Oh, i love coming home! Not for the particularly good reasons, like seeing my family or anything, (Actually, my sisters being rather horrid these weekend. My mother claims i am actually missed, but it's sometimes hard to believe.) but for seeing myself. The mirror i have in Sheffield is only a small one, above my sink, and i can never get far enough away to see much of myself. Here, though, there are full length mirrors everywhere, and i can even see myself in windows and dressers. It's not that i particularly like my reflection, it's just so gratifying to see the change since i left in September. I am a lot thinner. I thought my mother was just fulfilling her maternal duties in telling me this every time she saw me, but it's really true. I've lost weight, or at least moved it a bit. Part of it, i think, is that the mirrors back here haven't seen very much of me in the last few months, so whenever i'm back, they always show me at my best, looking tall, and almost skinny. Maybe my mother just bought mirrors that do this because she doesn't like being short. Anyway, whatever the reasons, and i do recognise the utter vanity of this, it's a lovely burst to my self-esteem, which never goes amiss with me.
A week ago, last Friday, was Climax. An event always greatly anticipated, butt which i never enjoy quite as much as i hope to. I know why, of course. I'm still horribly given to obsession. The boy who's transfixed me for some time now is inevitably there, irresistible and unapproachable. People will start questioning the strength of my bladder, the number of trips i took to the toilet in the hope of a mere glimpse of him on the way there and back, and my wish that he notice me (He is not entirely outside my sphere. He knows me by name; we have even conversed.) was once fulfilled, although i worry this may have been at the cost of my secret. Subtlety has never been my strong suit, and it actually seems to be abandoning me even more as i grow up.
Also that night, there were people from my old school. I fear i was awfully rude. I was slightly caught up already, both with my obsessing and with the fact that we were meant to be celebrating Fiona's birthday. I, on encountering them, immediately became my old, quiet self. (To be honest, not all that different from my current self, most of the time.) They were people i'd liked, but never had chance to get used to being comfortable around. These were the people who were always scarily sure of themselves, and of their sexuality, back in a time when i still thought of myself as 'just me'. (I think now that maybe me isn't always such a terrible thing to be.) Of course, i wasn't entirely the person they'd known. I was wearing white ribbons in my hair, and mascara and eyeliner. (My eyeliner, which i lost in the course of that evening.) I'd have liked to stay and talk, but i quickly fled. I hope they didn't think i was shunning them. I saw them a few times again later, but was still unable to converse.
And, of course, it was Fiona's birthday. We'd started the evening in her room, where i once again met her many wonderful friends. My hair was tied in ribbons, and i was convinced to wear more make-up than i ever had before. (More than i eve had off stage. My brief (If stellar) appearance as Eugene hardly counts.) There was a magnificent game of keeping balloons off the floor, and a wonderful rendition of Wuthering Heights by a beribboned Ellie. There was drunkenness, and spillage of its cause. And it was fun.
After Climax i had Ellie and Julia (Both off whom i'd had the pleasure of meeting at least twice before.) round to stay in Rivendell, as there wasn't space for all of Fiona's guests in Fiona's room. We had rather a memorable journey back; the two of them, frozen with the cold, wore everything they'd brought, bringing me dreams filled with Russian refugees as i slept that night.
The next day, Fiona's birthday proper, was brilliant. I will always remember with a smile the game of rounders we played, all (Well, most of us.) dressed in period costume. I was a vaguely Victorian gent. (Though there were many accusations that i looked like a pimp.) There were Victorian maids, (Also granted pimp status, as the day wore on.) seventies hippies, (As we walked to the park she was granted the honour of actually looking vaguely normal, flanked by we two Victorians.) sixties... whatever you call people from the sixties, futuristic maidens, (Seen from a sixties perspective, and therefore doubly period.) Moulin Rouge style dancers, and Fiona herself, decked out in a beautiful French eigthteenth (possibly) century gown. (It strikes me now that i was actually the only boy in period costume. Not one of the other chaps had made such an effort.) There was also a picnic, at which i got slightly uptight about my possibly ruined blankets. (We'll know in about a months time, when i bring them home, along with all my worldly possessions.)
Sunday followed. (Do bear with me, there's some possible excitement with a boy to come on Tuesday. And nothing happened on Monday, so we're almost there.) This was the day on which Singsoc were to perform The Creation, by Haydn, and Fiona and i a part of it. Except she chickened out. I didn't enjoy it as much as i had the last rehearsal, but we still gave a good concert, and on our way back to Fiona's halls, which was to be the last time i saw all but one of the party goers that weekend, we were treated to a stunning fireworks display. It was truly spectacular, and went on for about a quarter of an hour. As the first bang streaked the sky we were at an interval between two houses, and so had an unparalleled view for the entire thing. It was terribly exciting. Of course, this wasn't actually Sunday. I'm a fool, and we are in fact still on Saturday evening.
Now we arrive at Sunday, notable only for it's double bill of The OC, watched in the company of Fiona and Ellie, as we discussed our upcoming sojourn to the Americas.
And now, skipping Monday, on to Tuesday, the evening. On a vaguely monthly basis, we (The LGB committee of Sheffield University.) run a night a small one, called Out. Generally, much fun is had. (There've been three so far.) It is DJed by the committee and anyone else who wishes to. I was one of these DJs, for my second time. I gave, i like to believe, not just on the evidence of my own opinion, but on that of my friends and even our resident curmudgeon, rather a good set. People danced. But this is not the important part of the evening.
At one point, i had a conversation, briefly, as i departed the DJ booth, on the merits of Busted's Year 3000. I wasn't entirely in favour of it, though i will confess to begrudgingly dancing to it from time to time. As long as everyone acknowledges that i am, of course, dancing ironically, because i am so indie.
Shortly after i was approached on behalf of the boy with whom i had just conducted this conversation that i was cute. i, baffled as ever by compliments, dismissed this with a gruff "Don't be silly, no i'm not," or something along those lines, and scuttled off, back to Beth, whom i told about this, adding the information that i might think he also was 'cute'. (Although of course, i would never stoop to such base Americanism. Except when i'm being a hypocrite. Which is always.) He himself soon approached, asking,
"Does don't be silly mean 'No'?"
"I don't know," i spluttered. "Not really. No. I'm no good at this." Or similar. And that was it, for a while, until i worked up the courage to go to him, dragging my lesbian along for support, although possibly in her professional capacity as a zoologist. I think i was trying to hide her behind my back, lest he somehow work out my crippling social inadequacy and fear of boys in general. i don't believe this worked.
The conversation progressed slightly through our intermediaries, until i made an excuse and fled to the toilet, in hot pursuit of Beth, who had pleaded (I'm pretty sure that shouldn't be 'pled'.) the same urinary inadequacy. Our brief discussion, on leaving the toilets, (Separate toilets, of course. I have no desire to see ladies in any way exposed.) the subject of which i forget, was interrupted by the strains of Filthy/Gorgeous, leading me to drag her back to the dance floor, picking up Fiona along the way.
We were soon joined by this fellow, who i was now beginning to get a better idea of the shape off. Not, generally, unattractive, (lest ye forget, reader, that i am the shallowest of the shallow.) but not, to my tastes, desperately attractive either. But then, the person who was closest to the one i hold in my head i had quickly rejected back at the start of the year, for reasons still not entirely known to myself. He isn't, as i'd hoped, tall. His eyes seem to have something odd, but indefinably so, about them, and his hand, when he took mine, was coarse, and dry. All the same, we swapped numbers, and it wasn't long after we'd parted again that i received his text: "I think your gorgeouse. X." Much has been made of this, in my head. I am willing to forgive, on the grounds of probable drunkenness, but i am of course now on my guard for further mistakes, both orthographic and grammatical. And it is worth pointing out that in his second text to me (At two o'clock in the evening of the following day, asking why i had not answered his text. (The truthful answer being that i have no idea what to do with compliments, and generally try to ignore them, lest i believe them to be true. (I've used the word 'lest' at least twice in this entry. Everyone will be thinking i'm awfully pretentious. Everyone will, of course, be right.)) to which i replied pleading once again my inexperience and nervousness in such matters, but telling him that my schedule prevented us from meeting until next week. This elicited the response "I can wait." I am yet to reply, though i have decided to go out with him.) he misspelled 'disappointed.' His third text, three words long, contained no errors. I do realise what a horrible portrait of myself i am painting.
The thing is, i don't know that i want a boyfriend. I'm still settling into my friendships, and i'm happy, now, as i am, most of the time, and nobody can be happy all the time. My sexual lusts have never been all that great and i do possess the means to sate these to an extent. (I'm sure some people will be shocked, if not by the fact that this does in fact occur, by the fact that i admit it, i, who preserve, or attempt to, such an air of innocence, naivete and asexuality.) Indeed, at my worst times, i am quite happy to turn to my books for solace. (It has been pointed out (Although i take the credit for the wording.) that i bring a new meaning to the word 'bibliophile'.) I don't know that i want a relationship.
And then there's my previous obsession. I find it hard to shrug these things off. My previous two have both taken weeks to pass (Though pass they have. They've had to.) I can't stop myself comparing this suitor, and comparing him unfavourably, to the boy with whom, if i were possessed of some self-confidence, i would ply my own suit.
But, despite this, and without the greatest of hopes, (Due to my own flaws, not his.) i have agreed to meet with him, to go, i suppose, on a date. The date and nature have not been set yet, once again due to my nervousness, but i suppose that will have to be done this weekend. And, who knows, perhaps i will surprise myself and give this fellow a chance, and grow to like him, and maybe more. But i really can't say.
