Fie On You, Sundays!
It is no secret that I despise the seventh (or first, depending on your way of looking) day of the week. Sunday and I have this unsaid hatred that lies deep in the very bellies of our souls. The day annoys me. Maybe it harks back to a time when I had to go to church on this day and listen to how I was guilty of heinous sins and unless I repented like the sinning little bitch that I was, I would burn for all eternity in the firey pits of Hell. It may also be down to the fact that when I think of Sundays, I think of all the crap television that I had to sit through on Sunday afternoons (possibly the worst time on Sundays), or at least flick through to check out what other tripe was being broadcast. Songs of Praise, Antiques Roadshow, Channel 4 Racing. I am, however, pretty certain that most of my detestation of this, the horror of all horrors is the fact that nothing is open. And if it deigns it necessary to open, it shuts at 4pm. That means that you have to plan in advance the fact that later, you’re going to want chocolate or ice cream or cheese on toast or just something that isn’t goddamn, motherfucking Snack-a-Jacks-because-someone-decided-they-were-going-to-try-and-be-healthy-and-then-stopped-when-they-got-ill-and-just-couldn’t-be-arsed-to-start-it-up-again. It gets to about 7pm and one’s mind turns to dinner and what you’re going to have. However, the laugh is on you because you forgot to plan ridiculously in advance and now you’re left with the options of eating that minging bit of chicken you’ve left in the back of the freezer for ages in the hope that it’ll piss someone off and they can throw it out so you don’t have to, or your left arm. Needless to say, you can only partake of the latter once and so you’ve got to bide your time well, because you never know when you may be stuck in the desert, or the jungle, or chained to an Iranian’s radiator and you need the sustenance that your limb would provide.
So after eating my steamed meal, followed by Snack-a-Jack popcorn (don’t even get me started) and a Ryvita bar (resembling vaguely cherry flavoured slabs of nutty cardboard) I’m sat here in a state of despair. Judi did give me the idea of trekking to the library and using the vending machines there, but part of me just can’t be arsed. But then the other side of me (you know, the side that used to weigh as much as a medium-sized hippo and consumed roughly the same amount os Uganda per month) is telling me to get off my fat arse and go and get some chocolate. Or sweets. Or just something that will sate my clawing, yearning desire to eat something so bad for me that just looking at it may send me into wild, uncontrollable convulsions. I would, after all, be burning off calories on the journey to and from the machines. But I can’t. Not really. Can I?
On other issues, I think everyone should be watching Heroes. I’m really starting to get into it – it’s a little bit like Lost and X-Men combined, although any questions it poses, it seems to answer (I’m hoping that this trend continues of course).
I went out to Nightingales last night in Brum. Although a good night was had by all, it still was nowhere near as auspiscious as a) I had hoped it would be or b)other nights out have been before. Never, really, have I had a good night at “the Gale”. Not in the class of Bows or DV8, dives as they very well may be. There’s just something about Gales that doesn’t sit right with me. Oh, and the drinks are really expensive. And there’s a piano-playing tranny, but I’m pretty certain that goes in the club’s favour.
Week 7 starts tomorrow and it’s starting to get a bit scary. I did very little in Reading Week and rehearsals for Bat Boy start on Tuesday. I need to get a degree as well as preparing a show for a week before my exams. Quiote stressful, I can tell you, but I refuse to let myself get bogged under – other people have done it, why shouldn’t I? I’m just hoping that the show will end up kicking ass, because otherwise, failing my degree for it may have been a futile waste. At least if it’s good, I can get some sort of pleasure knowing that I wasted 4 years of my life for something that people enjoyed – ever the submissive martyr, that’s me!
Right – I’m going to sign off and battle with my inner demons against the powers that want chocolate. Hope everyone is staying well!