Honestly, I have issues.
The weekend, other than my little adventure with Sir Charlie, was chock-full of paper-writing, and I handed in the last of my term papers today, which was a bit of a relief.
Last night, though.
Last night was amazing.
Why was last night amazing?
Last night, my friend, was football night.
I went for a quick run just beforehand, and it'd started to drizzle on the way back through the meadows, so I nipped back up to my room to grab my waterproof before jogging over to Pembroke. I should feel a bit guilty for admitting I was rather glad the rain had halved the turnout, but I really was very happy things'd turned out the way they did.
By the time we got to the Sport Ground, only the diehard remained, so we ended up just shoving about one of the full-size goals and settling for a half-field scrimmage.
Last time it was slippy out during football had been after an afternoon of rain. Here we were, playing football, in the rain, wearing sneakers, and absolutely just sliding everywhere. I took Sir Andy down with a soft tackle early on, and he straight up tripped over me and went flying through the air, taking me down with him. Shortly after, he nailed one of my teammates straight in the behind with a laser of a shot, sending her slipping and flying through the air as well. I then ricocheted a shot off the upright, off his backside, and into the net. It was glorious. We staggered about like drunken goats on stilts, I got frustrated and took my shirt off, and we all cried when Sir Andy slipped chasing a juke and fell on his noble behind.
We played World Cup the last half hour or so, so it was two-on-two-on-two, with Sir Andy in goal (or gaol, more like). Because we are mature young adults, my friend and I played as Djibouti and, of course, won the match.
Boom.
Honestly, though, I haven't laughed so much in a very long time. Rain makes us all delirious, I guess.
This morning (Tuesday), I went for my customary jog with Sir Andy (not to Grantchester this time-surprise!). It was still raining, so I literally ran blind for most of it--all I know is that we somehow ended up in the same field as the last time Sir Andy got lost, and that same huge dog (just one of them this time) came around barking at us.
Lovely.
About a quarter of the way into our run, Sir Andy said, "So, I didn't know you were a musician."
"Huh?" I replied, nearly stepping into blurry traffic. I snatched off my glasses and wiped them on the sopping hem of my tank top.
"You've been holding out on me."
"Um."
"Charlie tells me you're a pianist."
"You two talk about me when I'm not there!?" I squawked, "What is wrong with you guys?"
"You know, open mic night is tomorrow," Sir Andy continued conversationally as we blatantly jay-ran across a busy intersection.
"What the heck is that supposed to mean?" I spluttered.
"I'm sure everyone would love to hear your musical talents," Sir Andy replied to himself. I was too busy dodging monstrous green blurs that should have been bushes.
Guess who is now performing at open mic night?
I am going to strangle that man. The nerve.
Just before noon, I had an interview with the Pembroke College Recorder (actual name of position, not joking) about being a scholarship student and that was all very nice. After lunch, I wandered down to the dungeons of King's where they keep the grand piano and had a blast merrily screaming away some Oasis and swearing fluently in my mind about having to come up with a song to play at freaking open mic night.
I had class, dozed off several times whilst blearily taking notes on cultural devastation, then stripped to my racing shorts and stood nearly panstless in the lobby of the Engineering Building while I waited for Sir Charlie.
Sir Charlie and I walked over to the track at Wilberforce Road together because he thought it'd be good to have me train with his running club, despite the fact that I'd run a fairly decent amount this morning and my bouti still ached from Monday night's football.
We did some fairly standard stretches and spent the evening running hill intervals. I've become resigned to the fact that old, saggy, baggy men three times my age will always run faster than I ever will.
We did a bit of stretching after the workout, and as the command was given to the arm-over-back-of-the-head lat stretch, I found myself fiercely wishing that I'd shaved this morning.
British people choose the strangest time to begin conversations.
There we were with our faces tucked against our sweaty armpits, and this nice woman next to me decides to strike up a conversation.
Why?
I don't know. I just don't know.
And now, after my second shower of the day, I once again am sitting here, struggling to determine what in tarnation I am going to sing tomorrow night.
Oh, how I will miss this place.
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