It has been, it is fair to say, something of a busy few weeks. Apparently I had four weeks off of Uni. I'm not sure that I exactly noticed in any other respect than that I couldn't go to the library for two whole weeks. Two weeks. When I had an essay due in on the first day of term. That would be me rolling my eyes. When I wasn't moaning about the library there has been much time spent at the New Theatre, and then much more time spent spending the money I earned at New Theatre. I saw Griffin in London and York (two gigs in one week, it was almost like 2004 again), Time to Leave in Leeds, David Tennant in London and John Barrowman in Birmingham. I pretended I was in Brideshead at Castle Howard, pretended I was in Strictly Come Dancing in York and pretended it was 1903 and Dean and I were having afternoon tea in Streatham. There were drinks round a Christmas Tree with the WYP, a rather lovely Christmas Day with my family, and a New Year's Eve which was chiefly notable for it involving rather more of the Nutcracker than I could ever have previously envisaged. Oh, and there was a LOT of shopping. And then a lot of rather frantic footnoting of my essay at 7am on the morning that it was due in.
If I were to be entirely honest - and where better than a public blog which anyone can read - I surprised myself entirely with how much I fell - and fall would entirely be the right verb here - for someone during these weeks. Maybe because, for the first time in such a long time (as this blog would attest), with this floppy haired boy it just all seemed so joyously uncomplicated. It wasn't, and when it unravelled it hurt, and, if I think about it too hard now, it hurts still. But I continue to muddle my way through it, undoubtedly making some mistakes along the way, but muddling along. And though there were a couple of days there when I wished thoroughly that I could undo those three weeks and return us to where we had been before the falling happened, I'm not sure I would now. I'm not yet at the stage where I can say I'm entirely happy with it all - there will forever be a part of me which is the girl who is quite happy to build a willow cabin at the gate* - but this boy is not C and it would be unfair of me to judge him in that light. And even if we are only ever meant to be friends then I am still glad I met him.
What the last week has shown me, if I didn't know already, was how utterly lucky I am to have the friends I do. Who held me up (on one night, literally), hugged me, drank with me, helped me buy pretty things, wrote me lovely emails and messages, texted to check I was ok, let me splurge, offered to do bad things to his stuff, wrote me '5 reasons never to get involved with an actor'*** and, on one memorable occasion, offered to use actual violence. The details of the events of those days I shall look back on in five months or so, and only be able to recall through my writing. Everything my beautiful, wonderful friends did I will always remember. And for that, more than anything, they deserve a thank you.
*Ten points for anyone who knows where the allusion comes from. **
**And fifteen points for anyone who doesn't for not being a Shakespeare Geek.
*** Clearly I could already have written twenty based on previous experiences, but it seems I never learn my lesson.