Be warned.
I am halfway down a home-made cocktail modelled on one we tried in Manchester. I can’t remember what the original was called, but this one ought to be called: Kicks Like A Misunderstood Toddler.
We had all of the ingredients so I thought we would try it ourselves at home, but in fact it is nothing like the original at all, which was mild and pleasant and had a lot of ice in it. The recipe was Salford spiced rum, maple syrup and bitters.
We have got some very upmarket divine oak-smoked maple syrup given to us by the Number Two Daughters for Christmas, so obviously we used that, none of your £2.99 in a plastic bottle from Asda stuff. It didn’t say on the menu what the proportions might be so I just chucked in lots of everything, except the bitters, which are not nice in massive quantities.
The ones in Manchester definitely had a lot less of everything except the ice. There was loads of ice in theirs, and, it would appear, not nearly so much Salford Spiced Rum.
I can tell you that the result is absolutely wonderful but potentially disabling. I am enjoying it very much, it is the sort of alcoholic drink which has the twin perils of both a nasty hangover and also diabetes. Do try it yourselves at home. The recipe is a lot of everything but go easy on the ice.
I feel as though I deserve a drink anyway. It has been a trying day. You will note, by the way, that we are not at work. I am not drinking Mancunian cocktails on the taxi rank.
The thing about today was that it was the Day Of Results. This is the final results for my university course.
I am worried about these. I am very afraid that my final assignment, being the play, was rubbish and will bring my final grade down so low that I will have to shoot myself. You are not just assessed on your final coursework but also on class contributions and exercises completed during the year. The point is whether or not Cambridge will be embarrassed at having to own up to you at some time in the future, and they want to be jolly careful that they won’t be. Hence although I have done very nicely so far there is still the possibility that I might drop down to a second, and to be honest I can imagine no greater shame, apart from possibly the sort that comes in the type of dream where you are in the queue at the supermarket with no clothes on.
Obviously my entire class was in a terrible panic, not least the ones whose Master’s’s acceptance was conditional on them getting a decent pass. Mine was not, so my future is assured, but several people have applied to places like Manchester and are waiting for their results before they know if they have been accepted.
We spent much of the day dinging one another frantically on WhatsApp. I have got WhatsApp now. It has taken me some time to manage telephone internet but I am pleased to say that it is finally done.
Goodness, I am intoxicated.
On with the story.
We had an email from the tutor, and another from the admin lady, assuring us that results would be out today, and by three this afternoon everybody’s nerves were twanging like a battle in a Robin Hood film. We waited and checked our emails and waited a bit more, and had several false alarms of the sort that go: Gosh, the results are out. No just kidding, they aren’t after all..
We dinged one another and eyed our mobile telephones anxiously for the entire day, but alas, by half past five all hope had faded.
Cambridge has Let Us Down.
We still do not know if we are qualified or merely the same ignoramuses we were yesterday.
I am in agony.
Hence I think I can be excused the intoxication. Also I have made a huge pile of sausage rolls, some cheese and onion pies, a curry and some fudge, and Mark has started to tile the conservatory. It is the most unimaginable massive mess and I have just found out that he has put his plumbing stuff in the living room. The Divorce Solar Panel strikes again.
I think we deserve a drink.
