Tom Livingston
Staff Writer
A month has elapsed since I swapped sterling for euros, Belfast for Dublin, ‘pulling birds’ for ‘shifting wetsers’, feeling pleased with my change after buying a round for getting phoned by Ulsterbank every time I buy a pint, and since I swapped parental guidance for Trinity Hall wardens.
To my amazement the koi are still swimming in the fishpond. Usually goldfish have treasure chests and castles for scenery, whereas these fresher’s week hardened fish have Tesco Value gin bottles and Dominoes pizza boxes as furniture. Enough time has passed, for the awkward post fresher’s week glances shared with shifting victims to have stopped, and too much time has passed for it to be socially acceptable to stop and ask that guy you always see walking to the Luas in the morning and were slamming multiple Sambucas with in Academy last week, who always calls you by name, what his name is. In that hung-over situation now, the only suitable procedure is to nod and mumble a non committal “Alright mate”, then inquire as to what the craic is, followed by a, “Yea I’m hanging like a ballbag”. Life in Trinity Hall has reached that stage where volunteering to go buy milk and bread after washing the dishes and cooking dinner has been replaced with refusing to cook anything that cannot fit in one pot, whilst pondering whether it’s quicker to wash a knife and fork than struggle through your spaghetti and pesto with the one remaining clean teaspoon. Black coffee or green tea is now favoured to regular tea, as there would be a better chance of finding a cow roaming around my kitchen than finding milk in my fridge.
My first fire drill took place at eight o’clock one morning in the third week. I woke up to be relieved that man’s oldest foe -morning wood, hadn’t come knocking. I rushed my post wake up piss – (I couldn’t smell any smoke), then pulled on a pair of shorts and sauntered outside to find my nipples erect in the morning air. Despite the antisocial hour, the fire drill forced a new experience upon me. It unleashed a new type of female from the depths of secrecy – the hidden world of girls without make-up was finally exposed to my innocent eyes. . To my pleasure, the beauty of some was accentuated in that ‘don’t even have to try’ sort of way whilst others lost their badges of potential – (‘P-Badge’ to complete the Northern colloquialism). As I likened this experience to cutting the chaff from the wheat, I looked above and thanked my lucky stars that I was born with that Y chromosome. I felt privileged that it’s socially questionable for men to wear make-up. I am usually just about able to fit in a shower to the morning’s routine, but the whole female make-up kerfuffle would be beyond me. The day more men than not have an early morning make-up routine is the day I either burn to a crisp through a fire alarm or drop out of college and start a spray tan business.
The first few weeks have seemed like an experiment in testing the boundaries of ‘reasonable’ behaviour. I have learnt from firsthand experience that singing ‘God Save the Queen’ with an English flatmate at four o’clock in the morning doesn’t fall under the ‘reasonable’ behaviour category. In my defence, ‘The Soldier’s Song’ was sung first – one thing my Northern heritage has taught me is to be as diplomatic as possible during times of inebriated chauvinism. Having escaped with a warning I therefore shouldn’t really complain about some of the farcical rules and functions in Trinity Hall, but I will anyway for the craic.
On a nice day it’s really enjoyable to look out from the kitchen window at the fish pond past the balcony that you’re not allowed out on. A balcony that can’t be utilised due to health and safety issues is more pathetic than a vegetarian who eats the occasional bacon sandwich. To relieve my built up balcony based stress I’d love to make some tea and toast and reside to my room to check my email or catch up on current affairs online. On arrival at Trinity Hall, everyone had to buy a five euro internet cable despite being promised wireless internet in each bedroom. This would be fine if the internet actually worked but every time I turn my laptop on I have to constantly refresh the internet settings. The amount of time I’ve spent refreshing my internet settings could easily have trained a flight of doves to send mail more efficiently than email. With frustratingly intermittent internet at least the tea and toast would help comfort my pain. Making toast should be a simple process; unfortunately short circuiting the electricity in the whole kitchen can also be simply achieved by turning the toaster switch on. The law student inside me says to save these complaints in case/for when I get fined.
I may go Martin Luther style and nail my very own ninety five theses to the warden’s office door. Alternatively, I’ll go down in style and get fined properly. I’ll be caught nude, singing ‘God save the Queen’ with no ‘The Soldier’s Song’ prequel whilst fishing for koi off my balcony during a fire alarm at four o’clock in the morning which I’ll have set off by throwing the toaster at the fire alarm box on the wall.
