003. 15 August, 2022. Saturday.
PRIVATE ENTRY.
No one's doing any excavation today. If the Ireland supporters are mad, the Argentinians are even madder -- they're going to set up a wireless in the middle of the camp and overnight the place seems to have turned into a makeshift Quidditch pitch, but with more alcohol (and llamas). You woke up at five-thirty this morning because Terry was banging around in the kitchen complaining about the noise, even though he was being several decibels louder than the party outside. (Did he ever go to sleep?)
You weren't actually expecting to attend the World Cup; you're not delusional. Even if you'd stayed with your mother in London, the chances of getting tickets were abysmal. Additionally, you know that if you were there, you'd run into someone from school -- summers are supposed to be a break from having to do so. You wouldn't, really, have fun. You know this. Or, this is what you've told yourself since the it's become the discussion topic du jour in the journals (semaine?). It wouldn't be anything like you wanted, which is
Still, you had to admit that listening to the commentary in Spanish with a group of inebriated strangers isn't your idea of a good time either. (Not least because you haven't a chance of understanding more than a sixth of what's going on. Didn't you know you were going to spend your summer in Argentina, Nathan? Yes, you did. You should have brushed up on your vocabulary during the year instead of Quidditch practices. Perhaps Irving is right: this game fucks up everything.) It could be fun, in theory; the people are friendly, you've become acquainted with the kids of Terry's coworkers, and even some of the Argentinian specialists they're working with. You should be having fun. A chart is not needed to figure this out: it's holidays, you're in a foreign country, there is alcohol, there are girls.
Instead you stole a bottle of firewhiskey and took off on your own, and now you're sitting here scribbling in your journal in the middle of nowhere, like a hermit.
You are officially a loser.
This is scenic, Boot. You are abroad. People would kill to have the opportunity you're having. Relax. You don't even have a reason to be in a bad mood except that would it kill him to You are going to have a good day. Starting now. The waterfall ends in a pool that's probably deep enough for a swim. Or you can practise flying here; it's secluded enough. You can't do that in London.
Positive thinking. Right. There'll always be another World Cup to go to, and besides that's not the point, whatever the outcome, you are certain that there will be a lot of partying at the campsite (celebratory or consolatory; it's just an excuse for drinking, as far as you can tell, and you won't object either way).
/PRIVATE.