So, now that a reasonable three months have passed since my last update, I figured I'd give this thing an update.

Anyway, I actually have NEWS. And lots of it, hence the essay below.

I've now actually completed my degree at University of Nottingham, graduating with an upper-second in Politics and American Studies. There was much rejoicing. And by rejoicing; I mean drinking.

One downer - when I called my dad to tell him how unmistakably awesome I am and that I now have a peice of paper to prove it, he seemed happier about the fact that I was drinking Timothy Taylor's Landlord. Now, don't get me wrong, it's a fine ale; but when your only son just got a degree from a Russell Group University, you should probably congratulate him on that, not his taste in booze.

Anyway, in June, I moved into a new flat in a converted tannery. It's pretty, with a wee river (with ducks!) running to the side, and really convenient for everything. And it's cheap, too, which is good. Interesting fact: the building I live in is older than the Washington State by well over a decade. Take that, America; you boisterous young Turk!

Moving into an old building next to a river really makes you feel a part of something - part of the city, and part of the community. So, after 22 years of getting lost and alienated on the tangled mass of North-East London streets; I now call Nottingham my home, and walk about getting lost and alienated; but this time with the eyes of a Romantic poet and a sense of belonging.

Downside? Council tax. When I was younger, I always wondered when I was going to feel like an adult. GCSEs, voting, A-levels, gap-year, University, more voting. It all came and went and I still felt pretty much like a kid. But, as soon as the Notts City Council started sapping my bank account - lines formed around my eyes, my voice grew deep and husky, responsibility started curving my spine and I died a little inside.

Graduation. It's a huge furore over 2.13 seconds of walking across the stage and shaking the (probably swine-flu ridden) hands of the vice-vice-chancellors' cousin's dog's handler's half-brother; but it was more for my mum, I guess - seeing her youngest all dressed up in black sheet and square hat, succeeding at something, even if it was a fairly useless Arts degree.

So, post-graduation, I was looking for a job. And then I found a job. And heaven knows I'm miserable now. Obligatory The Smiths reference aside, I'm now literally just waiting for a Criminal Records Bureau check to come back (it often takes SIX weeks. What gives, CRB? If I order a pizza, it's on my door within an hour - all you have to do is check a database, how can that possibly take six weeks!), and I can start working as admin assistant to the Human Resources & Internal Governance Coordinators at a local part-private hospital. Basically, I'll be their office bitch.

But, that's fine. The job allows for good progression and it's the kind of field I thought I might like long-term, anyway. The private bit worried me at first, but it turns out the subsidiary company I'm working for is NHS funded and provides only NHS work, so no moral qualms about my work. That's nice. Also, it's well paid and is less than 5 minutes walk away from my flat.

I surprised myself about how non-mercenary I can be - I was offered a job that I turned down simply because it seemed so freaking dull. It was in car finance, which sounds like it'll suck my soul faster than a vampire prostitute with a straw. So yeah, I turned down a job even in the current economic climate. Shock. Shock. Horror.

So, it'll be nice to start earning money. I wonder if the old adage is true; if mo' problems do accompany mo' money? I guess I'll find out come my first payday.

Also, for the first time in Seemingly Ever, I'm away from Notts for a weekend. I'm up in Edinburgh at my sister's place at the moment, to see Icelandic band Mum (although their gig got moved to Glasgow), and hopefully some comedy tomorrow, as part of the Edinburgh Fringe.

It's nice to get away. Lack of trips and days out is one of the biggest downsides of being single for two years. Frustration is a strong beast, sure; but it's also a strange beast that luckily stays strapped down below your loins for most of the time, but that biting emptiness of not having a loved one with whom you can plan to go to 'Romantic Destination 1' with is a constant pang at the heartstrings. When everyone else leaves to go to Ireland/Newcastle/GodknowswhereinthemiddleoftheHerefordshi recountryside to spend time with their beaus or beaudettes (this is now a word. use it and confuse the dictionary people), I'm left alone in The Town of Snott, wondering if it's worth going to Lee Rosy's tea shop by myself*.


Peace out.
Peter.

*The answer, for those that are wondering, "Yes. If you go to the tea-shop alone and order a pot of darjeeling with (*sigh*) 'just one cup', maybe that waitress in the pretty vintage dresses who you've been pining over will take pity on you and give you her number. Who knows, it could be that despite the plethora of artfully poised, beautifully carved indie-Adonises hanging around with their perfectly coiffoured bed-hair and skinny jeans boasting packages UPS would need two trucks to deliver, she may have a soft spot for humorously awkward men who look and sound like the nerdy, malformed love-child of Jarvis Cocker and James May."