The last few days have been something of an emotional rollercoaster: on Saturday we hopped on the Greyhound and went to my mum’s (via the Southampton IMAX for the new Batman installment). We took the puppy to her first clay pigeon shoot on Sunday morning to see how she’d cope with the noise; turns out that as long as the ground is soft enough for her to dig holes and hunt worms / mole people, she doesn’t care. On Sunday afternoon I finally got a haircut- the last time I visited a hairdresser was when I was in Kathmandu and had an hour to kill before collecting my canyon swing photos.
And Monday was The Big Day™, I got to wear a stupid hat and gown, and make my family endure 2 hours of ceremonial waffle just to watch me dash across the Portsmouth Guildhall stage without falling over.
So that was somewhat emotional; I held it together all the way through (admittedly my knees went a bit wobbly just before I did the strut across the stage) but then at the end the chancellor, Sheila Hancock, started her speech with “You did it!” and my eyes started leaking. It certainly hasn’t been the easiest four years of my life; there were times when I was close to giving up, but I stuck with it in the end. That’s the thing with us stubborn types, we obstinately dig our heels in and persevere, even when it’s not the best idea! And whilst I’m on the subject, I also managed to keep my cool and refrain from telling a handful of people exactly what I think of them. It wasn’t the right time, and you never know who your future colleagues might be, so for now I’ll just enjoy the thought of not having to see them again for the time being.
On Tuesday I went along to the New Forest Show, as per usual, and only got slightly sunburnt, which was certainly unusual. Afterwards we took the puppy to the beach and I swam in the sea for the first time in ages, and didn’t get hypothermia, which is always a bonus.
But after a fantastic few days there’s always something that brings reality crashing back through the door; on Wednesday morning I woke up and could hear Matt talking to my mum in the kitchen, which was odd as he’d gone back home on Monday night. It turns out that at some point on Tuesday, while he was at work, our guinea pig, Butters, had died. It wasn’t a huge surprise as he was 5 years old and store-bought pigs aren’t known for their breeding or longevity, but unlike Ike (who had died in December) he hadn’t been unwell or unhappy. So Matt packed up his cage and all of his stuff, and drove down in the middle of the night so that we could bury him in the garden the next morning. that’s three graves in 8 months; I hope the puppy’s digging skills don’t improve too much.
Also, my car insurance expires next month and I can’t afford to renew it so we have left the car with my dad until I know whether I can afford to keep it.
So I’m now home without a car, without my rodenty friend, and I’m no longer able to even pretend to be a student.