You know what I want to be when I grow up?
Sober.
If there's one thing I seem to have done waaay too much of since coming home to Wellington is sinking [alcohol]. Not that I'm complaining mind you, actually going out and having a laugh is better than being so pov I can't afford to do anything but sit in a bean-bag scratching my belly.
And yes, I can confirm that I'm definitely a laugh-a-lot drunk. None of this surly, moody behaviour for this old bloke. Nope, you've got to put away a few beers, loose some inhibitions, badly shake your booty on the dance floor, sing too loudly to 'Come on Eileen', and wake up in the morning with a half-eaten kebab obscuring the clock radio.
Ah, the simple things.
After that intro, I'd better mention that borderline alcoholism is not the reason I've been so quiet lately. Nor have I bought myself a new game for the Xbox. I haven't been so afraid of Keith's pending reply to the Political Fisticuffs that's keeping me nervous.
Nope, it's been plain old-fashioned hard yakka keeping my fingers away from the keyboard. And I'm sure when Keith quits the second job he's had to take on to pay that legal bill, he'll be back for more debate.
Mind you, sleeping till 4pm on Saturday's is making it difficult to get enough time to write to you all, but like I say, sobriety is rapidly making itself known as a viable lifestyle alternative. Hangovers have just become so damned hard to handle...
I just don't bounce back from boozing like I did as a sprightly 20-something. As it is, I've moved into this new place and it's made of aluminium. Seriously. I saw a few of these places being built over in Oz, and I've been curious to live in one.
But take my word for it, if you get a chance to live in an aluminium-framed house? Don't. I'll be wrapped up in to shelter myself from the world, and the flatmates will be walking around upstairs a good four hours before I'm even able to form sentences. Thing is, wooden houses creak. Aluminium houses rattle. And there's almost no sound insulation. It's just, plain, weird.
So there I am, trying to not let little sounds echo interminably round my seemingly cavernous cranium, and the others in the house are walking around upstairs, listening to CDs, talking, and usual stuff. And it's like they're in the room with me.
Misery.
Anyway... Hard yakka. One of the reasons for the most recent celebration was me finally handing in the final version of the thesis for marking.
Does it seem like this thesis system never, ever ends? Well, imagine being in the middle of it.
As it was I moved back to NZL because life would not happen while I ironed out the final creases in the writing. The thing was pretty much written way back in April, when I ex'd my ex-pat status. But, as seems to be the case, there were still a hundred hoops to jump through before I could finally submit.
Once the supervisors had asked me to make a number of small changes to formatting, chapter orientation, terminology, spelling, blah blah blah, I sent the final versions to two separate copy editors.
Then, once the copy editors got their changes back to me I made a number more changes, usually by sitting up till midnight typing.
Then, once all those changes were input. I ran over the entire thing looking for mistakes that the other four people had missed. And there were still a few there. Things like missed full stops in headings, or the wrong kind of apostrophe.
You know, stuff that makes for great blogging...
Then, by Friday at approximately noon I collected the three bound copies and sent them back to Melbourne.
By four thirty pm? Two pints down, big night starting up.
A good feeling really. Not only do I now have to do nothing but wait for two or three months till no doubt more changes are brought back, but I have washed my hands of the entire process for long enough to enjoy my first Christmas in eight years where I don't have 'theeeeeesiiiiiissss' mumbling in the back of my mind.
Pesky damn guilt.
Not sure what I'm going to do with all my spare time!
Might have to get a hobby.