He ate your father in front of you

So, Daniel got into Drama school. Aside from being the single biggest contributor to this blog (after myself, of course), Daniel also holds the distinction of being one of the few actors I have 'discovered'.

And what a discovery it was.

Of course, Danny boy himself might dispute this, and argue that he even had some professional roles in Spain but buckus, I say, that damn Spider is where your career started in the English speaking world!

This guy.

The only person whom I believe could challenge me as title-bearer of Godfather of Daniel's theatrical career is Ian, and though Daniel did indeed have lines in Vatnsdal, I don't believe that play truly tapped into Daniel's talents. His cackling, baton-twirling, cross-dressing talents. All of which TWWOO used to great, if somewhat psychodelic, effect.
And, thus, I'm very proud to say that another one of my babies has hatched into a beautiful butterfly. Now, Joseph just needs to make something of his life.
Like that'll ever happen.

In less self-congratulatory news, I got to watch someone else directing my work for the first time last Sunday. This is only the second time someone else has actually helmed a project to which I contributed the script: but during The Ten Minuters I only ever saw the finished product, not the 'making of'. And I have to say, it was weird- seeing my words come to life but with no control over how they lived. I now know how my parents feel. No wonder they're always so disappointed with me.
P.S. For Posterity's sake, this play is Aladdin, a pantomime I've written to be performed for sick children. (And also children who are ill- get it?)

And finally, I've started Language in Aboriginal Australia and it's really fascinating- the culture is so different from what I'm used to that it means everything I'm learning is completely unexpected and brand new. I haven't had that for a while.
First Language Acquisition is also proving as interesting as I'd hoped and I was actually presented with some tangible proof for innatism, which I never imagined would happen and may merit further investigation.
Phonetics has sadly segued into ear training, which boils down to weeks and weeks of watching one's tutor/professor repeat the same sound twice and ask 'did you hear the difference that time?' to which the answer is inevitably 'no'. Not as frustrating as syntax, certainly, but quite bad.
So, all in all, quite a good term so far.

Educate good times, come on!

George returned yesterday, proving it's never too early to create a tag for someone. I also got another 'I no speak English', proving I defy the god of CATI*, whom I've deemed Katy, and am some sort of Telephone Marketing Research messiah.

I'm now done with tutorials for the year; take that, people from Uni back home (depressingly, I don't think that there are any Edinburgh students reading this- you don't count, Dr. Fowkes, being a staff member and all). I have one more week of lectures and then I am done with Uni 2012, which is kinda scary. Thinking back to January this year, and how absolutely awful I felt about my course, I couldn't have imagined I'd actually be interested in what I was studying- but, looking over my Language, Society and Culture text book today, in preparation for my upcoming test, I was actually genuinely piqued by the ideas inside. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: if I have a future in Linguistics, it's in Socio-**. Syntax continues to prove the bane of my very soul and the enemy of life itself, but I guess you can't have it all (and with Syntax, you really shouldn't have any).

I must say, I prefer the Australian school system- the idea of choosing modules (including some which aren't directly related to your major), and thus not feeling trapped into drawing upside-down trees for however bloody long, is much more condusive to work, if you ask me. If I ever have children, I'd want them to be in a university system like this (I believe the American system is similar), because it allows you to actually find out what you like, as opposed to the British system, which just tells you what to take, like it or lump it. And I lumped it. Of course, were I enrolled in Edinburgh this year (and when I eventually return), I would be given a degree of choice within my degree of choice, but I kind of see this as too little too late. Alack.

*Computer Assisted Telephone Interviewing
**Fuck you, James Reid.

Echo de Menos

I'm forgetting people's names. I don't know if I should be worried. Last week, it took me three days to try and remember Amadeus Alasdair's full name- this was someone with whom I shared a room for five days during NSDF, and I genuinely couldn't think of his surname. It was distressing. I actually exclaimed "Wilson!" aloud in the street when it occurred to me- I was tempted to go the full Tom Hanks, but I haven't actually seen that movie and I didn't want to get it wrong and look like a freak.

Now today I can't think of the second name of Rachel-who's-the-ents-manager back in Edinburgh. I want to say 'Madow', but that's a left-wing newsreader from Americaland; I have a feeling it's 'Meyrick' but if I had to put money on it, I just wouldn't and keep the money for myself.

But on the reverse side, a couple of nights I dreamt that Rosie limped up to me in the street (she'd broken her foot again); I keep seeing Thom Louis in the street, or Chris Craig Harvey on the tram. These aren't people with whom I'm particularly close (although I did lock lips with Chris SEVEN TIMES), but I keep seeing them. I don't know if this is normal, but I didn't see Shrewsbury people in Edinburgh, and it's not like it's just a physical resemblance- they always seem to be wearing clothes that I associate with them.

The natural conclusion is just that I miss them (it's true I miss Chris' lips), but then why am I not seeing Esmond, or Daniel, or Rice Krispies?

These are the clothes I associate with Daniel. They are, naturally, his mother's.

It's harmless, obviously, but it's weird to keep double-taking at strangers on the street. Also, if this blog isn't here for me to obsess over minor details then what is?

P.S. Rachel's second name was 'Murray' (just looked it up) but I'm pretty sure I had a 'Rachel Meyrick' on Facebook. The plot thickens.

EDIT: Rachel Meyrick was in my year at sixth form.

Dinosaurs on a spaceship, snakes on a plane, freshers on my turf

If my calculations are correct, which is by no means certain, Edinburgh Freshers' week began this weekend (a quick google confirms this).
I'm trying to work out what I'd be doing were I still in Edinburgh; no doubt part of me would be tempted to repeat my actions of the previous Freshers' week, where I tried to reinvent myself by attending all manner of different events, including, *shudder*, a bingo night, before returning, somewhat gingerly and with my tail firmly between my legs, to Bedlam.

You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.

Of course, it's impossible to know what I'd be doing, as I would've acted differently towards the end of last term if I'd thought for a second that I'd be coming back. I probably would've tried to put a play on during Freshers' week, and maybe auditioned for one of the plays already on, or maybe I would've even waited to put on TWWOO until this semester. I wouldn't have spoken to some people so frankly, and I also wouldn't have buried the hatchet with some people (I'm looking at you, Gem).
I'd have most likely spent the summer in Edinburgh, so maybe I would've suffered a relapse to the state I was in last July. Or maybe I would've risen triumphantly above the black dog like a phoenix (anyone else flashing back to Harry Potter?).

Above: my (hypothetical) summer.

I'd go and watch Becky perform stand-up and Daniel perform Blue Room (this is the thing I'm most sad about missing.)

Imagine this in a sex play.

I'd maybe staff at Bedlam a few times, try and get to know some of the newbies- there'd be numerous trips to Doctors, no doubt, and a bit of mythicising those who'd have departed (I've decided in this alternate reality that Esmond also didn't leave, so the whole ladies' man thing didn't come into play).

Dreammaker, heartbreaker.

I'd have fish pie at Teviot, and meet with Bammers and Henriette and talk about what we did all summer, and I'd hang with Luci and Bryn and feel awkward as they lit up and started getting all metaphysical. I'd have hot chocolate with Freya and discuss Lord knows what.
And then a black hole would open up over Edinburgh and everything I know would be consumed by the void. Because, after all, this is all postulation and furthermore, is completely useless because I'm not there, I'm in Melbourne and besides, Freshers are all mistakes. Filthy, nasty things. Glad I never was one.

Of course, I also can't help looking forward a year and trying to imagine how I'll act during my fourth (God, that's too many) Freshers' week. Maybe during final year I'll finally have figured it out and I'll be cool as Corbin, taking in the sights but not getting unnecessarily agitated over little things of no significance. Somehow, I doubt it.

The Four H's

Before coming here, I had to attend a lecture wherein I was told that I would go through the four stages of exchangeitude, called the four H's, these were:

• Honeymoon period- where everything is great, all the songs on the radio are about you and you're getting near constant lovin' (mom, dad please stop reading)
• Homesickness- you start to miss your friends, family, more reasonable prices, less noisy birds, more comprehensible accents, shorter games of cards, properly labelled Rice Krispies...
• Hostility- this university is silly, why can't they do more like Edinburgh does? I mean, that's the better system, clearly, so just stop being so contrary, Australia and just do what we tell you!
• Happiness- ok, it has its flaws, but at least there are no squirrels to worry about. I'm content.

I don't know which H I'm in- obviously, I'd like to say happiness, but I don't remember going through hostility ('cepting X-bar, but that's hardly Melbourne-specific), and I'm definitely not homesick (see below), meaning I must be in the Honeymoon period. This is worrying because it means all that other stuff's still to come. I can't imagine what I'll get homesick over (the last time was my bathtub), because I've pretty much replaced all my friends- I just need a Rik and a proper Daniel (Darryl has an accent, but that's pretty much where the similarities end). And hostility seems outlandish- I love it here! The lectures are more engaging (yet again, barring syntax), the campus eateries are more varied...writing this out has made me realise I am definitely in the honeymoon period. Well, damn. However, this does have an upside- I should have a bit of honeymoon left when the Pliant one begins his, meaning I won't feel miserable by comparison. Huzzah.

Quick side note: I skyped the 'rents yesterday, and it was exactly the same conversation we have when I talk to them back home: my mom worries I'm not getting out enough, my dad worries I'm spending too much and they both agree I don't contact them enough. If I'd recorded the conversation and bleeped out proper nouns (oh god, I'm flashing back to X-bar) it would have been indistinguishable from the dozens of other times I've skyped them. But, more to the point, we hadn't spoken for 34 days, and the conversation lasted 47 minutes. My mother said she felt it lasted long, but that it was only because we hadn't spoken for so long. By this mathematics, my mom wants us to talk for 98 seconds every day. Half that, and you've got yourself a deal, mother.
Of course, I shouldn't be so harsh, they are, after all, paying for me to be here (mum's defense, not mine). This, however, will not stop me being so harsh. Huzzah.

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.

10505 Miles

Genuinely at this moment, I don’t want to leave Edinburgh. Compounding this is the fact that if I weren’t about to cross the globe I could’ve saved myself a lot of stress and anguish this past week (I know, I know, #firstworldproblems), but the meaty heart of this lamentation stew is that Edinburgh has never seemed so uniformly charming in all my time here. As I was clearing out my flat this morning, everything took on an aura of delightfulness so potent that I nearly burst into tears upon finding a note- written by an American exchange student in my first semester- telling me ‘farewell’. I swooned over finding some mementos of a show that at the time nearly killed me. I pored over posters, wept over washing baskets and cuddled a shoe; the better half of a pair where one’s ruinous, worn existence had condemned the other to garbage.

I wish I were exaggerating, but despite the tepid atmosphere and decidedly damp vibes I’m getting from her right now, I want to lie down and wrap Edinburgh around me like a blanket. This week alone I’ve said goodbye to Becky, Freya and Rik, all of whom I’ve known since Fresher’s week- Becky has never been earnestly fun, Rik so quintessentially knowledgable nor Freya so unfathomably fascinating. ALL of them will be here next year. I could bask in another year of their friendship if I weren’t sodding off down under. Of all my fresher’s week friends, only Esmond remains to bid adieu, and then I am officially alone.

But, if my heart of hearts wants to kick and scream and hold its breath and refuse to get in the car, then my mind of minds is perfectly fine with that, revving the engine, leaving now, goodbye, going to leave you behind. I KNOW this is an amazing opportunity; it will improve my employability, gain me life experience, flesh out a sadly depleted CV (I think those might all be the same thing)- and I must confess, the allure of my antipodean paramour is intoxicating. But goshdarn it, did Andy have to be so witty last night? Did Connor have to be that loveable? Did John have to be...John? I am not particularly close to any of these people, and a voice in the back of my head is yearning to plumb their depths (metaphorically, guys, in case you’re reading- this is not a love letter). And I could, if not for the fact that I’ll be 10505 miles (a pleasingly round number, don’t you agree?).

So all I can do is hope; hope that I find an Australian Andy; hope that my friends don’t change too much while I’m away; hope that my year abroad isn’t just a bullet point on my CV or a kooky story I tell my children; hope that it’s a start of a whole new life, one equally as awesome as Edinburgh seems now. I’m realistic about what will become of this blog- at best, it’ll be a curiosity wheeled out to entice future freshers to apply for exchange years. My advice to you then is this: take off the graduation goggles, and you’ll see they’re rose tinted.

P.S. Flipped a coin as to whether the title should be ‘10505 miles’ or ‘Graduation Goggles’ before realising that the former is a better title and will stop me from having to think up a ‘How I met your mother’ themed title for each post.

How I'll meet your father

My parents met in South America. Both were university graduates, working in completely different fields, who just happened to be in Arrequipa simultaneously. My dad wasn’t even meant to stay for all that long- he was meant to fix a problem then leave; six weeks, no more.

It was two years when he finally returned.

I have no idea after what amount of time he met my mother, it may well have been within those first six weeks, but in my mind it was at least half a year in to his seemingly unending sojourn. I love the arbitrarity of it- how easily they could not have met, how close I came to never existing.

This is partly why I want to meet someone in Australia- I want a great story, like my parents. And, let’s be honest, even if I meet him at a bus spotting convention held in a public library, it’ll be a great story simply because it was filmed on location on the other side of the world to where all my previous anecdotes had transpired.         

And I REALLY want to meet someone. All my female friends are sure I will; the phrase ‘aussie hunk’ has been bandied around, no doubt fuelled by Neighbors and its endless parade of speedo clad beefcake. I won’t pretend I’d say ‘ no’ if I were offered. Let’s be honest, I’d gorge myself on that beefcake.

The problem is, I think I’m expecting to meet someone, as though it were a god-given right. Sadly, I felt the same coming to uni in Edinburgh, and look how that turned out. It’s not good because it means my year will probably be a disappointment in at least one aspect, because unless I literally meet the love of my life down there, it won’t match up to the portent I’ve granted it. And the whole thing of my story beginning in the Amazon (well, technically in Peru, but can’t I have a little dramatization?) because, now, in my head, that’s what my family does. We find love in the exotic locales of the world. Nevermind that my sister met her current squeeze in Nottingham, nor that my maternal grandparents found each other in the village where Balley Kiss Angel was set.

Alack.

Of course, another reason I’d love to meet someone in Australia is that it would blow my sister’s story out of the water and automatically make me the most interesting person in my family. And it would be so romantic because I’d have a lover on the other side of the world and we’d skype all the time in fourth year and it’d be a relief from all the studying and I’d get to say my antipodean paramour because I’m pretentious like that and then I’d move back to Oz once I’d graduated and we’d live together and have so many wild adventures and then we’d get adopt a baby which I’m not sure is legal over there and then we’d get married which I’m certain is not. But we wouldn’t just stay in Australia, oh no, we’d live all over the world and I’d visit Arrequipa and find that it wasn’t quite as romantic as the public library of Wangabanga and then when I died everyone would reflect on my life and be all ‘goddamn but that man was interesting’.

Is that so much to ask?