The Mind Boggles.

Extreme levels of procrastination have led me to once again record a select few of the banalities of my life in a written format. Going to sainsburys to buy 'lobster bisque (with brandy and fresh double cream)' and watching youtube videos of a sock singing rick astley just don't provide adequate distraction anymore, and much as I feel satisfied that my life is fulfilled prowling round my room armed with a particularly hefty copy of King Lear with which to shamelessly massacre unsuspecting insects, I have recently felt an urgent need to seek something more to stem the ever-increasing imminence of work (that vomit-inducing word). In this instance, I decided to counter a few essays by going to see the Hobbit at the theatre. (Take THAT, my friend the 'degree'. I spit at your fruitless parries. But I shall shortly attempt to scrounge for forgiveness when denial has finished with me.)
So, I went to see the Hobbit. There. Oh, and I can't just leave it there, can I? That would bring me a step closer to the aforementioned 'work', and WE WOULDN'T WANT THAT. I can almost hear my work behind me singing mournfully 'TURNNN AROUNDDDDD' (undoubtedly hailing my bright eyes) while some stubborn external presence (that has nothing whatsoever to do with me), forcefully jerks my jacket back round and fixes me with a hypnotising stare. Nothing I can do.
I enter the theatre, smiling smugly at my successful venture into society at the expense of painstakingly slow studying (I call it for want of a better word. 'Fuckall' would have applied just as well, I'm sure some would think) The audience consists predominantly of families, but it's fine. I work with this. With flair and practised ease. I teleport to my row (just seeing how far I can stretch the credibility of this account)and glide (shuffle) over to my seat, the mystical atmosphere and eerie music filling the theatre in a way that makes me feel like I have stepped into some fantastical world from which a dragon will quite naturally sit down beside me. Of course, this is not the case, the no-smoking signs if nothing prevent it (I bet that's what they planned all along). Instead, on one side there is a woman who laughed only once during the performance (inexplicably during a particularly quiet bit, at the mention of an owl). I noted peripherally at the start her turning to her friend (unlike myself, she had thoughtfully brought company), concern etched on her face, muttering fervently 'Food?!?', to which her friend replied confidently 'Food.', triumphantly rustling a plastic bag by her feet. Woman number 1 sighed contentedly and withdrew from the bag (I was on the edge of my seat by this point) an apple. This was to provide the atmospheric 'crunch' that punctuated the first ten minutes of the play, aided tirelessly by a plastic wrapper located behind me, which paused its crackling briefly to sneeze.

On my other side is a friendly-looking fellow who I am to become more closely acquainted with during the course of my stay in this fantastical location. We even discuss his past jobs and the various parts of the country his grandchildren reside. When the interval starts, the lights come on, people leave for food/drink, and I sit resolutely in my chair as dictated by the usual sheer laziness that permeates my life. Anyone looking at the scene would naturally assume we two had come together, were it not for the fact that we both stared blankly in front of us, surrounded by a sea of empty seats. And of course, with the often sought-after talent of successfully managing to make any situation a million times more awkward than it ever need be, I fidget about and seem to thicken the silence to almost suffocating depths. Fortunately, this is only allowed to happen for a handful of seconds and conversation between us strikes up with alarming ease (I really should attempt the art of conversation more, it may help alleviate the strain of social ineptitude).
"Very loud, that last bit!"
I leap onto this morsel of communication "oh yes, terribly loud!"
terribly? Act normal.
I embellish. "...Such a dramatic end, with the big flash of light and the screams!"
Wonderfully eloquent, as always. Could never guess you study a subject involving the intellectual and coherent analysis of such stories and their realisations. And then yes, precede to re-enact the sudden flash of light through the medium of ambiguous handmovement and widened eyes. well done.
I am a beaming face looking up enthusiastically at a wise aged man. He admirably continues.
"Are you enjoying it? Did you come with a group of friends or just...?
alone. he's inching towards that terrifying word.
I give a small laugh, one which I fantasise would be described as 'tinkling' if a) I had the ability for such effortless grace, and b) this weren't reality. The resultant derisive snort was perhaps not the best response so I tried to disguise it a little by morphing it into a cough, unwittingly prompting further problems for myself by confusing the poor man.
"sorry, what was that?" he leans in enthusiastically to (re)hear the answer that I have not uttered. Oh no. How to repeat a response I haven't yet formulated in my head?! We're (yes, we.) going to have to resort to spontaneity. I can almost feel my brain cells scattering for cover, screeching incomprehensible orders across the vast expanse of sandy deserts up there, one sole cell in the centre desperately throwing its hands (it has hands) about its head, before it too, flees for the cover of the idle shade provided by apathy. Thankfully, I am well-versed in handling such social blunders in the way that only a true veteran can be. I keep a calm face, though inside contorted with the usual gordian knot of whatif scenarios from which one must select the most socially-acceptable response.
I attempt a breezy smile: "actually I came alone"
must justify self before am given a pitying look.
I fluster to explain my life to him so as to establish if only by inflection on the word 'alone' that I mean it in a purely temporary sense and not in an 'I'M SO ALONE IN LIFE AND THIS IS MY PLEA FOR HELP' way.
Suddenly, I decide I want an ice cream more than anything in the world. I explain this to my new chum, and bound over to the icecream stand.
'Double chocolate' I exclaim with relish. Then, just as money exchanges hands, disaster strikes! A man swipes the last remaining double-chocolate ice cream from beside me.
My face contorts into a slow-motion 'nooooo', and as I dive across the tray of tubs and latch onto that one tub of joy, pleading for its possession with tears glistening in my eyes, a chorus of angels appear and chant in flawless harmony 'helppp herrrr' to the innocent bystanders waiting in the queue. Sort of. Instead I look on dismayed, hopes deflating to make room for abject misery. Again, sort of. Where is Bruno Mars?! I think.
I've been led to believe he would catch a grenade for me, jump in front of a train for me, and he won't even turn up when I need him MOST??? He's been nothing but hypothetical promises since the start. Sometimes (and I know it's a long shot) I feel like he's not addressing me at all, but some sort of fictional generic 'you' who can somehow map onto every female in existence.
Dealing with the blows of these two crashing realities was no mean feat, and I watched the woman's hand hovering uncertainly over where the tub had been
too little too late
"What was it you wanted?"
YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHICH ONE I WANTED, WE HAVE BOTH JUST WATCHED IT WALK AWAY IN THE HANDS OF ANOTHER ELIGIBLE COMPANION FOR ITSELF, AND NOW YOU ARE TRYING TO MAKE ME BELIEVE I IMAGINED THAT THERE WAS EVER A TUB THERE WHICH WAS SWEPT AWAY JUST AS I WAS FORMING AN EMOTIONAL ATTACHMENT TO IT?!
"strawberry. It was strawberry."
Fortunately I am sufficiently fickle to switch allegiances to this new tub. I am then faced with the cataclysmic choice of whether to clamber over the seats or disturb an entire row of people (thereby creating a rippling domino-effect of grumbles of resignation all the way to the seat of shame (mine)). I opt for the former, and make an ungainly hop onto my row.
"I haven't had ice cream in a theatre in years!" I comment joyfully as I flop finally into my seat.
years? don't pretend to a grandfather that you have experience of life. This is not the time.
Predictably this is greeted by silence. Have I overstepped the mark? Perhaps I should have made a more general comment about the heat of the theatre (potentially could be misconstrued as flirtatious), the good 'turnout'(already covered with a fervent agreeing nod to his introductory comment about busyness of the theatre), or the quality of the seats themselves (feel my opinion is not strong enough to comment)?
His son and granddaughter in the seats in front return to their seats once we are again engrossed in idle chitchat, and the granddaughter offers me some of her sweets. It's not enough that it looks like I have stolen her grandfather, but I am now being invited to take her sweets too...I decline with a beam, pointing to my strawberry icecream, delight on my face (the entire family most probably mistaking me for someone incapable of showing any other facial expression by this point)
Now would not be a good time to eat how you would normally do and spill the entire contents of an ice cream pot down your lurid pink tshirt on which is emblazoned a waving smurf.

And I confess that I enjoyed the Hobbit. Think what you will...I even chuckled along. I'm not ashamed. (I'm a little ashamed)
Any play that starts with the word 'dwarves', a play in which 'mythril' is hissed with ardent awe, wins my heart any day (although that's not saying much, given what I displayed with the icecream choice fiasco), and if these characters can go on some great odyssey complete with 'misty mountains' in the space of two hours I have absolutely no reason to dillydally with writing a meagre 2000 words, surely? Perhaps now is the time to take my books out of the cupboard that I have hidden them in. But first I will watch a video of 'two dogs dining in a busy restaurant'. For nearly 7 minutes. It's actually rather good.