Onward!!

I’d say you have to be in London to be able to go to a Halloween-themed night at a nearby pub, have haunting folky artists play and sing for you, and then combine to form a supergroup that does folk-tinged versions of Misfits songs “for one night only”.

Then you end up chatting to the musicians and their friends and end up in a kebab place at 1am completely oblivious to the duties you may have the next day, because the night has just been so much fun and the people seem really nice.

I genuinely hope they make another appearance. The pop-song harmonies mixed with tambourine rhythms and macabre lyrics were just too delicious a combination to waste. I feel lucky to have witnessed it, because right now it still feels special. One night only can really work.

No guidebook, no experience, no German skills, no clue.
Vienna is going to be fun for a long weekend, especially with the above issues.

Usually I read up on the places I go to. Well, this time I can honestly say that I’ll let the place give me an impression that isn’t affected by preconceived notions. Except for sachertorte. There is going to be plenty of that.

I’ve been going through a horrible (but seemingly and thankfully rapid) cold these past few days. It all started on Saturday, when a few glasses of Parisian mulled wine led to me keeling over the toilet and my throatache of the past few days becoming the least worrisome of my symptoms. My mini weekend break had thoroughly changed course. Not having been ill enough to call in sick has made this time even worse than it probably is.

The experience has made me think about living in a shared house and the way that illness affects that dynamic. I most likely caught this off one of my housemates, and quite likely will pass it on to at least one of them, if not more people. I’ve tried to hole myself up in my room, under my delightfully warm blanket, watching endless videos and things and spending far too much time listening to various internet radio stations, because I’ve wanted to avoid doing precisely that. Plus, I have to be in full health for the coming weekend, where troupe of London folk will descend on Vienna to wreak havoc that city. Us not knowing the first thing about what to do in Vienna just makes for a more interesting trip, I think.

So, on the one hand I’ve been withdrawing, but on the other I was immensely glad that a housemate of mine told me she could get me anything I might need. I was all right (dosed-up enough on cold medication) to go to the shop yesterday and have food for tonight too, so I should be fine. It’s nice to know that we’re not just people inhabiting the same building, but actually care about each other. Or I guess I knew, but something like this just reinforces that thought.

There is also a cat on my street that likes to hang out on the pavement begging for attention from passersby. It has a crystal-studded collar and is of substantial size so I know it’s cared for. It nearly broke my heart to kick it out when it made a beeline for my door when I opened it. I know it’s cold outside but still… my housemates (as lovely as they are) are not cat-people. And, like I said, it has a collar, meaning it also has a home. I did think I would use it as a warming, purring cushion for a few hours, though… Would anybody notice?

I was nervous as hell walking into my French course proficiency assessment this afternoon. I stood in the quiet office adjoining the test location, completely alone, collecting courage until it was 12:27, three minutes prior to the start of my ten-minute slot. All the sentences and responses I’d thought up in my head over the past few days had vanished by that point, and I can honestly say I felt scared even though there was nothing at stake.

The instructor sat me down next to his colleague and asked me what my name is. I told him, and he clicked around on his computer.

“Quelle nationalité êtez-vous?” was the first question he asked after that, and I realised that this was it and the assessment interview was on.

I told him, and he asked me where I’d learned French. I told him that too, in detail.

“I’m not interested in those countries, I’m interested in French,” he said with a smile on his face. What level had I achieved in my prior studies, he asked next.

I felt I was umm-ing and aah-ing much too much. I didn’t worry about grammar because words just didn’t seem to come out of my mouth.

“Well, based on that I think I am going to recommend you take a level 5 course,” he said after our brief chat.

What. No, seriously. I’d thought a refresher course on advanced grammar (levels 3 or 4) would be what I need.

“Non, vous vous ennuiyez en cours de grammaire.” I’d bore myself in a grammar class. Apparently I don’t make grammatical mistakes, and I should practice using the language. That’s exactly what I wanted, though – I’ve felt uncomfortable opening my mouth to speak in French, not for lack of skill but lack of practice. He took a look at my written test scores from the day before – a mostly multiple-choice test with a few paragraphs of free writing. He said the multiple choice component was “pratiquement 100%” (in reality, 70) and he didn’t even glance at the paragraphs I wrote. So now he’s enrolled me in a course focusing on current affairs that I can get that practice.

I’m still a bit stunned.

(Disclaimer: I have not written any French since finishing high school yonks ago. Despite what the guy says my grammar is probably rusty, so don’t be surprised to see mistakes in the sentences above).

Yesterday during a lull at work I was thinking back to my first year of university in London, when I met a guy who worked for Trafigura as a trader. Quite independently of that, later on, I wondered how useful the undoubted thousands of documents on Wikileaks were to the wider world, and whether there are journalists who as part of their duties monitor what is posted.

Then, today, both these things combine in the news, with the Guardian reporting that it has been gagged from reporting on a Parliamentary question (which to my ignorant common sense should surely be public) and that said question possibly deals with the Trafigura case and the gagging order was imposed by the notorious Carter-Ruck solicitors.