I got home this evening vaguely pissed off with the entire universe and especially those parts of it that have got to their mid-forties without realising that, actually, they are not entitled to stand in the train doors and bellow into their phone when others are trying to board and/or dismount from said train. I had spent the entire afternoon ‘doing metadata’, which is nowhere near as cool as it sounds and frankly, my eye-balls have screen-tan. Lunch had been eaten with one hand at a cafe table outdoors in the drizzle, other hand fending off falling leaves and pigeons. NaNoWriMo’s lack of ‘Wri’ and also lack of notebook was beginning to prey on my mind. I was tired. I had spent entirely too much time the night before last dancing about infront of the telly shouting ‘Ha ha!’ every time another county turned blue. Wednesday morning all the Americans in the office were delirious with joy, and there was much Avoidance of Work and festive biscuitry (or, I suppose, cookieness). Yesterday was fun. I think I have an optimism hangover. Today was positively Stygian in its gloom and existential ‘meh’.
But there it was, when I got in. A small flimsy envelope all over slightly crooked University stamps, and a wildly excited husband standing over it and jigging impatiently from one foot to another.
Ah. Yes. That MA I was doing. Yes.
I opened the envelope. I read the first few lines of the letter. I passed it to S. I felt bemused. I felt… empty. Oh, I said. Oh. There was much hugging.
And S got out the champagne.
At which point I started grinning like an eejit.
Ah well, what’s another happy hangover between friends?