One of the essays I wrote the other day is far out there even for me, and I feel a bit like Calvin in this strip from Calvin and Hobbes. Do you ever have one of those times when you think about something, and then you stumble on something related to what you thought?
I was thinking earlier when I was revising my essay so that my usual grammatical glitches are purged, and my propensity for Swenglish when I word-vomit are expunged. I was wondering if this time I wouldn’t cross the line, and that my otherwise firm but fair teacher would give me a resounding fail this time for a premise that just is insane.
Then, an hour later, I stumbled on this Calvin and Hobbes strip. I’ve read it before, so I immediately recognised it, and I couldn’t help but laugh because am I not like Calvin in that strip? Sometimes I suspect that deep down, I’m taking the piss out of the literary establishment without consciously realising it. I will become a great literary enfent terrible in a few years, and will snarl arrogantly at lesser creatures because I, I, certainly wrote about the deep and profound subjects when I took my A-levels, instead of frittering away time on the base and sub-intellectual stuff like Austen and Dostoyevsky. Oh yes… I could be the new Salman Rushdie. Hopefully without the Fatwah.
Mark has been uncharacteristically huggy today, and not that I complain mind you – for some reason I like it when he sinks into one of those moods. Usually it takes a discharge of argumentative energy to compel that side of him to come out, but this time he’s been like a lovesick puppy for a far simpler reason.
I gave him something yesterday evening, after he had gone around muttering about lazy boyfriends that didn’t want to help out. I found a couple of tickets to a Crystal Palace game. They’re playing against Brighton on December 1st, and I bought two tickets for £50. Usually they cost over £60 or so. Crystal Palace is Mark’s team, and he follows them slavishly, and knows the form of the goalie’s aunt’s poodle’s cousin if it could influence the game.
I won’t go myself because the thought of standing outside in a stadium in December leaves me cold. So, I’ll chat with the cousin I have in Brighton, and he can go off and do his team thing with some mate of his that are more meaningful in that context than someone who thinks that everyone should just leave and go have a hot bath or something. Together. It couldn’t be more homoerotic than piling on top of each other in a muddy field.