John Walker's Electronic House

I suppose this works out as something of an update, since it’s been soooo long.

Year 2 of the degree is over, and the youth work qualification is complete. Whether it is passed or not remains an exciting cliffhanger ending until August. This of course finished in one of those hideous all-night days, in which despite being certain that things are on course for a midnight completion, the sheer scale of the task was never realised until, well, gone midnight. I think I clipped the final shiny plastic envelope into the folder at about 7am, Friday, then faffed around until the rest of the world arose, handed it in to my fieldwork tutor in Bath, and then went into the Gamer office, drunk with insane tiredness, and received frustrated stares from all present. Being that tired is an amazing feeling. There’s a vivid joy about knowing you could literally fall asleep anywhere, at will, that you could meet the Enid Blyton cliche of “falling asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow”. And yet not. Having not been a consumer of the Drugs, these are my occasional highs.

My other occasional high is that garnered from being dizzy. This is so quickly dismissed by those who smoke acids or inject the weed as ignorant foolishness. But it is they that are the ignorant fools, refusing to embrace the free ride of roly-polying down a hill. As adults, opportunities to stand in the middle of a park and spin around until you cannot stand any more, are rare. It is frowned upon as childish – one’s time should be better spent filing accounts or taking out the bins. But I charge thee, go about your public thoroughfare and rotate until unstood. Feel your brain swirl, giggle in confusion, and soon drive safely home without having to go to prison for killing a roadsign.

I’ve drifted. This morning, despite being late with over one thousand different items of copy, I am tidying my house from side to side (as I live on a single floor) for the arrival of the first evil horrid people who want to buy it, thus forcing me onto the streets to DIE. Little of this is strictly true. I’m moving to Bath in a month or so, as this flat is being sold from under my swivel chair, so the sellers wish to show people around. My house is particularly foul at the moment, rendered thus after the last couple of months of endless coursework/writing/youth work, and no cause or time for tidying. I have an ingenius plan, you’ll be relieved to hear: I have collected large cardboard boxes, and shall scatter them about my abode to create the impression that this mess is due to packing, and not the regular, everyday squalor I live in.

All is looking good for treasure hunting. I have found a place that rents a cottage for a ludicrously cheap price, and one person who will almost definitely accompany me on my quest, with another considering. Soon the treasure shall be almost entirely mine. Thank you very much for all the comments and emails about this – they have all been hugely appreciated and really helpful. Sorry if I haven’t replied yet – see above. And of course, this appreciation will be shown through the previous sentence, and not reflected in the selfishly small share of profits that will reach you. I have pledged that I will let money change me, and it seems important that this is clear.

Now, I must arrange the terror of mess into my house into piles, with cardboard boxes put nearby.