Given that the Christmas which has just passed is the first since the onset of the economic recession, you’d be forgiven for thinking that it was one of desolate dining tables , uncomfortable new boxers (courtesy of the Woolworths closing down sale) and presents salvaged from the attic (first received in 1998 but long since forgotten). You’d be forgiven equally for thinking that, in light of this, my January entry is about to disappear into a dark tunnel of snide political commentary or a vast labyrinth of complicated, opinionated and wholly implausible economic solutions. However, my Christmas holidays were actually very enjoyable. Admittedly I got very, very drunk the night before Christmas Eve and woke up surprised and alarmed in a strange room, but once I identified the person giving me my cup of tea I felt much better and the holidays resumed their aforementioned state of very-enjoyableness. A night out in Glasgow flew by in a blur of unfounded personal attacks on a man I don't know. Amusing though it would probably be to record the events of that night, I can’t remember anything. I was probably an embarrassment to those around me and doubtlessly engaged a lot of perfectly decent people in grossly inappropriate conversations but such is the risk one takes when inviting me to anything. No social gathering is safe from the malign influence of my inebriation.
Anywho, I awoke on Christmas morning to an impressive enough pile of presents. In this pile were the usual supply of amusing books, DVDs, sweets, CDs and miscellaneous bits and bobs. Of particular interest was a ticket to see Samuel Beckett’s ‘Waiting for Godot’ in April at the King’s Theatre, Edinburgh, starring none other than Patrick Stewart and Sir Ian McKellen! Seat C7 as well, which is nothing to be sniffed at, unless in a respectful and admiring manner, a sniffing such as one might bestow upon a particularly delicious and aromatic meal or...perhaps...a particularly well-positioned seat in a theatre. I’m sure it will be brilliant and a welcome break from the soul-sapping, will-to-live-devouring, hope-crushing, blood-pressure-raising process of University revision. I’m awful at revision. You see, in Standard Grade I was able to do fairly well without it. Unfortunately this innocent arrogance evolved, leaving the murky Precambrian waters of endearing schoolboy nonchalance and crawling on its belly into the Devonian landscape of flat-out future-endangering laziness. So in Higher, knowing I could at least pass without revising, I decided this was good enough and that I should mess about instead.
Mistake.
And a half.
I didn’t do as well as I could have and now that exams are important, I lack the mental tools and the motivation to begin revision more than twenty-four hours prior to the exam itself. Imagine you actually ingested information like food. In this world, rather than gradually working my way through a semester’s worth without notable fluctuations in my weight, absorbing the valuable nutritious facts like complex carbohydrates over a long period, I would force feed myself it all in one marathon binge-eating sesh. As a result I stumble into the exam hall, clothes ripped beyond recognition, struggling to excavate precious facts from the folds of fat flowing out of my chafing rags like lava down the side of a volcano. I think that metaphor is quite good at conveying just how horrible it is to “cram” all your revision into the day, or even the night, before the exam. Let the emotional scar of this mental image serve as a warning to you all!
But I have wandered far from the main subject of this entry. Christmas!
I now have ‘The World According to Clarkson’ to read while on the loo. It’s brilliant for this purpose as you can simply read a couple of articles in one sitting without becoming engrossed in the plot and character present in a novel. Hilarious though it is I have to cover it with a towel or something after I’m finished my business. The front cover shows a rather perplexed looking Jeremy Clarkson looking out at me, and the rear cover a barn owl with its head at a forty-five degree angle of unconcealed curiosity. I’d rather have neither of them staring at me while I sweep the chimney of the South wing.
It’s late as I write this in my newly decorated room. I have been displaced from the living room as it is impossible to concentrate on composing exaggeratedly verbose musings while deafened by the roar of X-Box 360 rally games. Dad seems to enjoy his new steering wheel controller though.
So I wish you all a good night (or a good whenever-you’re-reading-this) and wish everyone I didn’t see on the night a Happy New Year!
Yours,
Jamie.
Anywho, I awoke on Christmas morning to an impressive enough pile of presents. In this pile were the usual supply of amusing books, DVDs, sweets, CDs and miscellaneous bits and bobs. Of particular interest was a ticket to see Samuel Beckett’s ‘Waiting for Godot’ in April at the King’s Theatre, Edinburgh, starring none other than Patrick Stewart and Sir Ian McKellen! Seat C7 as well, which is nothing to be sniffed at, unless in a respectful and admiring manner, a sniffing such as one might bestow upon a particularly delicious and aromatic meal or...perhaps...a particularly well-positioned seat in a theatre. I’m sure it will be brilliant and a welcome break from the soul-sapping, will-to-live-devouring, hope-crushing, blood-pressure-raising process of University revision. I’m awful at revision. You see, in Standard Grade I was able to do fairly well without it. Unfortunately this innocent arrogance evolved, leaving the murky Precambrian waters of endearing schoolboy nonchalance and crawling on its belly into the Devonian landscape of flat-out future-endangering laziness. So in Higher, knowing I could at least pass without revising, I decided this was good enough and that I should mess about instead.
Mistake.
And a half.
I didn’t do as well as I could have and now that exams are important, I lack the mental tools and the motivation to begin revision more than twenty-four hours prior to the exam itself. Imagine you actually ingested information like food. In this world, rather than gradually working my way through a semester’s worth without notable fluctuations in my weight, absorbing the valuable nutritious facts like complex carbohydrates over a long period, I would force feed myself it all in one marathon binge-eating sesh. As a result I stumble into the exam hall, clothes ripped beyond recognition, struggling to excavate precious facts from the folds of fat flowing out of my chafing rags like lava down the side of a volcano. I think that metaphor is quite good at conveying just how horrible it is to “cram” all your revision into the day, or even the night, before the exam. Let the emotional scar of this mental image serve as a warning to you all!
But I have wandered far from the main subject of this entry. Christmas!
I now have ‘The World According to Clarkson’ to read while on the loo. It’s brilliant for this purpose as you can simply read a couple of articles in one sitting without becoming engrossed in the plot and character present in a novel. Hilarious though it is I have to cover it with a towel or something after I’m finished my business. The front cover shows a rather perplexed looking Jeremy Clarkson looking out at me, and the rear cover a barn owl with its head at a forty-five degree angle of unconcealed curiosity. I’d rather have neither of them staring at me while I sweep the chimney of the South wing.
It’s late as I write this in my newly decorated room. I have been displaced from the living room as it is impossible to concentrate on composing exaggeratedly verbose musings while deafened by the roar of X-Box 360 rally games. Dad seems to enjoy his new steering wheel controller though.
So I wish you all a good night (or a good whenever-you’re-reading-this) and wish everyone I didn’t see on the night a Happy New Year!
Yours,
Jamie.
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