Bizarrely, There Is Also Tennis Taking Place On The Other Courts.

I've never been a tennis fan, but I found myself strangely fascinated by the match between John Isner and Nicolas Mahut over the past couple of days. For those unaware: to win the fifth set, one player needs to be two full games ahead. In the case of Isner and Mahut, this didn't happen. It didn't happen for eleven hours. They played and played and played. On Wednesday, the match was suspended due to failing light levels at 59-59. On Thursday, I watched in increasing disbelief and cheered every time the score was equalised again, but eventually Isner won at 70-68. This one set went on longer than any full match of tennis ever played. You could have watched the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy in the time they were playing.

(When the set finally, finally finished, there was a little unexpected ceremony and the players and umpire all got presents. I thought that was rather sweet. Also, the audience cheered Mahut far more than they did the actual winner of the match, which was an extremely British thing to do. We do love a person who fights and fights and then loses anyway.)

So, anyway, now some part of me wants Mahut/Isner fanfiction. Hour after hour playing against each other, and eventually a sort of bizarre, exhaustion-induced Stockholm Syndrome sets in. Does either of them really want it to end?

...I'm a bad person.

(The Guardian live blog for the first day of Groundhog Set is hilarious (start from the last paragraph of the 3.45 entry). My favourite part:

The scoreboard is barely visible through the grass and weeds and trails of Spanish moss. It shows that John Isner and Nicolas Mahut are locked at 37 games each in the final set.

I'm wondering if maybe an angel will come and set them free. Is this too much to ask? Just one slender angel, with white wings and a wise smile, to tell them that's it's all right, they have suffered enough and that they are now being recalled. The angel could hug them and kiss their brows and invite them to lay their rackets gently on the grass. And then they could all ascend to heaven together. John Isner, Nicolas Mahut and the kind angel that saved them.

Also, I enjoy the fact that the highest-rated comment by far on the next day's blog is this:

I take Mahut off to them both. Just because it's been a ridiculous match of tennis, Isner reason for puns ay?)

Did I really just make an entire entry about tennis? How unusual.


Today, I find out what class degree I have.

I'm really scared.

I Was Not Expecting This.

I GOT A FIRST.

But, my goodness, I wish they'd give me a certificate or something right now so I can stop feeling they're about to whisk it out from under my feet, because I was right on the borderline. I was actually 0.017% below the percentage required for a First. THIS IS TERRIFYING.

Still, I now have a first-class joint honours degree in English Language and Literature! Hurrah!

And then my parents got me drunk, because apparently this is the law of academic celebration, even if the person whose academic success you are celebrating doesn't drink. In any case, I thought it would be interesting to attempt to type an entry whilst drunk. I'm not as drunk as I was, but still not sober. I am disappointed in my drunken typing, though, because, whilst I am making more typos than usual, I think I'm generally catching them and going back to correct them. I AM A DRUNKEN DISAPPOINTMENT. A DISAPPOINTMENT AT BEING DRUNK. I was so hoping for some entertaining typographical failures to mock later. But no; I'm still capable of using words like 'typographical'. Rubbish.

(Actually, I was also forced to drink the day after my final university deadline. At the somethingth cocktail, I began to protest.

Person Present: Don't worry. Worst-case scenario, we'll carry you out.
Riona: Well, it's good to know I'll have support. In my physical being, if not in my principles. (drinks somethingth cocktail))

...as it turns out, all I do when posting whilst drunk is drunkenly boast about how articulate I manage to remain whilst drunk. How incredibly uninteresting. I don't think I'm going to make a habit of this.

BUT ANYWAY. Yes! I have a degree! A good degree! Thank you so much for your support when I was panicking over work and such. I couldn't have done this without you.

...my father is now loudly saying to company a couple of rooms away 'AS IT HAPPENS, I KNOW WHEN HARRIET* WAS CONCEIVED.' (The Great Storm of 1987, apparently. GOOD TO KNOW.)

* I should point out that this is me, as people have in the past been surprised to discover that Riona was not my real name.