I hate hangovers

I'm hungover. There is a gremlin with a toothpick behind my right eye ball and I seem to be having problems remembering why I was debating vegetarianism with a fifty year old New Zealand business man. I also have thesis work to do and notes to review. I hate being hungover. I really do. I love being in the pub. I love the sociability of it. The meandering conversation. The satisfaction of patiently watching my Guinness settle. The warm glow of being with great friends and making new ones. The poetry of it all. But I would trade it all right now to blowtorch the gremlin and put an end to the horror. I know people who don't seem to suffer hangovers. I hate them. They have clearly made a pact with devil and are happy to renounce the light in favor of a life free of the slings and arrows of hangovers. In fact since were dealing with the prince of darkness here one can be sure than the hangover is being moved to some where else. That would be me. You see part of my theory is this. I'm given their hangovers. Thats why mine are always so bad. I suffer for the world. I'm like Jesus in that way. So as I walked bleary eyed and with a some what cantankerous aura about me across the university campus I found myself standing in the gym organizing a fitness test and regime. I could tell the fitness chap behind the counter with his superior health and ludicrous hair knew what condition my condition was in. He sat there reveling in his healthy glow and superior knowledge of the cardiovascular system while asking me what day would suit and had I ever had one done before. The cost of being fit may be to high...

A great place to celebrate your 30th

I was in Paris once before. New Years 2008 just only a short while ago. Being my first time I of course had a vision of beauty and unfriendliness all rolled into one. The first was most certainly true, the second most certainly not. I was visiting my girlfriend who is French so of course I was getting a better introduction than most. But over and over again people were friendly open and when I met people with even the tiniest few words in English (way more than my French) they made an effort. All went against what I'd heard about Parisians. So when I went back two weeks ago to celebrate my 30th it was with great enthusiasm! Meeting my girlfriend and a few other friends, one from Australia, she had just arrived that weekend, we ambled around Paris eating cheese and drinking wine and making a balls of trying to communicate in our limited French. Maybe its my advancing years but I've never been happier to wander around and not end up drinking out my shoes and arguing with some one about something I probably don't know to much about. Saying that I did end up suffering the mild slings and arrows of a hangover on the Sunday, I turned 30 not 75, but it was all worth it when that we ended up having dinner, drinking Champagne while looking out a the Arc Du Triumph. Vive La France!!!!!!!! Il be heading back in March to spend ten days writing my thesis. I assume of course cheese, bread and wine help with the old lyrical and analytical writing.

Ah the joys of being a mature student

I just turned thirty and I'm a student, again. I was a crap student when I first went to college and I was about as academic as a fence post. Not that I didn't have the brains ,I just wasn't bothered. I would have aced pontificating in the pub studies though, and yet here I am almost six months into a masters and almost ten years later since my first and lets be honest disastrous foray into academia. And let me tell you. I am frickin knackered! All fun and games I thought. Be a student, drink some beer, party some, talk about Chomsky and Beckett like I actually have a clue. Instead I spend almost all day every day, when I'm not in my morning lectures, sitting at my laptop either doing one of the 759 projects I have to do or researching my thesis. Seriously I better get the greatest job ever when I finish in September or some sort of cash prize. Id be happy with a few hours sleep though!