I’m not usually so direct in my post subject titles, but this time it encapsulates my feelings so adequately that I’m going to use it. Yet, in some respect, it hasn’t been boring. A fair few things have happened, but they were so utterly predictable that it is tedious to think about them.
The first one is that my mostly depressed housemate decided to take the entire week off work in order to see the doctor, and then get himself back on track. I had a good talk with him on Monday evening, after yet another session on the Southern Comfort, and it gave me a bit of hope that he was intending to get his head sorted out this week. He point blank refused to discuss what the actual problem was, as he is patently too embarassed to talk about it to me, or even anyone he knows. He’d rather talk to someone he doesn’t know.
OK, I understand that. He did so. Within days the drink was back, but what’s worse is that he is now drinking on his own in his room. Before he was drinking openly. I know he’s drinking because not even a closed door can contain the fumes of Southern Comfort. And the fact that he’s still acting very weird. He clearly refuses to accept there’s a problem, and when I tried to tell him there must be a problem, he said it only “worries” him because other people are always so worried. Yet he needs to be worried, because only then will he accept there’s a problem. But I don’t want to be held responsible for pushing him to the brink of despair by explaining just how bad a state he is getting himself into. One day it will click in his mind again, and I’m worried that I’ll get a repeat of what happened last year.
But this was all so predictable. As soon as I finished my latest “therapy” session with him on Monday night, I thought maybe things would improve in the very short term. Then I predicted he would spend the whole week on Football Manager before getting drunk again. It all happened. He told me on Monday night that he was going to start working on his projects for this semester. The evidence of that happening is zero. A completely wasted week. The pun on the word “wasted” is very much intentional.
Meanwhile, in work, things ticked over as normal. I got some things done, which was good, but no sooner do I get certain events resolved do new ones come along to take their place, or conflict with what’s already down in the diary. The lack of focus is ridiculous, but, again, unsurprising. But at least it means I can finish early because I don’t have anything to do.
Never mind. It’s another week closer to the finish. Plus, this weekend, I’m going to Ipswich to watch another friend of mine’s football team (Swansea) play in the fourth round of the FA Cup. It’s nice to get out and about a little. I don’t think I’m doing enough exploration down here. I won’t exactly get another chance to live in (or near) London for some years. That’s assuming I would want to do that at all… which seems unlikely at the moment given my current assessment of the place.
The rejoicing begins.