Being Jez (Jeremy)

EVERY Friday afternoon, tucked deep away in the far corner of that anonymous brown monolith that we call the Arts Building (the one on the corner of Grattan and Swanston), sat high on the sixth level, staring over the traffic and the people, roughly fifteen artistic, bohemian sort-of-people, attempt to have a French Discussion class. Two of the students (on a roster) lead the specified theme for that week and we all attempt to have a nice, long discussion in French.

Might I repeat; it’s mid-afternoon on a Friday.

This particular Friday wasn’t going so well. It was nothing to do with the fault of the two discussion leaders who were running the thing. It was that everybody’s brains had well and truly ground to a rusty halt over the last four-and-a-half days of study and no-one felt up to having a nice, long, in-depth discussion in French. The two leaders bravely ground on nevertheless. “So,” one of them said, in French. “What do you think of this text? Do you agree with our interpretation?” The sound of silence ensued as glazed eyes all stared somewhere into the middle distance. “Anyone?” And, then added a little more plaintively, “Jez?”.

Yep. That’s the sort of person I am. The guy with the opinion on everything. To be honest, I try to talk as much as I can in French class because there’s not many better ways to learn how to speak French other than actually doing it.

Saturday night was a rockin’ house party. If there is such a thing as fashionably late, then I assure you that I was very, very fashionable. Having come straight from work, I arrived at the nice, early hour of roughly 11.30 to be confronted by a small Carlton terrace house filled with what had to be at least fifty people and probably more. I was immediately confronted by set on by the House Drunk. He satisfied all criteria; staggering around like it was O-week, bottle of Bundy in one hand, the other draped in a half-hug, half-choker-hold around a wincing innocent bystander, breath that could probably kill small children from ten feet and a willingness to Share The Love with pretty much everyone in the room. People parted in front of him like the Red Sea as he pitched and swayed, trying to avoid the potential VLOF (Vomit Line Of Fire) as he uttered the classic Pissed Out Of Your Head line – “I’m sorry,” he said, in between burps, “I think I’ve had a couple!”. Finally, in the manner of all true drunks, he simply disappeared. He was last seen staggering down Lygon St, holding a roaring conversation with the air, with a slight list to starb’d.

The party was fantastic, though. Great people, nice place, cool setup. It’s the friendliness of the people that make a party; I walked in knowing no more than two people, and found one more who it turns out is in my Maths lecture (and yep, Soph, you wouldn’t believe it, it’s another person whose name starts with J) as well as a whole friendly bunch of others. I ended out crashing on a bed with a friend at five, all set and ready to wake up at the nice chirpy hour of eight to catch the bus back home for Mother’s Day brunch; on the back of two and a half hour’s sleep, I didn’t even make it halfway down Victoria Parade before crashing out! Next thing I knew I was alternating between forcing down scones with jam and cream and blacking out into the middle distance on various occasions. That’s Mother’s Day!

Hey, something else did happen today (and I’m concious of keeping this blog within readable length). In a total fit of insanity I have now been elected as the president of the Chocolate Lover’s Society, and whilst I would love to say that it was a landslide victory, it’s not so exciting to admit that I was unopposed! It was a sad day for the CLS on two counts; one, democracy died, and two, they elected me as President. I think we probably need a new slogan – “Chocolate: The diabetes is oh so worth it”, “Chocolate never asked me to analyse the relationship” or “The difference between chocolate and an orgasm is that I never let a block of chocolate last a minute.” I’ll be surprised if that last one gets through the Power That Is here! It’ll be interesting to see what the extra workload is like but to be honest if I can’t handle it in first year then I think I need to get a grip.
Just as a last and final note, earlier this evening I was playing indoor cricket, and as I sat at the side of the nets reading up on some Chinese (I was a little early), a small girl ran up beside me and asked Exactly What I Was Doing. We began to chat, or as much as you do with a hyperactive seven-year-old in a pink dressinggown when you’re trying to study, and she asked me to read some of the Chinese story in English to her. The piece went (from memory) something like this; “I do not speak Chinese often, because my Chinese is not very good”, and so on and so forth. She looked me in the eye, with an expression of confusion on her face. “Why does the book say that when it’s YOUR Chinese that is bad?”!!! As though to demonstrate that such things come in pairs, she asked me what my name was. “Jeremy! That’s my boyfriend’s name!” (Keep in mind that this was coming from a seven-year old. I realise that they start them young in Doncaster, but that’s bordering on the ridiculous.) “Can you keep this a secret?” I nodded. “Yesterday,” she said, as she whispered into my ear as though it was a State Secret, “I kissed him… ON THE CHEEK!” “Ooh,” I said, going red and thinking of all the girls I’ve kissed on the cheek over my lifetime. “AND…” she said, continuing on nonetheless, “I kissed him again in the afternoon, because Bianca wanted to see me do it, AND we’re going to kiss together over at my house on the weekend!!!” I left it there, though I think one of my ribs may have cracked from surpressed laughter.

Anyway, I’m hitting bed now. I’d like to catch the early-morning bus with a girl friend (note the spacing in the word) of mine and I’m going to make sure that I give her a kiss on the cheek as SOON as she gets on!!!

Enjoy your day;

jez