Google (per)plex

When I was coming to University, I remember vividly counting out the number of pairs of socks I had- even allowing for odd ones, I am not heterophobic-and it totalled eight. I now have eleven, so it's nice to have a solid way of measuring how much I have grown in two years. Since google is as unforthcoming with the number of pairs of socks that the average person owns as ever, I have no idea where this puts me in comparison with my fellow human being, but I like to think this is somewhat less, if only cos it makes me seem less materialistic. Alack.
In other news, Esmond came, saw, conquered and departed, a teary farewell on Telford Central station ensuing, culminating in me running after the train, arm outstretched, as he looked on, embarassed, his fellow passengers raising their brows at the weirdo on the platform. Emma is still here, though, and so my final four days in Britain will at least be spent in company. Things are naturally heating up on the preparation front, and today my mother actually gave me Marks and Spencers' vouchers she'd been saving since her birthday so I could buy some smart looking trousers (in the hopes of securing employment in the antipodes). Tomorrow we go trawling through TK Maxx for discount sun glasses and 'evening shoes', whatever they are. I'm sure google could inform me, but he's in a huff after I asked him that question I didn't know about the socks.

The Parting of the Ways

I bid farewell to Mel and Travis today- that's my second oldest friendship now sealed for a year and put into the back of the wine cellar to mature (one can always hope). I don't know if I'll even get to see Dan, my longest-running friend, before I leave, as he's off sojourning in Brum, which I'll admit is hardly, oh I don't know, 10505 miles away but we're not close enough for me to travel more than a mile and a half (i.e. the distance between our houses) to see him. So, I like to think I've hit my nadir in terms of sadness; Esmond and Emma are both coming over the next few days to keep me company, but for some reason these have the feeling of a joyous celebration, like the prospect of a sleep over with my friends when I was twelve, whereas visiting Mel felt very much like the end of something- not to say I didn't enjoy her company, but we both knew that the friend ship was going to be moored for a while (see what I did there?) I think part of this might stem from the fact that Emma and Esmond are coming to me, while I had to go to see Mel- I wonder if they'll arrive filled to the brim with lugubry to find me wearing a party hat and carrying a bowl of warm water, a mischevious glint in my eye. Travis certainly displayed no outward signs of lament as I hugged him one last time and helped tuck him into bed. Then again, he's two, so mayhap he should not be my role model.

I had a shenanigan once; most uncomfortable twenty minutes of my life

I really wish my life were a page on TV tropes, because boy do I have a subversion of the classic 'zany scheme' I've read so much about. See, there are so many TV shows (Will and Grace, Ugly Betty) where the resident gay's parents are coming and, hilarity of hilarity, he's told them that one of the female leads is his girlfriend! Cue laugh track galore, lots of improvisation and a web of lies so big that Charlotte could have written out the first five chapters of Silas Marner upon it. Naturally, the truth does out (as does the gay) and there's tears, recriminations and a heartfelt hug, with a moral about tolerance and openness and getting your story straight before undertaking any big lie. Roll credits, tune in next week.
But here's where I get all post-modern and give it a twist: my parents already know I'm gay. On Wednesday next week, an old friend will come and stay. Now, this friend is a redblooded heterosexual, but also a bloody good actor. The scheme is simple- I tell him that I've told my parents that he's my boyfriend to get them off my back about being single; we'll play the part of the couple until it all falls apart in a huge set piece involving someone getting hit in the face with a piece of cake.
Whilst that all sounds wonderful, I can't imagine why I would do it, except to subvert expectations, cause shenanigans and generally spice up what is a dull and lonesome place (my parents' house). Also, I've already had a grilling from my loving progenitors about my utter lack of a significant other, so I wouldn't even be maintaining an illusion. Ah well, I'll just have to settle for decapitating some more chickens to enliven my hometown.

I wish we didn't need wishes

I'm pretty sure one of the Goosebumps books extolled 'be careful what you wish for'- evidently I Did Not Learn. After posting yesterday's gushing swansong, I learnt that I would not in fact leave the Burgh that day- the heavens had conspired, decided that hiding the modern gospel in children's horror books was evidently not working and then opened, flooding Newcastle and showering Lancaster in mud and generally cutting off Scotland from the outside world (read: England.) So, I guess I was not the only one who needed to be taught not to make wishes; all those who have been calling for Scotland to indeed fly the nest have seen just what such a separation will do to their nation's train stations. They're just lucky they weren't on the train I finally managed to catch- I wouldn't wish that on anyone.

Yet, not for me the furrowed brow, as it means I got some extra time to fritter away with the good lady Freya, who was positively incandescent with mystery and wit. And I still managed to make it home in time to catch my sister and use up a year's worth of conversation in five hours, forty minutes, so we shan't feel cheated when I depart. So, heavens, I applaud you- I've been taught not to make idle wishes yet not suffered any real consequences for my actions- and isn't that the best and most reliable way to learn? You may have to try harder with the SNP, though.