So we have the best gig of the year coming up. I can tell what is going to happen: just like last time we will have to play right next to a very large engine ticking over (which makes a change from the sawmill or metal and hammer sound I usually have to compete with outside the commie café) barely being able to hear myself think. Lots of other musicians will be there, with amplifiers, like last time. Mike will be rude (like last time) and insist on much food and drink (even though he's technically not part of the band) and we will play at about 2 AM when finally the other musicians have finished and we only have the sound of a loud engine to compete with. It will be cold, damp, and I will have to leave little Ronulus at home, in-case I see his former owner (again, just like last time) whom used to beat Ronnie Barker.
I hate my life. Not a day passes where I am not cold, hungry, with the threat of eviction and bailiffs hanging over me like an ice-cold spectral wraith, ready to appear before snatching my very life away.
The Uni result I am still on tender-hooks about and have resolved that if I fail, I will leave the country immediately. The reason being is because I am sick (physically, and have been for the past week, from malnutrition). The best paid gig here pays not even half of the worst paid gig in France. Of course, one can always go begging here, which does wonders for one's self esteem.
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