I am a dyed-in-the-wool introvert, but apparently there are some people who just don't ping my argh-people-AWAYgoAWAY radar, and my two lovely International Housepests of Mystery are amongst them.
Between them, my two other gay boyfriends (Canadian Dave and Arash) and other random friends who seem determined that my FQ (fun quotient) shall not get too low, I have had the most wonderful, alcomoholic, fooderiffic, carefree and lovely time this past month.
I was sorry to see my IHoM go (especially having a tenor on tap, as it were, and also getting to hear the nightly installment of Adventrs-with-Grindr), but a New Adventure Looms - I'm starting the Graduate Diploma of Music at my Yewni in *gleep* eight days.
I seem to be the only one who is worried about things like timetables and enrolling and credit points and teacher choice and textbooks and assessment - the staff at the faculty are....well, a little bit free-range and supremely unconcerned about deadlines and I feel like Hermione half the time (cue john doing his best Maggie Smith: "Five points from Gryffindor, Mr Potterr"). I asked my friend Anna (a fellow music stewent) what the textbook was for Practical Anatomy for Classical Singers and she actually laughed in my face. Apparently we have to keep a journal about how we feel after each class and how it may have helped us in our practice. Really. REALLY? At this point I have to admit that I am vacillating between horrified and positively gleeful. Erm.
I know and have worked with both the former Dean and the current Dean of this Faculty in my position as Graduations Lackey...one is now my course coordinator and the other is - now my Dean. Former Dean was kinda...well, flakey at the best of times and talked a lot about feelings (I see a theme here) and Current Dean (who I have met with, worked with and chatted to on multiple occasions) recently spent 15 minutes talking at someone he thought was me. She rang me to tell me the gist of the conversation because she didn't want to embarrass him by pointing out she wasn't me. I would have had NO such compunctions. This person? Is, yes, large-ish. Also a caucasian woman. Also over 35. Also: half a foot taller, and not, you know, anything like me to look at. There isn't a *headdesk* big enough. My faculty management, you guys.
The fun of it will be watching his face when I walk into the prep meeting for their graduation in a couple weeks. I better see some squirming, is all I can say.
Oh yes, I'll still be working: I am trying to pull this qualification off part-time and still do my job three days a week.
Miracles of miracles, management are supporting me taking my long-service leave at a rate of two days per week during Semester. Possibly because it was that, or me disappearing for three months sometime this year - they all got very nervous when I qualified for long-service leave (not sure what to do for study leave: I may end up being strategically ill - I have 100+ days of sick leave to burn through. Don't get me wrong, I've been ill: just didn't use the leave. Which should tell you all the things you need to know.)
I also have the physical goal of getting much much fitter, and turning my body into a better instrument. That's what I'm about to become: an instrument.
Also - wow - must pull together repertoire list for whoever-new-teacher-will-be - it could be this person. Or not. Who can tell? A tree in a golden forest, people, a tree in a golden forest.
The best bit, though, the thing that makes the tiny anxiety attacks (am typing this in a sweaty state, believe me) and pulling my hair out over getting arrangements nailed down worth it, is that I get to finally - FINALLY - just be a musician and a music student. Still have to look at that one out of the corner of my eye, because I get a little tired-and-emotional when I think about it properly. I went and had a prowl around the music library the other day and was looking at baroque ensemble facsimile scores (in which I am interested not at all although they were very pretty), but I got the sniffles anyway. I'm blaming the dust.