Malaga 15

It is Sunday afternoon and I am sitting on my own in the flat continuously wiping my freely running nose and watching a Hugh Grant film; somehow I have allowed myself to become the world’s first twenty year-old, male spinster.

Aaaaaand now it’s Wednesday and there has once again been a severe delay since my last post, I have an excuse though…there was a volcano in Iceland…and somebody (who I will only refer to as Bryan Riggs) took out a super-injunction against me to stop me dropping my usual truth-bombs. Seriously though, to continue on that cheerful note I struck on Sunday before forgetting to finish my entry, I have just finished a work week in which, with the end of term approaching, I had more on my plate than Arnold Schwarzenegger’s local nursery school (I READ THE NEWS).

The last two weeks of term are proving to be the most demanding, with presentations, mini-exams and preparation for the not-so-mini June exams all being squeezed, in some cases, into a single lesson, I have well and truly remembered what it is like to be a real student: grim. It has not quite been all work and no play; I have spent some time on the beach and playing rugby, although made the costly error of doing both in one day which led to my teammates referring to my good, sun-ripened self as ‘Tomate’ for the entire training session, but nonetheless it has been relaxing enough to stop Jack from becoming a dull boy and attempting to hack people to pieces with an axe.

Top of my potential axe-hacking list is the professor I have mentioned several times before who spends more time deploring the standard of pupil (with special reference to the Erasmus students) than he does attempting to get revenge on us for our stupidity by boring us to death about whether prose of painting is and esthetically more beautiful art-form (I decided against suggesting that the graphic novel, as a mix of the two surely takes top billing, but I somehow do not think he has read ‘Sin City’.) This means that a large part of his class is devoted to plotting about ways to disrupt the class and/or the exam for this subject, aided and abetted by a website which suggested starting a Mexican-wave, or doing the exam in fluorescent paint. My friend Madi had the idea (inspired by the little boy who wore a dress to school in protest at the rule against girls not being allowed to wear trousers: big-up the future Vegas Drag act!) of making some kind of protest t-shirt to express our discontent at our treatment and maybe have a little dig at Freddie Nietzche while we’re at it (a slogan along the lines of :”God is dead’; Frederick Nietzsche…’Nietzsche is dead’; God” – with a picture of old Freddie in a skirt or something to go with it.) Although the creative process is still in full blast and has completely taken the place of studying for the time being.

Other than the hectic schedule of work, life has been moving at a leisurely pace and a large part of the last few of days has been spent playing poker or watching the French open – in which my French flatmate Valentine is the most invested having about fifty percent of the mens’ singles draw to support while I only have to cling to the faint hope that Andy Murray can reach the top of his game in time to once again fulfill his dream of becoming a Grand-Slam runner-up.

This tranquility is about to be shattered in around three hours time when two of my Glaswegian friends come to visit me; when my flat mates asked me about them I responded casually that they were just basically the same as me, to which the response seemed to be along the lines that the old American guy only got the end of the world wrong by about four days as the prospect of three drunk Gregors in Malaga will surely bring about the apocalypse…we’ll see…as of the last text message they were getting on it at Prestwick airport, so this should be an entertaining few days.

Until next week then…if I survive.

Gregor.

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