Cold

[raven]

I wish someone would enlighten me as to what the Merchant Taylors' company actually do. I mean, we know they founded a school in 1623 and again in 1888, but what have they done since then?

Anyway. Prizegiving. I haven't been to every single one, but the ones I've been to have been enough. I don't know how we live through it each time. Boringboringboring, plus I didn't get a prize, which was frankly rude and possibly something to do with that am-crap-at-history fiasco and/or Mrs Chemistry Williams.

Becca and Katrina and Megan were going to the cinema to see Harry Potter afterwards, and being oh-so subtle about it. I wish they didn't think I'm going to dissolve into tears every time I discover they're going somewhere without me. Of course I don't want to go - I'd have to spend time with Katrina Jane Williams, so no.

Anyway, the guest speaker was the only part I was actually paying any attention, beyond clapping for people I know, like Julie and Helena and lilka and emerald_embers. The moment he opened his mouth - the guest speaker, that is - everyone in the room seemed to unconsciously roll their eyes. The man was more American than apple pie. "He sounds like Frasier," Meg said, next to me, and amusingly, he turns out to be from Seattle with a mother who was a psychiatrist(!)
He has an unusual job - part time conductor of the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic, and part time conductor of the Seattle Philharmonic.

So. After he had finished talking, and everyone had pretended they knew the words to the National Anthem, I left. The people I once, in a moment of madness, referred to as "friends" went to the buses and ultimately Harry Potter, and I had a two minute conversation with eniddy and kittysplitter, and then I left.

I went home by way of Bold Street, where I mused for a moment on the bombed-out church - the trees on the inside of it look like they've been there forever, but they can only have been there since 1945 - and bought myself that sandwich.

There were people in Merchants' uniform all over the city, but thankfully I didn't meet anyone I knew. I got the train home, stole someone's newspaper, but didn't bring it home because it was the Daily Mail, and then arrived home, watched the last ten minutes of M*A*S*H, ate the sandwich, and here I am.

My hands are cold.

Comments

[ex-sprog730.livejournal.com]

i like being your friend.
I think you are interesting and intelligent and you always manage to put up perfect shields against everything. Even when the people you have barely let your defences down to are complete wankers.
I like to talk to you and have weird conversations that seem pointless and rare. but they do count for something.

chin up. or something

Re:

[loneraven.livejournal.com]

*snuffle*
*blushes*
I like to talk to you too. Our conversations are not pointless. In the grand scheme of things, Kurt Cobain's pubic hair is very very important.

Re:

[ex-sprog730.livejournal.com]

i concur!

[eniddy.livejournal.com]

we saw you walking down bold street with your sandwich in hand. i would have called but we went into starquest.
i kept seeing mrs barry and her daughters. like everywhere.

the guest speaker dude rocked. i loved his accent. cept by the end his words just kinda ran into each other and i kinda dozed. he was actually quite interesting.

Re:

[loneraven.livejournal.com]

He was, wasn't he? Quite surprising.