Late wake blues

Saturday... lazy ol’ Saturday- and yes, it has been lazy. I just realised that I have only left the building once today, and even then it wasn’t for long. I woke up this morning... or should I say, afternoon, dazed and confused. Yes, last night was very good indeed, so good in fact, that I had no time to write my daily blog, for which I apologise. It was Audrey, a French International student (and good friend)’s Birthday so I was invited up to the party at her flat earlier that day.

Inevitably, I forgot the room number that I’d so carefully been trying to remember ever since I agreed to go to the party. I knocked at one door... no response- which was a shame, because I could’ve sworn it was that room. Nonetheless I tried to rationalise, planning my next steps. In the end, I shuffled to the elevator waiting room and texted Audrey : ‘Sorry- which room do you live at, again?’ Agonising minutes passed with no response. Then I realised I’d just have to try some of the doors at random. So I did. After I knocked at the first door, a few moments later Audrey appeared, smiling widely. I was so taken aback by my good luck that I stood, perplexed for a while, before greeting her, handing over the Birthday card and hugging her in polite awkwardness.

I was shown into the kitchen and quickly handed a can of fosters which I sipped, looking around at the 8 other girls in the kitchen. Immediately I felt outnumbered until Uris- a permanently drunk black French student stumbled in and we were introduced to each other. We’d met the other day in the union, but I didn’t really want to ruin the good intentions and so just went along with it all. I figured he had probably been drunk then too, so it was as good as not having met anyway. At once, I felt a little less uneasy, and less outnumbered. After a while of chatting and mingling we all headed to a small pub on the guildstreet walk outside. It was quite a fine old place, but what ruined it for me was the DJ/karaoke master. He shouted into the stupidly loud microphone all night. It was clear that he was only speaking for speaking’s sake, every time someone got up to sing he would pause the music at ‘hilarious’ points in the song and fill in with a course and distasteful remark.

For instance, one man was singing “Easy like a Sunday mornin’- By The Commodores.” And once, or even twice throughout the song the singer would approach the lyrics, ‘That’s why I’m Easy like a Sunday morning,’ and the DJ would change it to ‘That’s why I’m easy like your fucking wife!!!’ Everyone would turn away or tut silently to themselves, busying themselves with nothing in particular. It was all very peculiar- but still, I think Audrey enjoyed the evening. I mean, if you don’t know the song, you don’t know it’s being desecrated. On that note, not only did the DJ try to ruin the song, the singers pretty much mutilated the pieces until they were completely unrecognisable in the first place. So, I sat and quietly got smashed, in a vain attempt to get the night to make some sense. Alas, my plan failed, and I thanked god when everyone said they were going back to the flat. Not much else happened really, everyone was very subdued and at a very silly time in the morning we were all ushered out and bid farewell to each other.

So when I woke up this morning, I quickly decided that the best thing to do would be to make a bacon butty. Thankfully I didn’t burn anything and stumbled back into my room, feeling happy and slightly fatter than before. The rest of the day was spent rummaging around with the work I’d been set over the week, I managed to make a good start on the sketches, but was far too apathetic to go out and walk the route again for the project.

Later, I headed over to tescos, after asking if anyone else was planning to go and thus offer me some company. They all said that they would be going later, so I had to go by myself, still feeling wobbly and hungover. Fortunately I managed to buy everything I needed for the rest of the week, however beforehand I’d gone to a recipe book and recorded everything I would need for ‘roast honey duck,’ it sounded delicious. Problem was, no matter where I went, nobody sold duck breasts- I’d never really searched for them before but I went everywhere: Tescos (obviously), co-op, m&s, even a poultry seller at the market didn’t have any. So, dejectedly, I had to settle for chicken breasts instead. The meal was fine, just a little bland. I had the marinaded chicken with broccoli which was good and filling, though nonetheless, it was dull and when my brother told me that he, mum and gran were just about to go and get steaks I could feel my blood boil furiously.

Anyhow, the fact that I’ve managed to write this blog fully is a small miracle. I think I’m going to lie down and read a book for a while now, or perhaps go and irritate Dave a bit.

EDIT: Dave's just come into my room with a pint of vodka lemonade, screaming: "Let's get fucking wasted... nah nah nah nah nah! Let's go put some 'Kooks' on."