Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Brideshead Not Quite Revisited

Brideshead Not Quite Revisited

On my way back from the computer room to my house last night [my internet is off again and I haven't got time to spend a morning waiting for the computer men to fix it at the moment] I ended up going flying rather spectacularly on some rogue ice. It was one of those utterly comic falls, one mintue I'm walking happily along, swinging my bag, the next moment my arse has made contact with the floor without the grace to notify me that it was intending to do so. Indeed had someone been filming me it was the type of footage which would undoubtedly have gotten me £250 on 'You've Been Framed' or other such tortuous alledgedly amusing television programme. But alas, no one was filming and the only thing I managed to get out of the whole experience was a painful foot which is presently swelling up quite nicely, and a bruise on my bottom. I'm now thinking that cowboy boots aren't made for walking on ice, something which I don't ever remember seeing John Wayne having to do.

SSoB had its dress rehearsal this morning, only given that it started late as the theatre people decided that it wouldn't be a good idea to either i)open on time or ii)switch on the dimmers so we could start our rehearsal for a good 45 minutes after we first stepped into the theatre, it was running late and I had to leave towards the end of the second act in order to get to my rhetoric tutorial. With the exception of some of the projections randomly having managed to turn themselves upside down, and the sound op managing to play a random buzzer noise when a telephone should have gone, it seemed to be going well. Everyone was picking up their cues and no one tripped over the rug. Currently part of the set is being re-painted and all the giant chess pieces are being returned to the original white colour which they were before they went to live in whoever's garden we borrowed them from. I did consider going to the theatre and helping with these mindless jobs but in the end decided that my afternoon might be better spent arsing around on the internet, burning lots of Griffin songs on the college computers and generally not panicking.

In the midst of all this my final ever tutorial slipped by, hardly noticed. I'm not sure that I understand rhetoric anymore, but Rhodri was very sweet, though marginally more insane than usual. I'd elaborate but I'm guessing that he might not want the goings on between him and his girlfriend published on the internet for all to read. Indeed that very sentence probably points to why these tutes have been so odd. He did also promise to buy me a bottle of champagne if I got a first. And indeed if I got a 2:2. So nearly all bases covered there. But it is odd to think that three and a half years after first sitting in Matthew Reynold's room, talking about Vanity Fair and being pleased because I'd got 'very promising' scrawled in green ink across the top of my first ever Oxford essay, I've just had my final tute, in the bowels of Jesus College, talking about the Hugh Grant effect on posh Oxford boys when they go to America. I don't think I'd have ever imagined that, but, perversely, I don't think that I'd have had it any other way.

No comments: