Next year, this week, I’m just not getting out of bed. At all. I am going to avoid all potential chaos by simply avoiding the world. Because I am convinced that this week has taken over the role of the first week in October.
Our Titanic party on Tuesday night was, in the main, a smashing success- the food came out well, and everyone had a good time, mostly. The primary problem was that, in replicating the Edwardian menu, we ended up going through a great quantity of wine, because they had a different one with each course. There are nine courses, so you can do the math. Most of it was really good- who knew that sherry and pea soup went together so brilliantly, or that a very ordinary sauterne could magically become delicious when paired with strong cheeses? Still, it adds up: Charlotte got quite pickled, because she can’t really handle even one glass of wine, which, as is all too often the case, meant that her behaviour got a bit erratic; James II’s dinner nearly went down with the ship right around sinking time; and Adrienne and I nursed rather fierce hangovers the next morning through the brunch we went to at Melton’s Too (since I turned green just looking at the kitchen and dining room table, James I wisely suggested we go out to eat- I have developed a Very Disturbing fondness for black pudding, which is oddly comforting when you’re not feeling brilliant).
The party had its bits of drama, but nothing, I suspected, that would bleed over into the rest of our lives. It was cracks in the plaster, however, and I took it for what it was: a warning.
Thursday night was the vote about the play, and, as I had long suspected, we didn’t get it. I’m not so much disapointed about that as I am about the fact that the vote was along strict party lines, the Tribe versus Constantine, give or take a few. We lost by two votes, and, interestingly, I’ve had two people pretty much apologise for voting against Macbeth, chiefly because they live with Strasz and didn’t want to upset any domestic applecarts. Another interesting note is that all but one of the write-in votes were for Macbeth. I’m not sure if any of my former Lords colleagues from last year sent them in, but if you are reading this and you did, I thank you. I wanted it to be the show people voted for, not the people, but that’s just not the reality of grad school life, and, for reasons I don’t understand, I am not well liked in Constantine House this year. I barely know anyone there, so I’m not sure what the issue is, and I figure it has to date before Mammon. I still have to do the summer show, because, as I said last year under far different circumstances, it’s not about the next five months but the next five years.
Adrienne had to get home after the vote, because her mum and sister are in town visiting this week, but Charlotte, Kate, and James II came out with me. I felt slightly guilty about not going out with the Lords crowd, but I really just wanted to be with the Tribe, where I didn’t have to be overly cheerful and politically polite. I had planned on being pretty moderate, but after two glasses of wine Charlotte launched into a return to Tuesday night, and, quite frankly, I just wasn’t up for it. Any other day, maybe I could’ve coped, but not then, not that day. While I can appreciate the weird sense of humour of the cosmos in throwing life’s wrenches in chunks and at particular times, there’s a limit to the amount of irony I can take sober; I didn’t even try.
Without getting into the particulars, I was somewhat irritated and rather worried about Charlotte, but a great deal more of the latter come morning, when I found out that she got carted home by two of the cast, who ran into her along the way home. She’s had a horribly rough year, and I suspect that she’s one of those people whose Achilles heel tripwire got set off, and the result is that we’re all Extremely worried about her. In truth, I feel like I’m replaying last January, and Robin, and all that; it’s not the same, really, because she’s not actively trying to hurt herself, but I’m terrified that she will by accident. I understand why this is happening, but that doesn’t mean it’s okay. It’s like being trapped in a live-action version of those ghastly awful ‘Afterschool Specials’, except that this is a lot less neat and tidy. Those shows never deal with the reality of being the one outside the immediate problem, the one who vascillates between a constant stream of terrified worry and concern, and annoyance, irritation, and resentment of being the accidental caretaker. The people in those shows also don’t seem to have things like this happen all the frigging time, a steady stream of chaos, or having massive drama-trauma happen on a literally annual basis.
Of course, I really shouldn’t complain. It’s been an awfully long time since anything truly hellish happened, and a lot of amazing things have transpired this year. I was just so enjoying the peace in our time, the quite of non-events and a lack of chaos. I knew it had to end eventually, and I’m glad it didn’t end in my lap, exactly, this year. Still, for Charlotte’s sake, and for all of ours, I wish it weren’t happening at all.
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