Friday, 23 June
(Average EM $bond spread: 222 basis points [bp])
Just feel confident about it, man. Brasher Menthol is going to be intellectually stimulating as hell, dynamic, fast-paced, fun, energetic. It’s exactly what I need post-DPhil, which has been such a lonely experience. Time to get into the real world!
I shook my head and shuddered slightly, to end the inner pep talk. Drained the last of my beer.
I scanned the room. An inane party scene this, Linkham College’s year-end MCR party, but glowing nicely now (finally!), thanks to the drinks in my belly. There was Emily, her waxy features glistening with sweat as she tried to work her magic on Chris who, as usual, was just letting everything wash over him. There was fat Stu, dancing with such determination that gravity seemed to be looking the other way. A mass of bodies in motion, faces broadcasting across the spectrum from ennui to enthusiasm.
Someone gripped my left shoulder: Tim, all danced-out.
“Bitch!” I said.
“Hey, bitch!” he grinned and removed his hand. “Want another drink?”
“How did you guess, bitch?”
“Livingstone scholar!” we both yelled.
“So, we’ve really finished up, hey,” I said, leaning close to Tim’s ear to counter the whoops erupting from the dance floor as ‘Get Lucky’ came on.
“It’s nuts, I know.”
He caught the bartender’s attention and called, “Two Carlings, please.”
The beers arrived. We clinked our glasses and drank.
“Well, London is going to be awesome,” said Tim, yelling to be heard.
“It will, bitch,” I yelled back. “Upward and onward!”
Later, I weaved back to my room, getting drizzled on softly. I had drunk way too much, I reflected, swaying over the toilet while pissing. Thank God, I was able to summon the will to go to the kitchenette, fill a large Starbucks’ mug with water and chug it all down. Back in my room, I stripped down to my boxers and stretched out under the bedcovers.
It was a relief to close my eyes, stopping the room from spinning.
Yes, London will be good, I thought. Much to look forward to. Much to prove.
Sleep came abruptly.
Later, I had a really fucked up, classic sort of anxiety dream. I was in the examination room and things were going well. I knew my stuff – in fact, I’d anticipated the essay question almost perfectly. I watched my hand guiding the pen, nearing the conclusion with five minutes still to go.
But then, wait, what? Something was happening to the ink! The pages and pages of blue ink were … fading. Frantically, I tried to retrace the words, but they were disappearing too fast.
Fuck me, no one will believe me! Despair flooded over me. My heart pounded. I wanted to weep. The fucking ink, just fading away!
When I woke up, I was so relieved to realize it had just been a dream that, for a few moments, I didn’t even notice how hungover I was.