Deja Vu

    Okay, I know that I haven’t posted in quite some time, but, in my defense, I was stuck in Spain for a week. While there are certainly worse places to be stuck, this was not a good one to be stuck in if you wanted to just lay back and write. I mean, why would I be in my hotel room writing about exotic places when I could be wandering the streets of Granada and making sure that no one tried to mug me while I was sightseeing? More on that later.

    When I returned from Germany at half-term (February 22nd), one of my day student roommates had said that I could spend the last weekend before school started with him and help his family move into their new house. I like those sort of deals, where I can stay with friends while making myself useful around the house. I always feel awkward if I’m just crashing with someone and not doing chores too. Well, my friend’s family missed out on some cheap labor because the person they were buying the house from delayed the deal for about a week. I only found out once I had returned to England, as Vodafone had been knocked out by a storm some two weeks past. That left them in a hotel and me scrambling for shelter, so where did I go? Chester. Seemed like a good idea at the time. I like the hostels there, one has a manager on occasion that makes sure to leave one bed open for stragglers like me, I could hit a club if I felt like it, and still meet up with a friend or two, right? Wrong.
    With the exception of the first night, every hostel, hotel, and inn was booked, save some places where you had to pay anything between seventy and one-hundred and twenty quid for one night. I spent the entirety of Sunday looking for somewhere within my budget to stay to no avail. Still sick from Germany, remembering my homeless night in Venice, and also recalling some of the more… colourful stories about Chester at night, I was not looking forward to this experience. Oh, and it looked like it was going to rain. Running options through my head, I decided that my best bet was probably to go to a club, check my bag and coat, dance and drink the night away until I got kicked out at 3 or 4am, and then persuade one of the local pubs to let me become a member and stay there until 6am when I could get a train to school. Well, this weekend just seemed determined to alter my plans.
    Another friend hit me up that day and asked if I could help him at work that night. Considering how he’d put me up for a week during our October half-term, I owed him. Instead of dancing the night away in a club, I worked in one. Of course he waited to tell me until we were standing outside that this club was known for its lowlifes and that the staff had broken up a fight the previous weekend after a man “glassed” his girlfriend. I spent about six hours picking up empty glasses and beer bottles, washing dishes, and realizing that my friend had exaggerated a bit. Yes, the customers tended to be older and scruffier than most party-going clubbers (I saw one lady who must have been over fifty just sitting back and watching everything while she drank and there were others like her), but there was no hint of violence. The only discontent in these people seemed to be regarding their own lives and that’s not surprising at all. Why else go to a club if not to cut loose and forget yourself for a time? I actually rather enjoyed the whole experience. As I was doing this mostly out of generosity (my friend promised me a few free drinks and a couple of bills from the register at the end of the night), I went ahead and danced a little as I wove through the crowd gathering their refuse. Just because I was working and sober didn’t mean that I couldn’t jump like an idiot waving an empty bottle over my head. The customers seemed to think it was great fun besides and I was still getting my job done. Hell, I was probably doing more than most of the paid employees! I enjoyed the work, it gave me something to do, and I tend to work hard, especially in an energetic atmosphere.  I received many compliments from guests and co-workers alike, kept the place tidy, and ended with one drink and a fiver. Wait, that doesn’t seem quite right… Ah, as I said, I owed the guy! To be honest, this was a lot more fun than that night in Venice, even disregarding the pocket change I gained by the end.
    The rest of the week was uneventful until the Oswestry Music Festival on Thursday. I had been preparing for this competition for months, with two categories that I was to contend with solos in. I knew the songs, I’d practiced them at every opportunity, and I had spent every day of that last week coughing up a lung. Yeah, my prospects weren’t looking good. My voice was nearly shot, even after two days of vocal rest, I wasn’t breathing well, and I was about as jittery as a cat surrounded by six year-old delinquents for all of my nerves. In short, I did my best, placing only eleventh out of thirteen in the first category after singing a George Frederic Handel song and fifth out of eight in the other after performing “Bring Him Home” from “Les Miserables.” To be honest, I was pretty stoked with my results, considering how briefly I’ve been taking lessons and considering the rather stiff competition. One boy in particular floored me with his rendition of “‘Till I Hear You Sing.” I melted into the church pew and stared without a thought for the world as the guy sang. He only got third place, beaten for one by a guy who sang a scratchy, loud, discordant version of “Heaven On Their Minds.” I guess there’s just no accounting for taste. On the way out, my choir directer said something that I didn’t catch.
    “Hm? Sorry, what did you say, sir?”
    “Did you hear that guy?” Mr. Coupe nodded toward an elderly fellow in a maroon jumper who had just passed.
    “What guy. Him?” I stepped outside and shut the heavy-timbered door behind us. “I didn’t hear a thing.”
    “That gentleman we passed as we were leaving was humming “Bring Him Home.” Out of all of the songs that he could have chosen, he was singing yours.”
    I shrugged as I mounted the steps down to the street. “It’s a catchy song. He probably knew it already.” I bowed my head as I entered the school bus to keep anyone from seeing the big grin plastered to my face.