With Original Soundtrack By Louis Armstrong

So it is that life has been since Tuesday.

I’ve spent most of this past week in the eating and drinking and ice-cream establishments of the West End, basking in the unusual shiny round thing that appeared in the sky as if to celebrate with us, and going to the occasional lecture more because I want to hug people than for any other reason. There was one particularly successful lecture during which I managed to finally sort out my medical indemnity, which is gratis for medical students and abruptly ceases to be so when one gets a proper job (and, presumably, is therefore at risk of actually needing to use it). I had my mum up to stay over the weekend, and there was more eating and more drinking and more hugging. I went back to choir after a too-long-but-sadly-necessary absence and saw people who always did have more faith in me than I did in myself — although, there’s faith and then there’s writing a congratulations card before you know that those congratulations have been earned. And I went to church, where I hid behind a pillar, pleasantly mortified as my doctorness was announced during the end-of-service notices, and then endured a lot of good-natured piss-taking of the, “oh, Dr Beth, I need to talk to you about the pain in my eye/the creak in my knee/my brain transplant,” variety, with a lot of laughing and a great deal of hugging. I do like the hugging.

It has been good to truly relax, without the looming possibility of resits. I’m working and attending classes, but am nevertheless more relaxed than I have been in a very very long time. It has been good, too, to see and to celebrate with all those people who have all contributed in some way to keeping me propped upright and caffeinated and some sort of sane over the last five years and more especially over the last few months.


Next up, I’m moving to my new flat this weekend and thus, predictably, this flat is a disaster of empty cardboard boxes. Then, Holy Week — because the sensible thing to do, always, didn’t you know, is to move house the day before Palm Sunday. Then, a couple of weeks from now, I go off to the last placement of medical school, six weeks of Preparation for Practice in the hospital that I’ll start work in for real this summer. (“But what have you been doing for the last five years if not preparing for practice?” you all cry. I’ve heard it before, don’t think I haven’t.) It never does stop, and I suspect I like it that way.



    • Thank you. They were the only non-medical folk I saw for three months, and I suspect that they’re all secretly relieved that it’s over and they no longer need to see my pulling-my-hair-out face.

    • You can have one on Thursday, if you like. :)

      One interesting thing I’ve learned due to the announcement is how many people seem to have thought that I clergy-wrangled for a living. Your maestro on Sunday was thoroughly nonplussed to learn that I occasionally leave the sacristy.

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