Shirtless no More
This post has already been half-written. Or rather, it hasn't; the post that was going to be this post has already been half-written, but my sister wiped it when she turned off the PC, so it is lost forever. So consider this not the post-that-was-half-written, but in fact some kind of parallel-universe version of the post-that-was-half-written that happens to exist in our universe. Maybe it's taking a holiday or something.
Anyway, the post-that-was-half-written-and-now-exists-only-as-a-dismebodied-thought-floating-in-the-ether-of-the-internet's-past-self (hopefully not a ghost that will stretch the broweser window - if it does, I will have to break it up somehow, alas) was essentially me ruminating on presents and gifts after I noticed a bit of a trend in my last entry and what was to be this one (which would be, uh... the Platonic form of the idea for this entry? Or something?), which was that they were both about posessions that had recently been posessed by me (but not, I hasten to add, in the demonic sense). I tied this in to various materialistic, Chrismassy thoughts that had been bouncing round my head, and strung something together about presents and things.
However, that was not what this entry was supposed to be about.
I now have a shirt.
To be more specific, I now have a white polo-neck t-shirt with the 'St Albans School Squash Team' and my school's crest on it. (To go for full disclosure, I should say that it is probably slightly off-white, because it is in need of a wash). This is because I am on the school squash team.
Now, the more elephantine readers of this blog (in the mnemonic sense) may remember that this is nothing new. My officially being a permament member of the squad is nothing new either. The shirt, however, is. Technically, I should have had it when I was a reserve, but there weren't enough, or people hadn't given them back, or Mr Richards was too busy to organise it, or any number of excuses. I, however, had been making small, tongue-in-cheek protests about this terribly unfair discrimination by wearing non-school shirts to school squash things because I didn't have a school one. Mr Richards eventually noticed, and finally bugged Alex G, who used to be in the squad but was dropped for being a bit of a twit, to give him back his shirt, which he finally did; and Mr Richards then gave that shirt to me.
There is nothing specal about this shirt. It will not be particularly comfortable. It will not look particularly interesting. It is not a shirt that has stories to tell, nor one that has been to exotic places (nor, indeed, met interesting people, nor killed them); it is a white t-shirt with a logo on the front and some words printed on the back. Even so, having it makes me inordinately happy; in some ways, far, far happier than yesterday's far more expensive - and more to the point, useful - physical object du jour. But that doesn't matter.
I'm not particularly good at squash. I probably won't ever be particularly good at squash; I can simply play it to a high enough standard to play as the fifth man in a six-man school team that tends to lose, most of the time. But that doesn't matter; what matters is that the anthon1 who couldn't catch a ball is now the anthon1 who has a shirt with St Albans School Squash Team written on it, because he worked hard enough to get himself one. Five years ago, I wouldn't have dreamed of being good enough to be in any kind of sports team; now I have a team shirt. It's a symbol, and a silly one; but it's still mine.
Anyway, the post-that-was-half-written-and-now-exists-only-as-a-dismebodied-thought-floating-in-the-ether-of-the-internet's-past-self (hopefully not a ghost that will stretch the broweser window - if it does, I will have to break it up somehow, alas) was essentially me ruminating on presents and gifts after I noticed a bit of a trend in my last entry and what was to be this one (which would be, uh... the Platonic form of the idea for this entry? Or something?), which was that they were both about posessions that had recently been posessed by me (but not, I hasten to add, in the demonic sense). I tied this in to various materialistic, Chrismassy thoughts that had been bouncing round my head, and strung something together about presents and things.
However, that was not what this entry was supposed to be about.
I now have a shirt.
To be more specific, I now have a white polo-neck t-shirt with the 'St Albans School Squash Team' and my school's crest on it. (To go for full disclosure, I should say that it is probably slightly off-white, because it is in need of a wash). This is because I am on the school squash team.
Now, the more elephantine readers of this blog (in the mnemonic sense) may remember that this is nothing new. My officially being a permament member of the squad is nothing new either. The shirt, however, is. Technically, I should have had it when I was a reserve, but there weren't enough, or people hadn't given them back, or Mr Richards was too busy to organise it, or any number of excuses. I, however, had been making small, tongue-in-cheek protests about this terribly unfair discrimination by wearing non-school shirts to school squash things because I didn't have a school one. Mr Richards eventually noticed, and finally bugged Alex G, who used to be in the squad but was dropped for being a bit of a twit, to give him back his shirt, which he finally did; and Mr Richards then gave that shirt to me.
There is nothing specal about this shirt. It will not be particularly comfortable. It will not look particularly interesting. It is not a shirt that has stories to tell, nor one that has been to exotic places (nor, indeed, met interesting people, nor killed them); it is a white t-shirt with a logo on the front and some words printed on the back. Even so, having it makes me inordinately happy; in some ways, far, far happier than yesterday's far more expensive - and more to the point, useful - physical object du jour. But that doesn't matter.
I'm not particularly good at squash. I probably won't ever be particularly good at squash; I can simply play it to a high enough standard to play as the fifth man in a six-man school team that tends to lose, most of the time. But that doesn't matter; what matters is that the anthon1 who couldn't catch a ball is now the anthon1 who has a shirt with St Albans School Squash Team written on it, because he worked hard enough to get himself one. Five years ago, I wouldn't have dreamed of being good enough to be in any kind of sports team; now I have a team shirt. It's a symbol, and a silly one; but it's still mine.