come on baby let's get out of this town

Finally, finally, after days and weeks and respectability and life out of a suitcase, I am on my way home. It's such a lovely feeling that I even managed to get out of bed this morning at nine - and, wow, nine was a lie-in, I really have been being respectable - and venture out into the grey warmth with scarcely a backwards look. There's a softness in the air again, a faint hint of springlike things to come. Of course, it felt like this last week, and well. It snowed. I love England, sometimes.

Last night, I finished work at half five, ran through the city, took the world's quickest shower, was just about to run out again when I had one of those moments, where you're standing holding an eyeliner pencil thinking subtle, subtle, and then, clearly: actually, I don't fucking want to, and what the hell did I do with the glitter? Some rummaging revealed said glitter (Urban Decay heavy metal in Baked - it's sunshine and joy in a tube) and my own very favourite eyeliner, which is actually kajal, and the effect was not subtle at all. I was pleased. And I ran out to Hammersmith in a very cheery mood indeed.

None of this is to say that I haven't enjoyed this vacation scheme or that I'm not glad I did it. If I do go down this route, actually do become a lawyer, then I will have to deal with normality and respectability as part of the job. Respectable is a mantle you can put on and take off. I'm just not very good at it at the moment. As I was bemoaning to several people earlier in the week, I made it to Thursday lunchtime still passing as normal, and then came out accidentally. It was faintly ludicrous, at that; one of the other students started an anecdote with, "My ex once had a mishap with a breadmaker."

"Oh," sayeth I, "I had an ex who once had a mishap with a breadmaker. She put icing-sugar in it instead of flour."

And you could see it - you could see the clicking gears in all their brains, as they processed, first icing-sugar, and laghed, and then the pronoun clicked, and then there was a sort of quiet oh. I was a little vexed at the time, but ah, what the hell. What can you do? You can't watch your mouth all the time, you'd lose your mind. What the hell. And there are compensations to being me. I met anotherusedpage for coffee that night and we put fandom to rights, as usual - several hours of gesticulating wildly at each other and talking about fannish paradigms and OTW and atypicality and what it means to be a new type of person are very good for the soul.

So, on Friday night, I got on a Tube train to Hammersmith which was clearly being driven by one of the world's nicest humans - "And look at that!" she said, as the train emerged from below ground, "It's sunny! Watch you don't get dazzled and fall on the track! And by the way, Hammsrsmith station is closed!" - and I didn't actually mind. They re-opened the station just before I arrived at it, and some confusion later, I met chiasmata and there was much glee. We were going to the Apollo to see KT Tunstall and it was marvellous. We timed it well, missed the support entirely deliberately in favour of getting a very nice dinner at a small restaurant run by a pair of exuberantly delightful Italians, who fed us a ridiculous amount of baked pasta and we kept laughing and scaring the other patrons and it was joyous.

(On the way into the gig, we met one of the other people I'd been at the Vaguely Notable Law Firm with - she had warned me that she'd be there, taking her middle-aged mother to her first Rock Concert (awww) - and there was a moment or two of small talk and awkward introductions, and it didn't dawn on me until a few minutes later that she clearly thought that chiasmata and I were together. I'm surprised that this happened this time around, and no one assumed we were together when we went to see the Indigo Girls last year!)

Speaking of which, the gig itself was ahhh, lovely. KT Tunstall would be very entertaining even if she didn't sing. But she did, and most of her songs are cheering, wonderful things that made the venue bounce, and yes. It was just the right thing to have done, last night. Musically speaking, I think the high point was about halfway through; I'd been reading that very morning in one of the Tube newspaper review sections that she'd been trying out a different cover at every gig on the tour, and this one, she did a haunting, soft acoustic version of "Every Day Is Like Sunday", and I just... yes. I love that song with an unholy passion, and she did it so well, with such clean, sparse layering of instrumentals and voice, and it was... um. Yes. Wonderful.

Afterwards we hung around for coffee and made happy noises at each other before running down to catch the last trains. The journey back was a little surrealist, a little hallucinogenic in quality; I'd been up for eighteen hours and the tunnels and stations were a bit of a clean-lit contrast to the Apollo and the night outside. I saw a man carryig a surfboard onto the last Tube train of the day. It was a little bizarre. Opposite me there was an odd couple, a very pale man and his very drunk girlfriend, whose voice was clear as a bell; she kept saying, "Are you sure? Are you sure? I don't want to be an evil temptress. I'm not an evil temptress. Are you really sure?"

I guess he was; at any rate, they stumbled off into the night at Knightsbridge and I wended my way back. And now, I have had some sleep, I have had some breakfast, and this morning, I was back on a Tube platform looking at the curving adverts on the opposite wall, and I was reading something for Orange pay-as-you-go, with the small print at the bottom, and it talked about limited liability and terms and conditions apply, and, without a break, Thank you for reading this far, it makes our legal people feel valued.

Well, it made me laugh. In about forty-five minutes, I will be back in Oxford, and tonight there is new Doctor Who. I also have about 1200 words of remix to write in the next twenty-four hours, alas. Ah, well. Very nearly home, and the sun's at my back.

(Of course, I wrote all of the above, and it wouldn't post. Fail, internets, fail. So, what else can I regale you with?)

Oxford! Oxford is beautiful. I came back and it was all awash with sunlight and Morris dancers, and I came home and filled my room with my stuff - oh god, I hate unpacking, I still haven't done any - and I let the afternoon drift by in a shamelessly slow sprawl of sunlight and wandering. shimgray and I were supposed to be making pancakes and hosting the assembled masses watching Doctor Who. (Domestic? Very.) And it was lovely, lovely. Everyone turned up and was sweet and chiasmata provided a TARDIS cake that dyed my tongue blue and after some technical difficulties - including the procuring of a teatowel to gag apotropaios with, should he decide to be a classicist about proceedings or indeed harbour a secret desire to resemble Yasser Arafat - there was watching of Who.

( Fires of Pompeii )

And then, pancakes - mostly shaped like the Flying Spaghetti Monster - and sugar, and joy, and tea, and sleep. I walked home this morning through showers and intermittent sunshine, and now I must unpack my room, take a shower and get to work. My life, she is hard.