We discussed the virtues of assorted drugs (of the legal variety -- stop that), and I told Lynne that despite the fact that many sympathetic friends and colleagues here in London have kindly loaded me up to the gunwhales with assorted packets of Valium, sleeping pills, etc., I always prefer the non-medicated route wherever possible. For one thing I don't ever want to get hooked on those insidious things, and for another it's only ever a temporary relief -- albeit potentially enough to get me home in one piece until I can actually get some proper rest and get proper medical or psychiatric help.
In short, I prefer to meditate or do breathing exercises or whatever. (I've had to stop the yoga as the pain prevented me from doing any of the postures, much less sitting still.) But as the nurse said, if you're severely sleep-deprived all the strength of will in the world won't stop your mind playing tricks on you, because your mind simply winds up doing in the daytime what it would normally do at night -- if I was allowed to sleep, that is.
I've basically stopped working over the last couple of days, partly because I simply couldn't focus anyway and partly to give my arms, neck and shoulders a break. That seems to be helping enormously. Mounting the laptop on a box and dropping a USB keyboard into my lap have definitely cut down on the upper body and extremity pain. (Here I pause to acknowledge myself for the amazing intuitive insight that allowed me to self-diagnose that particular worrisome problem.) Now, if I can just figure out what those pains in my chest are all about and get them to stop too, all will be peachy-creamy.
* * *
I had a meeting yesterday with the halls management, finally. It seems you only really get attention around here when you start threatening lawsuits; funny, that. (I suppose one of the advantages of being constantly mistaken for an American is that the locals assume I am congenitally litigious.)
One of the many ironies of the situation was that I was summoned to the meeting by a phone call that woke me up in the middle of the first protracted period of functional sleep I'd had in the previous 24 hours.
But I wasn't in much of a laughing mood when halls management feigned ignorance of previous complaints. I mean, it's not like neither I nor other residents haven't complained before. Oh, I managed to write off most of the first term; I reckoned the guilty parties would eventually tire of their antics, get beaten up by someone with less patience, or die in tragicomic circumstances due to their own monumental stupidity. I even said that I did not come to halls totally naive, and I expected a certain amount of rambunctiousness and disobedience, even from fellow postgraduates. (I was alarmed to learn that the main miscreants in question are allegedly postgraduates, although I have serious doubts about the veracity of this claim.) Once or twice a week, especially on weekends, was easily forgivable, I said. But once the crepuscular disturbances accelerated early in the second term, to three or four nights per week and usually in midweek, the gloves came off. I decided to play hardball. Within the span of the first two or three weeks I had filed at least four or five written complaints, and several others had been called in overnight to the security staff. Of course halls management denied all knowledge of these.
"Don't your night and weekend staff take reports?" I asked, incredulously. I almost followed that up with, "And don't you know how to INTERPRET THEM?" The response seemed to imply that I needed to physically write and submit multiple complaints about a single particular offender in order for any action to be taken whatsoever. Apparently a general complaint about massive parties breaking out at ungodly hours of the morning and bouncing from room to room simply isn't specific enough. I don't know how -- perhaps it was because I was too tired and lacking in energy, having been so recently awoken out of a modicum of sleep -- but I managed to maintain my cool and did not so much as raise my voice. (Fortunately I had rehearsed the conversation several times previously, just to ensure I did not undermine my own credibility or haul off and slug somebody.)
To cut a long, painful story short, I was promised that decisive and effective action would be taken! (Of course there was no mention of the false accusations of cooker vandalism, but that's another story I will save for another day.)
Later yesterday afternoon, as I was lying on my bed trying to focus on my books, a little frisson of excitement ran through me as a notice was slipped under my door. I assumed this was a stern -- and final --warning to all potential troublemakers. Triumphantly I practically leapt out of bed to snatch the paper up and read it.
It was, of course, a notice (with headline written in extra-large, red font) indicating that the window in flat 92 -- the one broken two weeks ago when some intellectually impoverished twat tried unsuccessfully to burn the place down -- was to be repaired, and would we all kindly keep our windows closed so as to not allow dust and debris to enter the building.
I am so overcome with... I don't know, gratitude hardly seems the word... that I want to somehow repay halls management's graciousness. Perhaps I will do this by saving them time, money and trouble. Perhaps while the repair crew is still on premises and the warning letter is still in effect, I may just decide to throw myself out of my own fucking window.
It is February 28 today. D-day -- for Departure day -- is exactly 31 days from now.
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