I hate Aeromexico. I’ve flown with them three times and three times it has been horrible. The first time they attempted to reassign me to a flight that would have made me miss my connections. In the end, I missed my connection anyway because, after boarding, the plane sat on the runway for two hours. I was stuck in Dallas for 24 hours. The second time, they lost my bag.
This time they didn’t put my gate number on any screens in the airport. They didn’t say whether it was delayed either, so about 40 minutes before my flight was scheduled to leave I found an employee and asked what’s going on. He told me the flight had already boarded and I was too late. I asked someone else and they confirmed it; I was too late. I was forty minutes early and I was too late.
Except that I wasn’t, and the Aeromexico employees were talking crap. If I had listened to them I would have missed my flight and had to pay for another one. And the company I would have had to pay is Aeromexico.
What had happened was the flight was delayed. No info on the screens, I had to search for someone to tell me. I found the gate and saw the flight was going to leave an hour late. They hadn’t even begun boarding yet.
When they did start boarding I waited in line and watched the numbers on the screen change from 20:00 to 20:30 to 20:42. The plane had been delayed again as I and a hundred other travellers stood in the 30-degree heat for over an hour. When we eventually got onto the plane we were given a half-cup of water to drink and an-hour-and-a-half later we landed. By this point I had been travelling for 28 hours and I slept through the landing.
I grabbed my stuff and walked off the plane. I walked up to the baggage carousel and grabbed my suitcase. I wheeled it to the sliding doors where Cesia was smiling at me from the other side. And as tired I was, and as annoyed at Aeromexico, and as sweaty and dehydrated I had become, I didn’t care anymore. I wanted a hug, and my hug was only ten feet away, and I couldn’t help but smile.
Last weekend my best friend, Alex, stayed with me for a couple of drunken days. He’s going to be the best man at my wedding and, as the wedding will be in Mexico, it will be hard for him to organise a stag do, so this was kind of my stag do.
I had a long day, including a three hour train journey and a thirty minute walk, and I arrived hom to find Alex in his underwear, dancing to a Craig David song. I was a few drinks behind. I opened a beer and drank it down.
We went to a pub and played pool until we decided to go back home, do the power hour, and then go out. The power hour is a drinking game in which participants drink a shot glass of beer every minute for an hour. It’s like the centurion which lasts for 100 minutes. While drinking games have never appealed to me, this is one that sounded easy. It’s a shot of beer. That’s nothing. I set a repeating alarm on my phone and settled in for a refreshing and envigorating sixty minutes.
By minute nine we were swearing at my my phone. A couple of shots later we got a glass of water each and drank it between beers. At about twenty-five shots Alex resigned and went for brief but energising vomit. I soldiered on. At each shrill beep I manfully raised the glass to my lips. With the smooth motion of an expert gunman drawing his weapon I poured the liquid down my throat and reloaded. The beer fizzed like and acid bath. I considered quitting; Alex already had so there would be no shame in it. But no. I have given up on too much in my life; karate, juggling, genetic engineering. Not this tme. I would finish this.
My phone beeped for the fiftieth time and, after a deep breath, I drank the shot. Almost before I had poured my fifty-first, it beeped again. This was requiring a lot of effort. My hands struggled to coordinate the next pour but they did. My phone beeped. I called it a bastard. I drank. I drank, and I drank, and I drank until I hit sixty, at which point I walked around my flat with my hands in the air, cheering. I was drunk.
We went to Missing, a gay bar we had been to several times in the past. On a recent visit we considered trying to pimp one of us out and to run off with the money and spend it on chinese food. We didn’t do it because Alex can’t dance seductively enough.
We had some drinks, and mindless conversations that had to be yelled over the music, and then were given a shot each of absinthe. Neither of us wanted them, but here they were. We drank them, looked around, realised we weren’t having a good time, so we went home to watch Fifty Shades of Grey.
This film, as you may very well know, is trash. I saw it in the cinema with a friend who had read the books and we laughed all the way through. It is stunning that there are two beautiful people on screen, naked, and yet it has the erotic charge of putting out the bins. After an hour of mocking the film I went to bed and Alex put a blanket in the bath and slept there (no reason).
I’ve moved before, and moved countries before, and every time, I have lost all my friends. I am terrible at keeping in touch, responding to messages, or letting people know when something happens. This blog post is a week late and I’m surprised I haven’t already given up on the whole blogging thing already. I have before, three times. But they say fourth time’s the charm, and I did finish the power hour so I know I can do some things. Alex has a real job in London and a girfriend in Germany. I’m going to be in Mexico. It would be very easy for our friendship to fizzle out.
The day after the power hour we worked on a script that we have been kicking around for a while. A year ago he wrote the first half of a mockumentary. We started on the second half and talked about how, through timing, discipline, and hard work, we could keep this project going until we finish it. Timing, discipline, and hard work are how I completed the power hour so I know this technique works.
Yesterday I handed in my final two assignments. This means I am finished with university forever, or until I do a Masters, which I’d like to. To celebrate, Cesia bought me a bottle of Cruxland Gin that I’ve been wanting to try, and we drank it while eating bread and olives and sundried tomatoes.
I’m not going to reminisce and wax lyrical about the university experience – in the next few weeks there will be a million student bloggers that will do that for me – I just want to talk about my last semester because It was a little weird, but I’m proud of it.
I did two modules: Writing the Novel, and the Independent Study Module. Writing the Novel is similar to other classes in that we had weekly seminars and regular tasks to complete. We had frequent contact with our teacher who gave feedback on the work we were doing for our final submission. The Independent Study Module (ISM) was very different. No classes, you design your own assignment, and contact with a teacher only happens if and when you arrange it. For the ISM I wrote a 30 minute film and an essay on genre, and for Writing the Novel, I wrote the first 5,000 words of a novel, a synopsis of the entire plot, and an essay on why people should think my novel is good.
These are two quite big assignments. And they have the same deadline so it’s a lot of work all leading to one day. And they are both creative rather than traditionally academic. It is for these reasons that the university didn’t allow me to do these subjects simultaneously until I had an argument with a faculty member.
This was about a year ago and I had decided which modules I wanted to do and simply needed the university to sign off on them. They had a couple of students ask to do Writing the Novel and the ISM concurrently and had turned them down, recommending other modules that might suit their interests. This is what happened to me but when they turned me down, I turned them down harder.
They explained that the amount of work involved in the two modules is too much, and the independence of the ISM can be a stumbling block for many students. I said I can handle it. Their worst argument though, and I still find it incredible that I was offered this as a legitimate reason for why I couldn’t do the subjects I wanted to, was that, “historically, they have never taught Writing the Novel and the ISM concurrently.” That is a terrible reason not to do something. Historically, I’ve never ran a marathon. Historically, minorities have been oppressed. Historically, people died of polio.
I reminded them that the year I would be taking these modules would only be the second year the university had taught Writing the Novel so, historically, it was impossible to do both. Historically, the university didn’t teach them, which means that the historical argument is at best nonsensical, and at worst hypocritical.
I explained my point of view, and then offered to be an experiment; let me do this, and if I fail, you can point to me as a reason that you don’t allow future students to do the subjects concurrently. I was allowed to do both modules.
I then decided to neglect one of my other modules. Literature and Psychology, an interesting subject but sadly, it was far too academic. I knew that, of the four grades that are averaged to decide my degree, this would not be one of them. So instead of struggling over an essay I found tedious that wouldn’t count towards anything, I did the absolute least needed to pass, and instead focused on a script I would later submit as the ISM, and a novel extract that would become my Writing the Novel assignment.
It’s a risky technique. I got a bad grade for a smaller assignment involved in the ISM. In fact, I had messed up enough that it was only a few marks over my Literature and Psychology grade that I had ignored. It meant I couldn’t make any more mistakes.
I worked hard. I made notes in my phone as soon as they cam to me. I scribbled things on the back of receipts and napkins. I took notebooks to my job so I could work when it was quiet, and I edited and edited and edited until I knew it was the best I could do. Then I sent it to my friend Alex who graduated from the same course last year. I worked his feedback into my project and sent it to him again. I sent it to my teacher and repeated the process over and over. Regardless of what grade I get (I have to wait about five weeks to find out) I’m sure I did everything I could.
When I saw the low grade I got on that small ISM assignment, I was surprised. I read the feedback and understood where I had gone wrong, but, like I say, I was surprised. I won’t get any more feedback until I know what my degree grade will be, so, if I have made another mistake, I have to wait about five weeks to find out. It’s already too late to do anything.
There’s a countdown on my phone that tells me how many days until our wedding. I know that the pictures from that day will be on display in our home for a long time, so I want to look my best, which right now, means I need to lose weight. I’m a member of a gym that offers a free personal training session so after speaking to Adam, a six-foot tall bicep, we arranged a time and decided to work out my legs.
Without going into detail (you can find a billion other places online for that), if you lift weights you tear your muscles microscopically. Your body uses recources (calories, etc.) to repair the tears, which means those resources can’t be stored as fat. So lift weights to lose weights. And, because legs have more muscle than arms, I can give them more micro-tears, I wanted to learn how to train my legs.
We squatted. We added weight. We squatted. Then we exercised our hamstrings. Adam, would count my reps and saay things like “Only four more,” when there was only four more. Sometimes he’d say “Strong,” like it was a subliminal message. This sounds like I’m making fun of him, or of people that use personal trainers, but actually I thought he was good.
We were doing leg presses when something in my neck popped and my head started pounding like I had a hangover. I tried to leg press one more time but my eyes nearly burst out my skull so I stopped. Adam told me to rest and he set up another exercise.
The pain didn’t go away. I drank water, I stretched, but there was this intense pressure from the bottom of my neck to about half way up the back of my head.
We worked out my calves for a couple of minutes before I had to quit. I was going to pass out, or throw up, or bleed from the ears, or all three. I come here regularly and didn’t want to embarrass myself.
Today my legs hurt, which means Adam did his job. The squats have made it ache when I sit, and the hamstring excersises have made it hard to stand, so whether I sit or stand, I’m in pain. I am choosing to think that is a good thing.
I don’t know what the situation will be like in Mexico, whether I’ll have access to a gym, or have time to workout, or be able to afford a membership. I think I will, but it’s one of many many things that are too far away, through the fog of plans, hopes, ideas, and reality for me to see it clearly.
I came home and had a bath and held an ice pack to my neck. I lay in bed with the ice pack until I was dry and then got up and had some healthy food Cesia had made fo us. It was lentils and onion and tomato all cooked up together. It was good.
If I can’t go to the gym in Mexico then I’m hoping the sun will encourage me to spend more time outside, and jog.
This whole thing is shallow. I could just be more comfortable with myself, and not worry about what I look like, or what others will think. I also realise that Cesia hasn’t said I need to lose weight. But I guess I am shallow, or self critical. I’m not self loathing, but I know I have some work to do, a few miles to go, a few pounds to lift and shed.
My legs hurt.
Wish me luck.
At work yesterday I booked two days off. At the moment I only work two days a week, I have done more, six days a week for months, but right now I only do two.
We expected it to be busy because of the Grand National, an EDL march, a football match, and the fact that the sun was out meant that a lot of people would be travelling. For some reason it was dead.
James and I spent the shift listening to music and hanging out. We talked about me leaving and I figured out that, for me to have enough time to do what I need to before I go I should hand in my notice on the 26th April. Two weeks after that I’ll work my last shift. Two weeks after that I’ll leave the country.
I’ve been working here for about three years. I moved out of my parents’ and into Birmingham. I had some money saved up, enough to pay for a tiny room and a few tins of baked beans, but I needed a job. After a couple of months of applications and not hearing anything back, I took the first job I was offered. It was a night job, working alone, cleaning, and making food, a little customer service was involved.
Two years later I had a flat, some money saved up, and near suicidal depression. Night shifts, among other things, were killing me. In winter I wouldn’t see the sun for weeks. I couldn’t sleep. I asked to switch to days.
In the day I could talk to people. I started exercising and eating healthier foods. I stopped drinking a bottle of wine every morning. I don’t think I was alcoholic, I think I was bored.
If you’ve ever dealt with depression in any serious way you’ll know that there are books of insights and statistics about it. Then there are hours of debates worth having about those books. I’m not going to do that here. Suffice to say that medication helped and so did Netflix, and so did exercise, and so did talking to people. Not therapists; my therapist was useless, but talking about my day with Cesia, or a friend or family member helped me unwind or put things in perspective or something. I don’t know, I’m not a doctor.
I went to the gym earlier today and the sun is shining so I’ll go for a walk later. I’ll have Cesia with me and we’ll talk about our days and our plans. I’ll probably try to speak Spanish. I’m lucky to be able to say that depression is only a memory.
In a few weeks I get to say goodbye to the job that nearly killed me. I’m excited to go to Mexico but I’m realising I’m excited to leave England too. Excited to say goodbye to my job and my city and the weather that is, at best, unreliable. All of those are minor details compared to what I’m going towards; a new country, and new culture, a new language. A wife and in-laws and maybe the start of a career. The sun is shining outside my window, but it’s shining brighter in Mexico.