A brief pause and a lack of chocolate

The number of books I should be reading instead of writing is impressive. A visual may help to demonstrate the extent of my procrastination, to whit:

There is a theme. Unfortunately the theme is "Bloody complicated"

But things are slowly coming together, and I have another 5.5 hours before they finally throw me from the building, so all in all not too bad. Aside from the fact that the vending machines are empty. I suspect that's going to become more of a problem as the night wears on, especially knowing that my last chance saloon of cocoa-based goodness closes at midnight. Can my resolve beat my craving for a dark chocolate KitKat?

(probably not)

Since the last time I blogged there has been rather a strange conversation with The Woman, the details of which are complex even in my mind but seem to be paradoxical to say the very least. I shall have to bend my mind to the subject, which actually provides rather a pleasant break from the dissertation.

That needs more emphasis.

The Dissertation

To which the majority of the books in the picture above are dedicated. However, the whole thing's hit a bit of a snag - I opened a book I rather hoped would be one of my core texts and read "research on sexism in language is rare in English and even rarer in French." which has really put a dampener on my whole mood. On the other hand, a friend of mine who's also likely going to spend all night here has expressed jealousy in my chosen topic while two others, one all the way in St Andrews, have told me that it's terribly exciting to be at the forefront of human knowledge (admittedly in a very small area of human knowledge, but still) and I should quit moaning and get writing. 

And since I've finished my soup and that seems like a fitting end, I shall do as advised.

Postscript: The reason I never seem to have any time free is becoming clearer to me, after I spent twenty minutes pondering whether or not I should go to work like this:

Can you believe I've ever had a partner? I can't sometimes.

I am not a smart man.

It's the most wonderful time of the year

At least, it is if you're a fourth year student of French at the University of Aberdeen. If not - if, say, you're a final year student of a real subject like my friend (and superior writer) +Monique Bouffe - then I guess this is a special kind of awful time of the year. She's actually the inspiration for this post because if she can blog while revising such awful things as the Polish constitution while I sit here sipping a ginger and pineapple and vodka drink...

(It needs a name. I'll get to the name later.)

...then I should really be able to gather my thoughts to write a blog, especially when so much has happened in the last few days. Not because I've made a resolution to live a more exciting life, but because my birthday was 4 days ago and an old flame crossed the water. That's a remarkably fancy way of saying that Mary came to visit Kate and me, but I am a fancy sort of chap.

We trekked around a lot of Aberdeen and Aberdeen repaid us with the best weather it could provide: rain, a side helping of rain and torrential rain to follow, with a theme of gale force winds throughout. Never have three people been so unpleasantly wet in the pursuit of things to do and see in Aberdeen, but we came through it with the aid of home cooked meals and Canadian whisky.

Last year I bought Mary a fancy pocket-watch; she likes clocks where you can see the gears moving. She was very pleased with the gift and I was very pleased with myself, but thought nothing more of it until she rocked up with my birthday gift: a book called The Devil's Picture Books, a tome about cards that was published exactly 100 years before my birth. I now own something that is a century older than I am and I confess I think that's wicked cool.

I've also received money from relatives, which as a student is the most perfect gift to receive - it can go on anything: from heating my little flat a bit more as the winter draws to a close to meaning I have enough for a little treat from the supermarket. It's probably going to be chorizo or beer. I've also got cards adorning my mantlepiece, reminding me that I'm not quite out of mind. It's peculiar and wonderful that people I saw only two weeks ago wished me a happy birthday and still felt they had to send a card. Love them.

Cards. The one on the end is on cards because inception.

The last night was spent in the good company of the many beers provided by Six Degrees North, a Belgian-style beer bar on Littlejohn Street over by Morrison's. I have no doubt you've already been there but if you haven't go there immediately. I insist. I do. Kate took charge of the camera and went fantastically snap-leaving me free to teach Mary how to play rummy - a game at which she immediately beat me three rounds in a row. My mother would be deeply unimpressed.

She left the next day, but I managed to introduce her to a Scottish breakfast before she left. She fought bravely but it defeated her; the only thing in all the rain and gloom that had. And that is the end of this blog; my procrastination now over as I refocus on French theatre of the 16th century. I'll be doing my best to blog more.

Not a resolution. Just a promise to try.