On Sunday we go to the movies. We walk single-file down car park ramps and I feel as though maybe we could be the last people on earth. I love those moments. When you can, just for a little while, be totally oblivious to the turn of the world. Its nice to think that everything could stop or something horrible could happen and you’d be totally unaware for just a little bit longer. Tonight there are three of us in this post-apocalyptic car park. Usually I’m alone when I feel like this.
On Monday we power-walk from a lecture through the dark forest, rubbing our arms and complaining about the cold. We loose ourselves for a couple of hours in Dungeons and Dragons and another universe that could almost be real. It doesn’t matter that we’re really sitting around a cramped table under fluorescent lights. There are more important things than that.
We get terribly lost in the backstreets of Newcastle on Thursday night while trying to find checkpoints in a scavenger hunt. We decide spontaneous social outings are good ones and also that we’ll plan better for next year. The contradiction doesn’t occur to me until the morning. I come home with a green bucket, a glow-stick and two plastic cups in the back seat of my car.
Friday the whole uni is celebrating something. It doesn’t really matter what it is. Its one of those days that somehow steals extra hours and makes them last forever. We make cup-cakes and give them to friends and semi-friends and strangers at the uni bar. We overstay our welcome (and the amount of food we collectively paid for) at McDonalds. I go to bed early, even though it feels awfully late.
On Sunday we’re in the same room as Dylan Moran. Even if it is rather a large room. We prepare by buying books and eating ice-cream and whirling in collective excitement. I laugh until the muscles ache and only half of that is thanks to the comedian the night was all about.
I leave the house on Wednesday morning planning to be home by two. At two I’m deeply engaged in a circular discussion which lasts hours and hours and, like a whirlpool, pulls people into it. We go bowling in the evening and I’m still wearing the jumper I threw on in frustration early that morning. I would have dressed better if I’d known how the day would pan out. My outfit rather fails to do it justice.
On Friday we race wind-up daleks on my pool table. The little metallic figures judder across the green felt and I’m struck for a moment by how nice life is. We make Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters and decide the recipe needs perfecting and the olive is easily the worst part. My house-warming and my friends manage literally to raise the temperature of my cold little house.
On Saturday morning I find myself lying on a foldout lounge which has ended up in my kitchen. My friends and I are all piled on top of each other and we are listening to the Hitchhiker radio series. Its the sort of moment I want to catch and save for later. You don’t get to be that happy very often.
Suddenly it’s Wednesday again and I find myself trudging through the rain back toward a house which seems dreadfully cold and lonely by comparison. Usually the prospect of Wednesday night television would make me smile. Suddenly its a lot less worthwhile than chocolate and sushi and bowling and watching Rent all the way through even though it was really late, everyone else had drifted off and we weren’t taking in the plot anymore.
It occurs to me, refreshing various social networks and listening to the clicking of my gas heater, that I’m suffering Real Life withdrawal. This has happened to me before but usually it occurs after something big. Like The Young Endeavour or TiNA. Rare, magical times when life isn’t quiet real at all. The last two weeks were perfectly ordinary. There is no real reason that life couldn’t be like that all the time (expect that I would need to learn to live on significantly less sleep).
To most of the people who read my blog I only exist on The Internet. I’m the impression of a person that’s made up of words. But there are so many things that aren’t words. So many moments from the past few weeks struck me because of how far they were from text. They were visual, physical, wonderful moments.
Happiness is a very difficult thing to articulate.