Thursday, November 11, 2004

November 8 (Monday): It’s A No-Brainer. Big day for me, the return of Phoebe Luk into my life whilst I really really need to consume all knowledge available (I just cannot afford to fail these exams again).

It begins with a hic-cup, when after a restless night I awaken at 2.30 AM thinking that it is time to get and go. Fucking idiot. I manage to get back to sleep eventually and when my alarm swings at my head on 6AM I wake up feeling very dozy, feeling very sorry for myself.

Outside it is still pitch black and dark which is all too conducive to a slow start. Eventually I get my stuff together (physically and mentally) and get to the station in good time. My bad beginning continues when I pull out my cellphone headphones to find one of the heads has fallen off. And this means when I get on the train and listen to Moyles, he is not muffled and other passengers get subjected to him prompting one toffee commuter to give me a very offended and aggressive look. Stark raving exhausted I glare right back, taking several seconds to even compute his disgust. All is forgotten however when Moyles chucks on “Sunday Sunday” by Blur. This becomes the point my day begins to turn around.

When I arrive at Liverpool Street, the Central Line is pretty loaded and very tense. And later I realise it turns out that I didn’t need to go on the Central Line at all. As I bored the train on autopilot, pretty much still half asleep, I have the plan of getting off at Bank in order to get to King’s Cross via the Northern Line. These really are the tactics of a rookie. And I reach the total uncomfort zone on the Central when some guy seems to have no remorse about pretty much sitting on my crotch/dick. I spend a few minutes considering stick my finger up his arse to make him move but only reach the conclusion that this would be something he would probably enjoy.

Eventually I get off the hell train, onto something a lot more civilised and the Northern Line route to King’s Cross. Upon arriving at King’s Cross I remember I actually have no idea where BPP in King’s Cross is actually situated. I look up the address and it is Pentonville Road. That’s on Monopoly isn’t? I leave the station by way of the Thameslink exit.

BPP King’s Cross actually turns out to be situated next to a place called The Poor School which, by judging on the adverts, is an acting school which produced (spewed out) Kat Slater on the world. Today, I am really on the map.

I just about find my classroom in the new King’s Cross college and immediately I see Phoebe. She has changed her hair and I don’t like this style/do as much as the old one. Nevermind. We chat and make nice nice, like I never had any feelings for in the first place. Long out the window now are my attempts to impress her by learning/speaking Cantonese. And worse, today I find myself finding her voice annoying. I have to say, rightly or wrongly, today I find myself looking past Phoebe as I check out the talent in/of the classroom, my eyes wandering past her towards the short, dumpy oriental girl/lady in Dame Edna glasses and the beautiful black woman (with hair in sexy brown dreads) sat in front of me.

Initial impressions of the new college are not good when our drinks vending machine doesn’t work and I spend the majority of the morning struggling to stay awake, gasping for any variety of fluid/juice.

Today’s tutor is unfortunate. She is young and looks like a cross between Cathy Tyson (from Mona Lisa) and ET. Generally I find myself attracted to teachers (some people like maids, some people like police women, I like teachers) but not her for some reason. Initially I don’t rate her teaching but I still feel good about this subject, for some reason audit represents a concept I can get with and identify mainly through the whole common sense of it. Had I been on the job, Enron would not have happened/occurred (ho ho).

Mid morning I receive a text from B, really out of the blue. This causes some distraction to my course as I question myself: “is this the third anniversary of her going absolutely mental at me at my flat?”. In the text, she is asking me if she can call me up on the telephone. Why do people suddenly feel they need permission to telephone me? Her call really is probably just her asking me to put out a record on Gringo Records by some shitty band she is in in Nottingham. Two years too late babe.

Today, I have a headache and could do without being here.

At lunchtime, I head/walk down the Pentonville Road looking for somewhere to get some lunch. Scary experience. Is it scary though or am I just paranoid? Regardless, it seems pretty short on decent places to get food. Eventually I wind up in some Italian place (the only place that isn’t Asian) and I struggle to buy something when the lady behind the counter has as much trouble understanding my accent (mockney/estury) as I do understanding her accent (Italian?). Eventually, with much grunting and pointing, I wind up with some spicy chicken sandwich in indescribable bread. And it is the most fantastic tasting thing I have eaten in weeks.

I manage to talk through lunch with Phoebe, with have this and that to catch up on (since our last meeting back in August) but really, the pair of us do not have that much stuff to report having done in the meantime. And I wish it as otherwise.

The afternoon session kicks off with the tutor using terms such as “brain dump” and “knowledge dump” whilst describing how to answer exams questions; are these City terms? Should I be adding them to my personal dictionary/vocabulary? All thoughts disappear though when the tubby girl continues to persist in asking stupid questions and then some other person vocally expresses that they don’t know what deferred income is a liability (“surely it’s a debtor?”).

We have a great afternoon break, me and Phoebe chatting. I show her the Hunter S. Thompson book I am currently reading (Kingdom Of Fear) and when she picks up on the word “godfather” on the back, she tells me that everytime she saw Sopranos adverts on TV, that she thought of me. Phoebe however becomes most animated when she tells me how her Gran in Hong Kong has just been baptised and the wacky things she is now coming out with and saying. And Phoebe tells me the story so loudly, that the whole/remainder of the class can hear. I have to admit, it embarrasses me a bit.

The study part of the day ends and I head back to Liverpool Street to get home. While I wait for my train, I see some gimp I used to go to school with called Michael Wilson. Maybe my dream on Saturday about an old school acquaintance was about the wrong Wilson. I really need to quit peaking at Friends Reunited.

Eventually I get home to Colchester and pop into Asda for some dinner in the process. When I arrive back at Bohemian Grove, there is a James Bond DVD I had forgotten that I had actually ordered (the movie with Michelle Yeoh in, probably purchased because to wank to it/her at some point).

Tired and lonely, I am not long for the evening and soon nod off. Sara (Haslett) however wakes me up on MSN and we proceed to have a lengthy chat, mainly about her coming back to the UK in December.

Tonight on Channel Four is the showing of the final episode of season five of The Sopranos. I’ve said it many times before but this really was a fantastic way to end a fantastic series. One day, I’ll tell you why.

My night ends with the Brady Bunch Sequel on BBC1. This film is actually fantastic, really clever and funny in the process when really it should by rights just be some chumpy TV spin-off throwaway movie but there is actually some dark stuff (humour) going on in this film. It’s a good way/note to turn in for the day.

np: Taj Mahall – John The Revelator


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