A Waste Of Time

Thursday, September 01, 2005

Late Night Road Trip

I woke up half an hour ago. It's 3pm now.

When will people in my family learn that I really don't want to be talked to in the first couple of hours in the day? And they also know that presently the first couple of hours in my day happen between about 2 and 4 pm. I was having breakfast downstairs and reading the paper. My dad came in and kept going on about going to the dentists and about what he was doing that day and blah blah blah. I replied with cave-man like grunts, and hoped he'd go away. He didn't, so I did.

Last night was ridiculous. Was sitting at home watching Lost on TV when Cirrhotic Offy Manager rang me. He wanted to know if the bloke who lived on my road was still dealing. I said I'd give him a ring. He was, like the rest of the place, dry as...dry as...dry as... sorry I don't have the mental capacity today to think of a decent simile. Dry as the sahara?? Dry as a post-joint mouth? More apt come to think of it, and is the best you're getting this morning (afternoon). So I ring him back Cirrhotic Offy Manager and tell him so. Shit he says. Long story short: we drive to Southampton to pick up. One of our best mates lives down there, post degree, and is dealing at the moment. I think the main factor in our trip was the fact that I am getting so bored being in my hometown now. 90% boredom + 10% wanting a smoke = roadtrip to Southampton.


So we set off at 11pm, arrived in S'hampton at about 12ish. Get lost for a while in the S'hampton docks and then finally find where we're supposed to be going. We turn up at these posh block of flats, proper swank like, and say hi to our mate Joint HappenStance. Skin up, smoke on the balcony, laugh at the stupidity of the whole thing, walk to cash point, get 20s, walk back to flat, pay up, drive home. "Hypocrite!", I hear you cry: "after your high-horsedness over Repressed Homosexual Army Boy's drunk drive home, here you are getting high and getting lost in south-east England!". Well, I maintain that stoned driving is actually as safe, if not safer than sober driving. COM was doing slower than the speed limit, being very cautious at every junction and roundabout, checking everything twice, and generally being safer than pretty much any driver. Compare that with drunk driving boy racers who speed home, being about as cautious as... here we go again... erm as cautious as a lion in goat enclosure. How was that? Not too shabby, not too poetic. Guess it'll do.

Regardless, we get home. He gives me a lift back to mine, I have another joint and read The Stand for a couple of hours, hence the 5am bedtime.

Today, oh glorious day, is the day-after-the-smoke-before: when one can stare out of a window and not think of anything for minutes at a time. The thoughts in one's head can be counted on the fingers of one hand. Time ticks away, and thoughts stay in the subconscious where they belong. Which is a great contrast to the time when you are smoking: thoughts, stupid most of them, but the occasional gem, coming at you left, right and centre.

Life's about the highs and lows.


Tuesday, August 30, 2005

The Delights Of Homegrown Pubs and Lobsters

Monday evening

Went out last night to the joy that is my hometown. Pub with karaoke. Pub with cheap drinks. Pub with crap music. Pub stuffed full of hooligans who think that having a fight when on a night out is the highlight of any week. Pub stuffed with underage girls who think that sex with said hooligans is highlight of any week.

Me? I tend to get very drunk, laugh with my rapidly diminishing group of friends who are still living in hometown, dance for ages (usually on my own as I feel repressed when dancing with other people, especially male friends who can't dance for shit) and go home. And eat sandwiches with far too much mayonnaise in.

Tried chatting up possible queerboy who had attached himself to our group. Thought he was possibly gay as had good haircut, looked like he looked after himself and seemed far too asexual with girl best friend. Came out casually in the conversation. Didn't get any response. Went off to dance.

Was out with Cambridge Giant, Repressed Homosexual Army Boy, Under-the-Thumb, Too Cool For Whatever and Cirrhotic Offy Manager. Had quite a good night really, but only because we embarked on a mini pubcrawl, and therefore spent little time in each pub. Cirrhotic Offy Manager had to go home early because he's ironically a lightweight. Under-the-Thumb spent most the night on the phone to his missus and went home about midnight with Cambridge Giant. Too Cool For Whatever spent his time milling about with different people (too cool to stay with one group of friends all night obviously). Repressed Homosexual Army Boy, whom I've slept a couple of times and still claims to be 100% straight, kept looking me in the eye, got his cock out and flailed it round the pub, and then drove home drunk. Me, sitting high up on my horse, decided that I'd rather pay £6 for a taxi, than endanger other people on the drive home. I don't think he could give a fuck about anyone but himself. He has these extreme right-wing views. He sees people who aren't white as something he can tread on, and then complain about the damage to his shoes. He's the kind of friend that you hang on to because you've known them for 15 years, as opposed to because you actually respect them on enjoy their company.

On a lighter note: am going to Spain on holiday next week. I rarely go on holiday these days, you can't afford to when you've maxed out two student overdrafts, have spent all the student loan, and have no credit cards. Thank god. I dread to think what would happen if someone gave me a credit card. Probably try and buy as much of my hometown as possible and have it bulldozed and have some sheep and cows installed instead.

In addition to being skint, I also burn in about five minutes when placed in direct sunlight. A bit like a Gremlin with skin. And freckles. So my options for holidays are a) lie under a large umbrella b) go sightseeing or c) go somewhere cold. Option a) has always seemed a bit pointless. Option b) is tempting, but then I realise that I'm very lazy. Option c) is one I have yet to try out.

I'm only going with option a) because a university friend has a place over there with a pool, suggested the holiday, booked me my flights, and is probably taking me to the airport and back. God I'm such a leech. Heh. I'm going to slather myself in factor 5000 and read The Stand all week.

Sunday, August 28, 2005

Fake, Fraud or Fishicidal Maniac?

I sometimes think that medical students have the worst of both worlds: working a full week on wards and in clinics, and yet getting paid nothing. My term only finished two weeks ago. If I wasn't doing an intercalated BSc next year, I would have to go back in a week. As it is, I get six whole weeks of summer holidays, like the nippers at primary and secondary schools. So musn't grumble about the full-time-no-wage-abused-by-consultants-unfairness-of-it-all.

So for a year I'm studying genetics and being a proper student again. T-shirts and jeans! Getting up at 11am! Falling asleep in lectures! Getting wasted mid-week without vague sense of guilt at being hungover and useless in front of patients the next day! Hurrah! Must apologise for overuse of the exclamation mark - I've always mistrusted people who use it excessively. They always tend to be of the "I'm crazy me! Must use !!!! all the time!!! Because my life is just so mad and people need to know just how MAD IT IS!!!!!!!!!" type. Anyway, I digress.

This year was my first year in the clinics and wards. Actual proper doctor stuff. Obviously we have little authority, responsibility, or indeed knowledge, but it makes you feel slightly important as you wander around, stethoscope slung around neck. Sometimes you can daydream that you're Dr. Carter and that you have a job to do and those pen-pushers and bureaucrats can stuff it where the sun don't shine. Then you're brought back to reality when one of the consultants on a teaching ward round decides to ask you something about mitral valve prolapse or colorectal cancer. You try to blag some answer, only realising you're talking utter tripe when you finish some lame sentence and the consultant rolls his eyes/calls you stupid/laughs/walks off. Or all of the above.

Passed the year though. My results ranged from average, to somewhere near the top of the class. Feel somewhat like a fraud though in that I knew what was in one of the exams. You may feel that I should feel like a complete fraud, or no less than an inexcusable cheat, but believe me when I say that 90% of the year knew what was in that exam. It was the practical part, things like putting in cannulas, examining the cardiovascular system, communication skills. Having prior knowledge is only slightly useful - by the end of the year, you either know how to do these things with proficiency or you don't. You simply can't cram these things in the hour I had for the first half, or the 15 minutes I had for the second half. Indeed, in some ways it makes you lose some marks. "What!" I hear you cry, but it's true. In the history taking for example, because I knew the diagnosis, I jumped straight in, and didn't exclude the other possibilities.

Still, feel bit of a fraud as a certificate for merit came throught the letterbox the other day.

On a different subject: the pond's coming on nicely. Finished fishing out the fish crap from the bottom, and laid the new black lining over the top of the old. Started filling the pond with fresh new water, and probably in the process have inflicted a hosepipe ban on the whole of south Bucks. Ah well. My dad woke me at 11:30 am with requests to finish the job, but I wanted to snooze. In the words of Garfield: I am allergic to mornings. Additionally, I had got to bed really late/really early as I was reading till 3 am. Finally finished Bill Bryson's "Notes from a Small Island", which I was alternatively thoroughly impressed, and then thoroughly bored by.

So I sought two further hours refuge in bed. As a result six more fish died in their temporary home: an old bathtub. I think they died due to lack of oxygen and an excess of heat. So I am an incidental fish murderer.

To be honest, it's not something that will lay heavily on my conscience.


xxxxxxxxxx

Saturday, August 27, 2005

First things first...

I wonder why I'm doing this?

Do I have anything significant to share with the world?
Or, at least interesting to share with other bloggers?

I think I started this because I was fascinated with the idea of reading other people's thoughts and experiences. The idea isn't necessarily revolutionary, but it's certainly something that has never been possible before. Before the internet, you could read other people's diaries, but it was considered bad form.

I suppose this is a little like legalised cannabis; legit, but slightly less exciting.

Then I thought, if I wanted to read other blogs, I should probably do my own. Do unto others, and all that.

So me then, in no particular order...

I'm the ripe old age of 22; eager; stupid; ginger; a medical student; part-time supermarket worker, full time idiot; easily amused, easily pleased; secretely bored/irritated by most people; good liar, bad sportman, moderate looker; gay; lover of trashy books, intelligent films, eating (generally); hater of loud people, pointless violence, fat people whingeing about being fat who neither exercise nor eat less (I'm ex-fat so I'm allowed to whinge about the whingers...), binge drinking, binge smoking, binge eating, binge student, binge stoner, binge binger.

(all these labels, all these boxes to tick)

Realised today, as I was standing in our near-empty pond bucketing out slime that had collected in the bottom, that I was standing in 10 years' worth of fish and duck shit. My dad had decided to lay a new black liner, as the water level in the pond had kept going down for a month, and I was the worker horse brought in to shovel shit. It came up to mid-shin level. Maybe 40 gallons of aquatic shit. I probably should've worn wellingtons.

I'd been thinking that I'd bring up my queerness whilst I was working with my dad. Nothing so exotic as coming out, as that had been done and dusted a few years earlier. But more, to try and get my dad to talk about it. He wasn't depressed/angry/whatever with me coming out. At least I don't think he was that depressed/angry/whatever because he hasn't mentioned the fact since. Hence me thinking about bringing it up.

I think I have a right to remain annoyed with him. Coming out's the hard part, all he has to do is inquire occasionally if I'm dating, or if I have my eye on someone. Until he does, I think I'll just continue to avoid his eyes, unless absolutely necessary. Or bring home a 6 foot black guy and have sex all night long in the room next to his.

That probably wouldn't help matters much though.

That'll do.

xxxxxxx