getting all control freak-y about things like washing and going to the gym and keeping my room tidy. This isn't good for me, and it isn't good for my relationship. Here it manifests in jealousy that my boyfriend having a good time, and irritation that my long evenings of nothing can't be filled with him.

One of the things I love most about him is that he's brilliant at keeping in touch. There is no reason at all to be needy. Fortunately I think I've got a grip on myself in time.

But I still feel silly.

under the

I've bought the new Basement Jaxx album. It's on, now. I can't think of another band whose new releases I've always rushed to buy.

Miss McG influenced my musical expansion, third year university finally tumbling into albums I must have loved subconsciously before. I saw her on Sunday, hesistant and pretty (vintage says MM) in the Cambridge sunshine.

Today I sat in a conveyancing seminar and put together fragments of what she'd said, stitching her words with thoughts of my own and missing that year with an empty stomach ache.

Remembering PC saying you just don't care what people think. Until he said it I had no idea it was true. Now, it doesn't seem so accurate. I'm not sure what changed.

I miss parts of myself.

grr

So, for reasons unknown, I've been behaving like a total bitch recently. I thought it was exam stress, but, no, exams are done now. Overtired? Certainly, but that doesn't account for being a twat last night. Or on Friday, over a sodding dress. What the hell.

Just resolving to get on with it and stop being ridiculous. I think it's the change thing, sad all over again at a departure that isn't my own. (But it is, in a way, losing all connection to the city I love better than any other).

...

Working a law firm in Bristol for the week. Loved the first day, and I hadn't expected to. I was awake until gone five am worrying about it. See, ridiculous.

what it comes down to

Much to my surprise, I have a second interview with the Law Firm. I am mostly surprised by this because I appear to be losing it; I typed up that anecdote about my Oxford disasters in two successive posts. It's not even that interesting.

I must revisit the tired Oxford story once more, I'm afraid. I performed poorly, that is true, but I'm also pretty certain they knew I just didn't want that place. I am sure people go in there to fight, and to win, and I didn't care by then. Oh my, how much that sounds like postoperative bitterness.

I know that my major stumbling block is convincing the Law Firm that I want this job. My clearest memories of my first interview are trying to explain why I want to be a lawyer. But there was no burst of brilliant inspiration, no desperate conviction from a young age. I went with something about long-standing undercurrent of ambition and a ramble about my transferable skills in the end. To me, jargon of that sort always translates to there is something I'd rather be doing.

I realise it is then paradoxical to claim that I want this. I do, though. This job would justify the path I am about to take. It is the goal that will push me through the tedium (and the preparatory course is Very Tedious).

And right there, in those few sentences, is why this is soulless, and why I am sad.

I Don't Think I'm Ready Yet

I had an interview last Thursday.

When people ask how it went, I answer: It wasn't as bad as my Oxford interview.
It wasn't. In the second Oxford interview they showed me a picture of a large structure and asked me what it was. Clearly, it was a tomb, but I said watch tower. Oh yes. I also told Robin Lane Fox that there were multiple versions of Homer's Odyssey. My explanation of this sort-of truth was not sufficient, clearly.

There were the required amount of fatuous questions. I gave equally pretentious answers. I felt hardly myself, playing this game of pretty platitudes, jumping through hoops.

Good Things: (to distract me from silly interview) moved into new house (beautiful), listened many times to my new purchase- Patrick Wolf - The Magic Position, tiptoed around family, begun watching the first season of House (watch it watch it watch it) and revisited my Eels collection for comfort. (Check the title).

I don't think I got the job. But - watch this space.

bounce

You live, you learn.

Anyway. I am beginning the task of moving out today. Catharsis.
Considering spending the night in the country, alone, Playstation and an early morning run.

Away for a week from tomorrow. Stories, I'm sure, on my return.

a question

Do you trust your instincts, dear readers?

I think my instincts (everyone's?) are born of a defensive mechanism. Although I do not always act on them, I often regret ignoring the twinge of understanding playing on my ribs.

Truly, I know nothing about the things that really matter.

yellow

"I think it's brave of you to post a link to your blog on facebook."
I think about this, as I walk down the main drag towards home with Miss McG.
"I don't write about anything consequential." I reply.
"But you put your life out there."

We wait for the lights.

"I'm more aware of what I write about other people. I try not to write anything I wouldn't want them to come across."
She nods.

Miss McG doesn't read this. She'd know who she was, if she did. If you know me, and my friends, even a little, you'll know who she is. Writing about her, about anyone I know, doesn't make this necessarily less narcissistic. Possibly, it focuses it more on my own indulgences, taking parts of other people, sanitising and packaging them in words, sentences, and posting them online.

I feel torn about it. What right do I have? Is that why I avoid typing up the bad days, the arguments? I leave out most of my romantic disasters for similar reasons. I'm a very judgmental person, and so are you, my dear. Why put the worst of myself in the spotlight?

I don't think writing is brave. I think it is a selection process, a methodical and cunning way of presenting an image, constructing it secretly, delicately, until you can be satisfied with this linguistic projection of yourself. This isn't an expression of my honesty, but a way of ridding myself of the dishonest, the personality that I would like you to think I have.

Bit deep for a Monday morning, yes?