Saturday, October 08, 2005
After party at 3 Church Walk
The late bar was packed enough, but now we’re in a 3 bedroom apartment across the street from, as the name suggests, a church. Three hours of dancing has me tired and thirsty as hell, but the only thing to drink here is some awful looking Welsh beer and suspicious looking orange juice in a pitcher. As usual, we’re huddled in a small group, only talking to those that come over to talk to us.
An American chap is chatting one of the girls up. As he does so, he casually pulls off his sweater and rotates his shoulders while squeezing his biceps ever so slightly and sneaking in a sniff of the armpit. I think he looks like yet another Ivy league sonofabitch, but then again I could just be jealous because no one here has ever heard of my university. As I scowl, a voice from below interrupts my thoughts:
“Why is it, when you ask an American where he’s from, he always tells you the state; like we’re supposed to know where it is?”
I don’t know how to respond when she makes a gibe about Americans, as I never know if she considers me one of them, or as an outsider. The booze isn’t helping the tone of the question. I shrug.
The chatter of the room grows louder as more and more people pack in. Jesus I’m thirsty. He would probably understand- being nailed to a cross and given nothing to drink – forced to die of thirst out in the open, for all to see.
The two below me are talking, but my hearing at parties isn’t so great, and so I just scan the room. Maybe it’s time to leave?
They say something and both look at me. She leans closer and says something, but I missed it.
“What was that?”
“We were just talking about it… you know how you don’t drink. Why not? Do you just not like the taste of it?”
The million dollar question. I’d already heard it not five hours ago and have had to stumble with an answer several times since I arrived in Oxford.
I look at her face, and suddenly I can see where life is going. I already know how this will end.
Must there be any point to a conviction? Any time I try and pin it down, it never does make much sense, so explanations always fall flat. When I was alone, I actually consider giving in – having a drink, and calling it a day. But suddenly, in the presence of others, I find myself compelled to maintain my conviction.
“It’s hard to explain” is all I say, but I know it’s never enough. “Actually, I’m going to get out of here.”
The crowd parts quicker than the legs of a teenager from Beverley as I make my way through. I feel the apartment will me to leave as the front door opens and the cold October night slaps my sober face.
An American chap is chatting one of the girls up. As he does so, he casually pulls off his sweater and rotates his shoulders while squeezing his biceps ever so slightly and sneaking in a sniff of the armpit. I think he looks like yet another Ivy league sonofabitch, but then again I could just be jealous because no one here has ever heard of my university. As I scowl, a voice from below interrupts my thoughts:
“Why is it, when you ask an American where he’s from, he always tells you the state; like we’re supposed to know where it is?”
I don’t know how to respond when she makes a gibe about Americans, as I never know if she considers me one of them, or as an outsider. The booze isn’t helping the tone of the question. I shrug.
The chatter of the room grows louder as more and more people pack in. Jesus I’m thirsty. He would probably understand- being nailed to a cross and given nothing to drink – forced to die of thirst out in the open, for all to see.
The two below me are talking, but my hearing at parties isn’t so great, and so I just scan the room. Maybe it’s time to leave?
They say something and both look at me. She leans closer and says something, but I missed it.
“What was that?”
“We were just talking about it… you know how you don’t drink. Why not? Do you just not like the taste of it?”
The million dollar question. I’d already heard it not five hours ago and have had to stumble with an answer several times since I arrived in Oxford.
I look at her face, and suddenly I can see where life is going. I already know how this will end.
Must there be any point to a conviction? Any time I try and pin it down, it never does make much sense, so explanations always fall flat. When I was alone, I actually consider giving in – having a drink, and calling it a day. But suddenly, in the presence of others, I find myself compelled to maintain my conviction.
“It’s hard to explain” is all I say, but I know it’s never enough. “Actually, I’m going to get out of here.”
The crowd parts quicker than the legs of a teenager from Beverley as I make my way through. I feel the apartment will me to leave as the front door opens and the cold October night slaps my sober face.
