Okay, so Olly finally bailed out of the gig this evening, therefore I cannot very well ask for a fee. I am still going but will work for Chairlady Mao at Won's Westwon with prozac Julie and the nutty young know it all. I am still under the weather, and am not looking forward to two gigs, one unpaid, and the other the usual 5% of the musician's union minimum (£20 for three hours skilled work).
I am still on tender-hooks about my examination result. It is tearing me apart, but I am trying to be philosophical about it. If I fail, I will *not* accept the "wooden spoon prize", without honour. My rent arrears are mounting up and I owe tax. As ever the threat of eviction hangs over me, and the seizure of all my worldly goods (as though I even have enough money to even eat!). All I can see is the road before me. On the one hand, I have learned a great deal and I will apply that knowledge to my art, as a lyric poet and bard. On the other hand, if, by some miracle, the gods smile on me, and I am deemed sufficiently worthy of a grade IV pass instead of a fail, then I shall rest easy in the comfort that Christopher Marlowe was 199th out of 231 in his class.
I have no real links to my family here, and even fewer friends, in-fact, I have more friends abroad than I do here. As a result, I have little to lose and much to gain by going back to France. Good food, great wine, excellent historians, superb musicians, and a life where one is treated with a fair wage, a reasonable cost of living and made to feel a part of a family. Not a "spud bitch" as I was called back at Hades (the Bridport Arms). I can see nothing but two outcomes: success, or failure, respectively: to live or to live elsewhere.
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