Less whining, more facts,

Enough of my whinging, this is what I have really been up to recently:

On Thursday, SB and I went to see The Alchemist at the National. It was really funny - like, laugh out loud funny that I forgot you got from Ben Jonson plays. It's been so long since I've been to the theatre (the last time, I think (other than some outdoor stuff), was in February or so when I went with lots of work people to see Playing With Fire, or something like that - it was terrible). SB got us cheap tickets (thanks, Travelex!) and amazingly the National seem to have sorted out their heating problem as it was possible to take off coats and scarves. Anyway, after stuffing our faces with Chinese food, we rocked up at the theatre and managed not to fall over getting to our seats (is it just me, or does the seating in the NT not seem very precarious? It might just be me...), and skimmed through the cast list to at least try and figure out something about the play. It took a good ten minutes to adjust to the language being used. Although I studied English Literature A Level, and even did Ben Jonson, this was a good four years ago, and my working knowledge of old English has regressed since then, unsurprisingly (indeed, my knowledge of English in general has been steadily declining though unfortunately this does not mean any other language has particularly gained...). I can barely remember the plot of Volpone, although I remember something about a tortoise. Anyway, the play was ace. The cast were excellent, and there was a live band, which is always nice. The only downside was that it was very long, especially the first half. I'm going to start going to the theatre more, I reckon. It's just laziness that means that I have no cultural capital.

Actually, on Thursday I managed a great deal of culture as before I met SB, I went to the British Museum and had a nosey around the China rooms. I liked the calligraphy but I'm not all that hot on bits of broken pot. Call me a philistine, but whatevs, it's a pot. To counteract all this culture, SB and I went down to Goldsmiths to what had been described as "bands and an indie disco until 2". What a pack of lies. For one, the band (singular, the others had cancelled) was shite - one song had the lyrics "liar liar pants are on fire", which would have been amusing if they hadn't been so dreadful. We were like the oldest people there - everyone was super trendy and the only people who spoke to us were two very endearing but no doubt intensely irritating 18 year olds. There were no hot men. The bar shut at 12. We left, via a toilet that smelt like a Glaswigan council estate, and beat a hasty retreat to the mean streets of New Cross, where it took us about an hour to get home in the pouring rain. A small Chinese man in an army helmet and goggles chatted to us.

On Friday I was woken up with a steaming cup of tea, which is pretty darn perfect in my books. I wandered over to uni later in the day and chatted to one of my new friends, and to a very lively American girl, before going to meet the people on my course. There's about 20 of us, including, bizarrely, a girl who I sat next to in A Level History. I swear, Hills Road Sixth Form is taking over. Everyone on the course seems nice, and our convenor is sweet though very odd. I saw him again yesterday and said hi but I don't think he knew who I was. After the talk, I went to the pub with some people from my course and I felt a bit inadequate as they're all very clever and know lots, but I guess I just have to not be silly as I wouldn't be there if I wasn't good enough, right? After a couple of pints I went to meet S and D at the Fitzrovia, where the night of abject silliness began. We had some drinks there and then went to Old Street, where we wandered aroudn trying to find a bar no one knew the name of, which turned out to be terrible. I was in a foul mood by then, and was muttering "for fuck's SAKE!" at pretty much every given opportunity. D had two of her friends with her. They were insanely posh, and I didn't feel like I had anything to say to them cos, y'know, I don't have a horse or like shooting things or whatever. I dunno, I guess they were nice. We left the lame bar and went to a Wetherspoons where I read Heat magazine and drank sambuca. Eventually we decided to go to Crush. We got there half an hour before closing so convinced them (or S did, rather) to let us in for free, and I then ran around like a stupid and I vaguely remember talking to people but I honestly don't remember all that much. On the way home I spoke in Spanish to everyone - according to S, I was saying something like "can I have your room for the night and can you make me breakfast?" - and some randoms apparently hugged me and asked me to come and smoke some spliffs with them, but I don't remember this either. We got back to S's and there was a fight, and I tried to invigilate and then we ate some food and then I stole the bed. For some reason I was convinced the whole time that I was sober. I clearly wasn't.

Waking up on Saturday morning was one of those moments... you know the sort: open one eye.. Am I alone? (check) Am I dressed? (check) Where the fuck am I? (errr, check??) Did I call anyone inappropriate last night? (thankfully, I resisted this one!) I had one of those hangovers that you only get from really mixing your drinks. S woke up shortly after and together we have formulated at least a partial story of the night before. Everything seemed to be getting better but then I ate a toffee yoghurt and got a phone call and was like, oh yeah, I saw that guy I shagged. I went home: was mocked. Mocked I tell you. I ate some soup. I spewed. I went into uni and signed up for societies and nearly spewed again and then went to Superdrug where I was mocked again. So I went home.

Saturday night was spent dealing with #1 and the hospital and the loveliest paramedics in the world and trying to steal from the hospital, and all sorts like that. I felt rough as fuck but managed to hold it all together despite only managing two hours sleep, and was quite organised. Sunday was passed in much the same way, with ghost writing an article for the newspaper being one of my duties - made possible god knows how, seeing as I at one point fell over with exhaustion. #1 is much better now though obviously still in lots of pain, but that's what painkillers are for.

This week I have been at uni and have got some reading done already, and chatted lots to people on my course. It turns out that my Politics class should be okay, but Anthropology.. well, that's a whole different matter. I had my first language class too, and although I was probably one of the better ones in the class, no one is anywhere near the standard our teacher wants.

Last night I spoke to the boy for the first time in ages. He called yesterday morning and I was really rude to him. I think things are most definitely not on track - and it's mostly my fault as I forgot to call him on his birthday, and then didn't call the next few days, and then cancelled our date without telling him, and then was rude to him. Oh whatever though, seriously. He irritates me sometimes. And then I feel bad saying that as whenever we're together, I really like him and we act all silly. I'm pretty sure that he was shagging someone else last weekend, but I actually don't give a toss as that's precisely what I do (given half a chance, of course - and not at the moment, given the drought!). The drought is coming to an end as G is coming to stay soon, which'll be fun. I've really missed him. If he wasn't so crap, he would be great. But he's crap, as am I, so we always forget to call each other.

In other news, I am joining a gym. It's all part of a plan to try and con lots of free meals out of people. All my friends who have jobs will be getting a call soon asking if they'd like to take me out for dinner. I'll do the whole impoverished student line, which will be far more effective if I look a bit skinny. Also, I'm fed up of being so fat. I weighed myself when I was at my parents house and eeek. Obviously I weigh far more than when I was my skinniest (though when I was telling my mum, she did point out that I looked ill back then and I was only that skinny because I was seriously depressed and didn't eat anything at all) but I think some sort of happy medium would be good. I know I'm probably not meant to go to the gym, what with my hip, but y'know. Especially as it's getting worse, and my knee (where I tore a ligament when I was 10) hurts now too. Whatever, I'm having physiotherapy, and I don't see that swimming and pilates and stuff can hurt? Maybe I'll just do that at the gym. The machines look a bit scary - there's no way in hell I will be able to work those. I can barely work my alarm clock, and even that seems a bit tenuous, given that I woke up at 11 today. [haha, I knew I would be able to fit some whining into this entry!!]

Right, I need to go and read my books now.