I've been away from the blog for a while and alcohol has been the cause... While everyone else has been doing battle and waging war against the pupillage portal, I have been making the most of my first Spring in about 11 years without the dread of looming exams, and unable to apply for pupillage until next year, safe in the knowledge that there is nothing else I could be doing but drinking and sitting in the sunshine.
First I was dragged northwards to Blackpool for a chav-tastic weekend away to celebrate my mother's continued commitment to grow old disgracefully. With Osteoporosis to boot, she partied the weekend away with an army of her favourite lesbians, and not one to be out done by an old lady, I was forced to match her drink for drink and dance for dance.
A week later, my own birthday. Age is a sensitive subject for the whole world it would seem, and I am aware that panicking about 23 might seem a bit much to those people that took it in their stride and are instead dealing with much much scarier numbers, however, indulge me. I thought I was prepared, I thought I was ready and had accepted it. In fact, I had been telling people I was 23 since February. But when it happened, it turned out that I was not in fact ready to leave 22 behind, and instead I would rather the whole concept of age, numbers and mathematics no longer existed. I was so upset I kicked a post box, as a symbol of the capitalist regime that has forced the concept of age into my life. It hurt my foot and Lovely Boy carried me home.
I did at least manage to squeeze every last drop of birthday celebratory possibilities into the ensuing week, with binge drinking in both Birmingham and London, 3 birthday cakes on separate days, smoking for the very first time and almost causing a riot on the night bus home. The rioting and the smoking was caused by my (very) vocal realisation that 23 is really old and I will probably die soon. Apparently the 29 year old man I had struck up this topic of conversation with was not entirely impressed by my existential dilemma.
After this level of liver damage, I probably should have stopped, but I continued along the theme and went drinking with my line manager. The biggest mistake to date, I finally admitted defeat the next day when I couldn't get the tube for fear of vomiting on somebodies nicely polished work shoes. I have since refrained from excessive alcohol consumption, and am aiming to do so for quite some time.
I haven't completely abandoned the legal aspirations in favour of drink. I still managed to make it to the Student Open Day at Matrix chambers, which was very useful, informative and changed my mind a lot about what a career at the bar should look like. I really liked their non-specialised approach, and the corporate feel of the place fitted well with everything drummed into me at the office about brand and identity. One of the most useful parts of the day surrounded what they were looking for in pupillage applications, but given that the OLPAS deadline has now gone, I will save that post for another day when it wont cause distress to those that have already pressed submit and are now checking their progress for updates every ten minutes. I should say though that I took notes fully intending to post them asap but got waylaid by work/Lovely boy/beautiful weather and completely forgot that the deadline was so soon. I'm really sorry :( But I hope everybody is faring well and holding their nerve.First I was dragged northwards to Blackpool for a chav-tastic weekend away to celebrate my mother's continued commitment to grow old disgracefully. With Osteoporosis to boot, she partied the weekend away with an army of her favourite lesbians, and not one to be out done by an old lady, I was forced to match her drink for drink and dance for dance.
A week later, my own birthday. Age is a sensitive subject for the whole world it would seem, and I am aware that panicking about 23 might seem a bit much to those people that took it in their stride and are instead dealing with much much scarier numbers, however, indulge me. I thought I was prepared, I thought I was ready and had accepted it. In fact, I had been telling people I was 23 since February. But when it happened, it turned out that I was not in fact ready to leave 22 behind, and instead I would rather the whole concept of age, numbers and mathematics no longer existed. I was so upset I kicked a post box, as a symbol of the capitalist regime that has forced the concept of age into my life. It hurt my foot and Lovely Boy carried me home.
I did at least manage to squeeze every last drop of birthday celebratory possibilities into the ensuing week, with binge drinking in both Birmingham and London, 3 birthday cakes on separate days, smoking for the very first time and almost causing a riot on the night bus home. The rioting and the smoking was caused by my (very) vocal realisation that 23 is really old and I will probably die soon. Apparently the 29 year old man I had struck up this topic of conversation with was not entirely impressed by my existential dilemma.
After this level of liver damage, I probably should have stopped, but I continued along the theme and went drinking with my line manager. The biggest mistake to date, I finally admitted defeat the next day when I couldn't get the tube for fear of vomiting on somebodies nicely polished work shoes. I have since refrained from excessive alcohol consumption, and am aiming to do so for quite some time.
The one thing about the day at Matrix that really sent a message home to me though? The fact that I knew one of the Barristers who were tasked with "mingling"(is that how you spell that word?) from the pub. Oh dear...
