I’m on duty in Hall. Earlier today, I went to reception and collected the walkie-talkie. Five minutes after I left reception, I heard a siren. But not a siren. My walkie-talkie was going mental. It was making a noise like an air-raid alarm. It was flashing red and the screen read “EMERGENCY”.
I had never known our walkie-talkies to do anything like this before. Maybe it’s a fire, or a flood, or maybe an enraged student is on the loose with a AK47. I hurried to reception, expecting to be handed a flak jacket, or at least a fire extinguisher.
The security guys greeted me with “Oh, it’s you.” What? Apparently, the “emergency” was exclusively coming from my walkie-talkie. They had picked it up at reception and had been wondering what to do.
The solution was simple. Turn my walkie-talkie off and then on again. The emergency was over. Thank goodness for that. I have no idea how I caused this emergency, but now I know what to do if I get a signal saying there’s an emergency. I turn it off and turn it on again and the emergency’s gone. And I felt about this big (tiny signal with fingers) when I was talking to security.
Life should always be so easy.
I had my Sunday phonecall with my mother today. She was at her most unConnor, telling me about how she doesn’t like strong, unfeminine women and how social workers steal children from good, Catholic families. We also discussed the latest episode of Downton, except the main point of the plot, which was of course the ludicrous acceptance of EVERY SINGLE CHARACTER in the NINETEEN TWENTIES of a practising homosexual. I call bollicks. Anyway, my mother and I discussed pretty much every character except Evil Gay Thomas. Because he’s gay.
It was actually quite a successful mother-son interaction. Although, if I were to describe how I felt afterwards, I might make the “tiny” signal with my fingers again.
I would like to be actually tinier. Today, I’m proud of what I ate for the first day in a long time. My dinner may have been bread and nutella, but I had fruit and yogurt for breakfast. And I didn’t over-fill myself once today. I’ve had five glasses of water too. And my digestive system is rejoicing. This is a small victory, but in the Grand Project that is my life, this was a good day.
Incidentally, I’ve had a realisation.
This “project” will never end. I don’t want to be perfect. And that’s not what life is. Life is the fight. It’s not the victory. The victory, the end-point, perfection is death. I want to fight, not die. There. I’ve said it. Project Connor is for life.