Freud and Raw Eggs

Phew!

It's been a busy week. Weir House has been lovely so far, except for last night's little faceoff with the beef Stroganoff (it won. Not a pleasant night) and the team-building monstrosity that left me sprinting all over Wellington with a raw egg and eight serious athletes. Don't get me wrong, "Operation Relocation" was good fun. It was the morning after that killed me - or more specifically, killed my ankles, calves and quad muscles.

The week has been casually interspersed with fantastic oddities like finding the escalator up to Sierra broken and being able to sprint up the 'down' escalator and then back down the 'up' escalator, stalking a hedgehog up Kelburn Parade at midnight and participating in a life-sized game of fooseball; however, the highlight has got to be all the new people I've met. Heyes, my trusty Holmes fan and strong-armed Knight in shining armour - this means you, too.

It seems to be the height of fashion to wear your leaver's jerseys from high school at the moment (which is lucky, considering it's the warmest jersey I have and the weather has not been kind) so deducing basic things like where people are from has become pitifully easy. It's also incredible what one can deduce from the nickname they choose to have printed on the back. For example, of the girl whose jersey read 'Loose', I need explain no further. Well, she could have just been naive, but the length of her shorts and the cut of her tank-top said otherwise.

Not that I'm judging - oh, hell. Yeah, I'm judging.

To the Science of Induction I have devoted little time, and will likely continue to devote little time over the next week as lectures begin; one memorable hour was spent with a friend on the Waterfront making educated guesses (well, mine were educated. Ivan, dear, some of yours were frankly ludicrous) about passers-by. I have yet to properly meet the closeted gay and recently relocated student taking new refuge in the group of girls by the boat-shed, but I'm looking out for him.

I sat down to merely skim over the preface of my textbooks for Psychology, but got sidetracked by the explanation of the Oedipal complex. I'd always assumed it was simply the frankly ludicrous notion that all men are secretly attracted to their own mother and look for her in their sexual partners. Turns out there's so much more to it than that that it actually makes a lot of sense. Not complete sense, of course, but a fair amount. The Electra complex, the female equivalent, I find slightly more dubious, but it gave me pause nonetheless.

I've spent too many late nights wandering the town, playing snooker or trying not to vomit (my worst phobia, I kid you not, is vomiting) and so I should really be saying goodnight to this first week of independence (or relative independence, once the shepherding and the sense that this was rather like a school camp wore off) and preparing myself mentally for the next.

Arrivederci,
-for you!