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Tuesday, October 5th, 2004
3:31 pm - 5th of October 1997
My office hours this school year will be from 6 p.m. to 8 p.m. every weekday except Wednesday; any exceptions to this rule will be duly posted on my door. In addition, my right to ask people very kindly to sod off even within these hours is not something to be questioned, especially not by everybody else. All inquiries not having anything to do with a) Potions or b) Slytherin and thus more than qualified to take a route as far away from myself as practically possible should go straight to the Headmistress or any other available competent teacher (read: the Headmistress).

If I have not made myself clear enough on this matter, by all means stop by my office and I shall be positively delighted to give any who wishes so the extended version of these rules.

current mood: working

be scowled at

Wednesday, September 10th, 2003
9:36 pm - 10th of April 1997
As much as I am excessively fond of any suggestion of self-improvement, I must say that even once a minute is once a minute too much. Minerva set me up last night (I suspect it was done on purpose too), and so I found myself facing Vector over the staff room chess table instead, with only Sprout patting one of her more pathetic plants (I hope it got smacked to death in the end) over in the far corner as moral support.

Not that I think I would actually have received some from that plant pimp—she tried forcing me to adopt a sunflower in Greenhouse One once—but it is an expression I like to haul into my words of choice whenever Vector is concerned.

I shall have to deal with Minerva later, though she’ll probably spew out some questionable rubbish about my needing to socialise with others than her (and her) for a bit.

Of course, I want to point out something. I do socialise. I am constantly surrounded by insolent scoundrels determined to blow up as many cauldrons during one lesson as is mathematically possible, not to mention the occasionally squeaking being whose source of noise is located just above my knee (after a couple of years identified to be Flitwick). A good lash-out solves the latter problem quite nicely, naturally, but still the members of a school faculty must be some of the most socialising people on the whole blasted planet, so I do believe Minerva is quite wrong in her assumptions of my very limited social life.

Also, I spoke to Rodolphus the other day.

Hah.

current mood: cranky

2 snivelling students + be scowled at

Thursday, August 14th, 2003
1:30 pm - 14 March 1997
I have unfortunately been notified of Parkinson’s return, and also just which of the world’s merciful and thus brainless Samaritans who saw to it. While my opinion of this matter would be best off being somewhere else, I can at least say that Parkinson being forced to study is one of the better things that have happened to her, not of course surpassing the time her not quite finished Aging Potion exploded and left her face with several interesting protuberances.

But enough happy reminiscing. Things are happening, though of what nature I am not entirely sure. What I do know is that marks are dropping severely, and if things do not get back to normal (meaning nothing under Acceptable in my class), there will be some most dissatisfying consequences … but not for me, naturally.

In other news, I find it difficult to sleep well these days, but then again that would hardly cause a headline in The Prophet, as it has been known to happen before. I will at length try and avoid sleeping potions since those have a tendency of slowly making the user addicted to them, and I need hardly add that that is not exactly desirable.

current mood: grumpy

4 snivelling students + be scowled at

Monday, July 28th, 2003
12:07 am - 28 February 1997
I can’t find the flask. I can’t find the bloody flask.

Perhaps the house-elves took it. Perhaps I am searching in the wrong robe. Perhaps—fuck, I’ve lost it. And as this place is swarming with Students and Other Abominable Creatures ™, I am not very likely to retrieve it.

Hopefully it happened somewhere out of her reach. Blast. How could this happen? I can’t be discovered littering my belongings all over the place. Especially not belongings such as that. Let me examine my robes once more—

Well I’ll be damned. There is a hole in my fucking pocket. I haven’t been carrying something acidic around lately, have I?

Oh … damn.

So. Maybe I stepped over the line just a millimetre or two. But I could not have distributed the potion to anyone else before I was entirely sure of its efficiency. Over the years I seem to have developed a certain tolerance for strong substances, so I stand by my decision: I was the only right person to test it. (Not that I ever doubted it would work, of course.) And it is not as if the inhabitants of this castle are on their most active peak at three a.m., so Sinistra was the natural choice, obviously. I could of course have picked a house-elf, but the human brain has got a limit as to how many grammatical errors it can digest in the course of ten minutes.

And she did not really think about anything important.

In a way.

However, I am pleased to have finally found the culprit responsible for those blasted letters. Though sadly enough, from what I gathered, they seemed to serve the purpose as some sort of revenge, so that means that if I retaliate, I will get even more flowers, or some disgusting variation of the theme. What I said about having substantial proof was of course a downright lie, but I suppose I could always have found a quirk in the handwriting that matched one in one of the regular owls I have received from her.

In any case. If taken in a slightly larger dose, the potion should be a sufficient weapon to have in stock. Less fortunate people, i.e. people not possessing the abilities of a Legilimens, will probably find it useful. And now that we know where Dumbledore is—I only hope someone somewhere is planning his rescue, because I have certainly not heard word about anything. Leave it to the werewolf and the man whose sole ability in life consists of transforming himself into something that pisses on people’s legs to foil everything.

On another note, I am growing tired of Sinistra constantly physically attacking me to show just exactly how much she appreciates me. (Though I would probably have done the same thing myself.) At least I got a peck on the cheek out of the whole ordeal, like some overexcited third-year taking a break in his wanking to take a step into the real world instead.



Not that I, ahem, masturbate.



Oh, do shut up, you’re just a bloody dia journal.

...

Hmm.

"You" are a journal.

You cannot talk back.

St. Mungo's, make room.

current mood: stressed
Monday, July 21st, 2003
4:04 am - 21 February 1997
Well. Another pathetic little letter with a little something attached once again found its way into my hands, though certainly not with my consent.

And during a blasted staff meeting as well. (If I ever get hold of the one who suggested Monday morning was a suitable time for something as appalling as that, I do not know if I can be held responsible for my actions.)

Hullo Sevvie-dear,
heres something I know you’ll like and even have a use for even. The Easy Care for Greasy Hair shampo will make you’r hair even prettier, if that’s possibl, hehe. Its not illegal to wash your hair in England, you know. Ah, you naughgty boy!

Much love and kisses,
your little admirer


If I had not known better I would have said it was from Malfoy senior and his ridiculous Death Prettiery.

Though obviously it isn’t (I sincerely hope so, anyway). Same odd handwriting as the last. Sinistra certainly had a laugh when she saw it, then again the rest of the staff did too. Could she not for once have put sleep as her first priority instead of that wretched meeting, giving her an excellent opportunity not to be a general pain in the arse of everyone silly enough ever to have placed themselves within a ten-feet radius of her? Speaking of arses … no, maybe not.

And Minerva should not be allowed that early in the morning. Simple as that.

Perhaps I ought to try it. Just for the experiment’s sake, of course. It’s most likely useless anyway, no matter who sent it.

As for the potion, I am getting somewhere, absolutely. Though I have had to restock quite a lot of Healing Potions, the potion keeps splashing onto me. In any case, when the next full moon occurs, I shall have to conduct a bit of experimenting to be completely sure that it will not be far too affected by the moon phases.

Speaking of which, the Wolfsbane must also be brewed. Well, at least it is better than demonstrating that bloody Boil-Curing Potion over and over again to those acne-infested fifth-year imbeciles who are incapable of remembering anything of remote relevance to the matter that I covered in their very first lesson. Hufflepuffs, the lot—apparently hardworking seems not to be a synonym to attentive.

Why do I even bother.

current mood: aggravated
Tuesday, July 15th, 2003
9:13 pm - 15 February 1997
Well.

I do not recognise the writing on the card as of yet (and I of all people should be qualified to say that, thinking of the repulsive amounts of samples I am able to extract from student essays). The spelling errors are quite disgusting, but alas not uncommon among the herd of ignorant youngsters of today. My mind goes to Longbottom on one of his good days, but unfortunately the solution cannot possibly lie so idiotically (and disgustingly) close.

The use of a Dictating Quill is perhaps the closest I can get, though then it must have been an uncommonly unintelligent one, and the owner would probably long ago have tried to get her (or his, as Sinistra so conveniently reminded me of) money back. Incidentally, I am glad I quit shopping at Quirky Quills Inc., the only quirky about them were their abominable prices.

It is also possible that the author used the opposite hand of what she (he …) normally does, though the writing was remarkably flowing if that is the case.

I must have seen that handwriting before.

Relevant though all this musing is, it can also be seen as a futile attempt at postponing the moment in which I will confess the slight humiliation of the aforementioned incident, but as I am not very likely to forget it in a hurry, I will manage perfectly well without having it written down as well.

Bloody Sinistra. She could do with a good reply herself.

As for the potion, it is going about as well as any other potion at this stage. I decided to continue working on the Thought-reading Potion the werewolf, the female devil and I were assigned by Dumbledore all that time ago, I might as well do something useful in the midst of all this madness. After I (rather painfully) finally was able to determine that the Artemisia absinthium dose must not be more than 1,5 drams when the Serpens Caput has this strong an influence on all magic done with treachery as the ultimate goal, nevertheless I deem it relatively safe to increase the temperature a bit. This evening I shall throw myself into testing the Hyssopus officinalis and the bat eyes.

Though I will allow myself breaks in which I shall continue my search for the spreader of evil. (I suppose I could ask Flitwick if there are any decent charms or spells one could apply, but then again I have always rather detested speaking to people who are about to keel over from giggling too much.)

current mood: determined
9:12 pm - 15 February 1997
I am not amused at all. If I ever catch the culprit responsible for yesterday’s happenings, I will personally make sure to arrange the vilest detention in the history of this school, counting the range of caretakers’ innovative punishments.

I sincerely hope the roses were poisoned, and that Vector has been struggling for her life ever since she, greedy as usual, jumped down to get hold of them. As that sort of news would most likely travel at less than half the normal speed if she really has been, oh, taken ill, I may still keep my hopes up for another couple of hours.

current mood: angry

7 snivelling students + be scowled at

Sunday, July 13th, 2003
4:38 pm - 13th of February 1997
It has been an enjoyable week, entirely Potter-free as it has been, and the prospect of getting his extra homework tomorrow morning in for decapitation is hovering quite pleasantly over his empty seat.

However, I seem to detect a certain laziness about some of the Death Scouts lately, this had better be me having unpleasant dreams.

Like the rest of the world (undoubtedly), I am rather curious as to the outcome of Parkinson’s little trial. I shall only hope for a minimum of five months, then I will not have to see her again until next school year. Though wishful thinking has sadly enough never been one of my strongest sides.

I think I should probably go and make another batch of Calming Concoctions, if not for anything else than that all of Parkinson’s regular customers will probably go through severe withdrawal as they indubitably are to idiotic to get some anywhere else.

Blasted teachers’ code.
Pomfrey mentioned she needed some.

current mood: relatively content

1 snivelling student + be scowled at

Saturday, July 12th, 2003
1:08 pm - 12th of February 1997
I know where Dumbledore is.

I know where Albus is.

Well, almost. Now, what to do with that knowledge? It might need to sink in for a bit at first, though not long. In the end, I suppose I will have to make contact with the fuckers. Blast. What irks me is that I cannot do anything myself that might risk my position, rather invaluable as it is. I am stuck in this bloody castle, marking essays until four fifths of them are red with errors, and hopefully their rightful owners with embarrassment.

Though we shall see. We need to act, that is for sure.

I talked to her yesterday, for the first time since the duel, not counting the rather awkward incident in that narrow fourth-floor corridor. Once again, I wonder what possesses my mouth at times to make such revealing statements. Though I suppose it had to be done—the prospect of ever getting to shag her again seemed pitifully small had I not gone down to that level of conversation.

I hope she understood me, though. Intelligence perhaps not being the first that springs to mind, she sounded rather surprised at me ever having believed the Fletcher-insinuations (which, I had to admit, I did).

Oh, fuck it. I hardly know what I am on about anymore. Is just one little, bloody kiss too much to want?

Much a I hate to confess it, I do not know what I would be supposed to do. The amusing thing is, it would seem that neither does she.

I should have paid better attention when Saaritsa held those women-lectures of his back in Finland, but I was probably busy studying. Come to think of it, perhaps I did the right thing after all. I think he ended up dating a fifty-year-old hag with dirty, pointy fingernails and some “interesting” (because there really is not a polite word for it) conceptions about intense physical proximity.

I guess I am luckier than him after all—though not by much.

current mood: exhausted
Thursday, July 3rd, 2003
11:57 pm - 3rd of February 1997, evening
Splendid. I am now rid of yet another pair of people whose so-called friendship did nothing but annoy me immensely. The next time I see them—they will pay. And Black even more so. Standing there, simply watching as if we provided the most amusing entertainment possible—some things never change. If anything positive could ever come out of this, it would be someone catching sight of and recognising his revolting dog form and send him back to Azkaban, where he truly belongs. As a matter of fact, all three of them could do would some time in there—I would sure like to see them trying to fuck with Dementors all the while trying to join in.

I never truly liked her anyway, she merely proved to be an available shag.

Oh fuck, I did not need to spill that ink all over the parchment.

Right. The matter must be closed for good. I will not unnecessarily brood over it when I know I am capable of avoiding it. So. Assigning some detentions would probably keep my mind off things—I am sure Longbottom would be delighted at ripping out the nails from all those fingers I have lying scattered around the place, I will be needing them for my experiments rather soon.

Moving on to other happy thoughts, Dumbledore’s presence is more than ever acquired. That Patil girl in Ravenclaw is still gone, the coffee in this place is not as strong as it used to and Flitwick wants me to cut my hair. All very valid reasons, I perfectly know it, but all the same.

My nose is however back to normal. What I consider normal, that is. I am sure Fletcher would have loved to see the pitiable result he got with his hook—not very accomplished at anything, that man. He probably cannot even find the way to her bed without clearly labelled signs saying ‘Embarrassment, this way’.

current mood: irate
Sunday, June 8th, 2003
5:50 pm - 8th of January 1997
In the hope of the matter solving itself rather quickly, I have avoided writing about it, wishing it not to be flung in my face whenever I pick up my journal some fifty years from now.

However. It is still there.

It is approaching the point of ridicule, trying to so obviously avoid her, yet I do not really have any other option, unless I want the whole school to know about it (and people would, given her lung capacity). She wanted it. I could see it. Not to deny that I agreed with her, but if she could have used that small area of her brain not occupied with plotting my obscene and extremely unappetising death, and actually thought of what was most likely going to happen afterwards, then we would not have a problem at all.

Damn it; it was great, and that was my sole requirement. I did not ask for heart-shaped pillows and chocolate, nor did she, and look how well that went. It was just sex, for fuck’s sake, and not some blasted wedding proposal. Lust is ten times superior to love—you do not need to degrade yourself in the process.

If Fletcher would shut his mouth about her, then I’d say we’d have a pretty nice day. Books, first-year essays and some music to accompany my molesting. Though I lack alcohol, I have not had any for personal use since the beginning of December, and now I am feeling rather prudish, in that department at least.

A couple of people in the ranks have owled me with rather strange tales, though they do not want to admit the extent of them. I gather it must be something about their Marks, and have responded in likewise cryptic terms, but as long as I do not perfectly know what precisely is going on, then I could just as well be better off knowing nothing. Maybe a bit of subtle blackmail would be in order. I know some quite excruciatingly embarrassing things about Wogan, for a start, involving a couple of Flobberworms and a quite ugly girl.

Also, Parkinson or whatever her new name is now, had better watch her step. The nerve.

current mood: calm
Tuesday, May 27th, 2003
10:44 am - 27th of December, 1996
If anyone of you sadly enough should feel kept in breathless suspense, tricked or otherwise fiercely neglected, I can assure that it was done entirely on purpose, and not all the annoying garden gnomes in the world (I do appreciate the irony, Fletcher, but as you hinted at, I think my rubbish bin appreciates it even more) may make me change my mind. I will not be handing out presents like any Father Christmas who has applied one Cheering Charm too many to himself, nor will I ever do so in the future.

That being said, I must say I quite like the castle when it is so blessedly clean for students. May they choke on their Christmas puddings in peace.

I have done some reading. I have taken care of some, ahem, pressing correspondence, and I have happily disposed of all the (well, three of them, to be quite exact) so-called presents wrapped in gift paper from Zonko’s and carrying the handwriting of some of the more abominable students that Hogwarts has ever been unfortunate to hold.

The fact that I have just witnessed Trelawney getting sloshed on chocolate liqueurs in the staff room does of course help my spirits, but the subsequent incident in which she ended up snogging the mentally challenged house-elf that came up to wipe away her regurgitation is the thing that really sets this Christmas apart from the others.

That, and a couple of other occurrences.

current mood: quite amused

34 snivelling students + be scowled at

Thursday, May 8th, 2003
11:41 pm
I need to stop this. It cannot continue in such a way. Period. Folly comes with being preoccupied elsewhere, and with her I would most certainly be so. It does not do to be so weak as one who is obliged to care for someone else as well as oneself. Besides, the stupidity of thinking it likely that it would do either of us any good in times like these is quite grand indeed, and absolutely not mine. Soon there will be a bloody war, and we all know what comes with that.

We have not yet responded to the ransom note. Handing Him Potter would personally be no loss of importance, however, other unwanted things might happen as a consequence. I have tried pressing the matter as much as I have seen fit to, but people simply do not know what to do, and sadly I myself am one of them. A discussion would maybe prove fruitful, but as long as we keep stomping around in this bewildered and idiotic manner, we will undoubtedly not get any further than Longbottom if he had attempted a marathon.

The pickled eyes of that Demiguise are most unsettling. Perhaps I ought to place the jar somewhere else. I bet Potter would like to wake up next to that.

A shame it would be so easily traced back, really.
Monday, April 21st, 2003
10:40 pm
Flitwick has been strutting around rather jauntily lately. From his disgustingly smug look, we can all tell he has got some bed-action.

Hmm. I did not know Flitwick uses a prostitute whenever he feels frustrated.

In other news, Potter has been disappointingly quiet the last couple of weeks, thus forcing me to deduct ten points for lack of oral activity in my subject. Such a shame. However, the rest of the students are certainly not letting their jaws stay immobile for a second—I feel a headache coming on.

I may or may not fail the entire fourth year’s essays because of this. I can only stand reading through so many misspellings and grammatical errors before I, well, can’t stand it any more. What we need at this place is a bloody English teacher, not some fashion-obsessed nitwit who is fooling around in the hospital wing, smiling people to death and at the same time also making people quite happy to have passed away, because they then may never need to even think of the blasted imbecile again.

current mood: cranky

22 snivelling students + be scowled at

Sunday, April 20th, 2003
9:45 pm
Ahem. I think—or rather, have this vague assumption carefully and timidly knocking on my head—that perhaps Mundungus and I overdid those last couple of dances. But honestly, he did not have to drop me in the middle of our pirouette. Can’t hold his drinks for a Knut, that man.

I can, of course. Though I am only speaking of the first two.

Enough dwelling. Had something to which I suppose I should attach the word ‘fun’.

Incidentally, this is precisely why I have restricted the number of leisure meetings with Mundungus to maximum three per annum. Relieving—or some close variation of the word—though it is to take part in his company, I feel that our friendship is much like a bottle of wine—sip to it too often, and you will shortly be left with only the melancholy smell of its previous contents.

A new subject to think of has also arisen. I sincerely hope Sinistra likes Quidditch enough to want to witness a whole match of it with me at her side. When taking into consideration those looks of relative friendliness she has recently taken to wearing, I may have something upon which to base my speculations.

Perhaps I should stop speculating. The mere thought of having her next to me for an indefinite amount of time is not doing any particular wonders to what I like to term my sanity. What happened after that occurred the last time should stand as a frightening example.

The frightening example in question is, however, not working very well. Oh, splendid, some indefinable and idiotic part of me which is certainly lusting for extreme punishment to be inflicted upon it actually wants to kiss her again. And again, etc.

I simply need to work harder against such foolish feelings. That is all.

Also, I would very much like to chop Parkinson into a thousand small pieces and use them as ingredients in my Potion of Pure Evil, but I suppose that would have been rather frowned upon.
Tuesday, April 15th, 2003
11:00 pm
I thought I had made it clear enough that I wanted nothing of the sort. Damn Minerva and her pink paper hats. Damn Flitwick and his terrible singing voice. And most certainly damn Vector for giving me those boxers with cauldrons on which there were some terribly unrealistic cauldrons depicted.

Thank God I left the staff room before they had finished singing, otherwise I might very well have been locked up in St Mungo’s by now, diagnosed with instantaneous insanity and inexplicable rage towards all things able to open their mouth.

Happy Fucking Birthday, yes.

current mood: pissed off

28 snivelling students + be scowled at

Monday, April 14th, 2003
11:54 pm
I am sorry.

That part was at least true. Though misinterpreting it may happen to the best of us, as I suppose happened to her as well.

I am sorry about breaking it off so quickly. I am sorry about walking away.

Good God, I wanted her yesterday. I may be basing my opinions on very vague assumptions here, but--if she was doing what I think she was doing—and the very fact that I think I was doing what I think she was doing--I think I might very possibly be quite insane. And very desperate as well.

I know that looking forward to working with her again would seem suspicious to any rational mind, so I shall be content with looking forward to… getting sloshed with Mundungus again. Yes. That would seem like a good thing to be counting down the days for. Which I’m obviously not. Mundungus can have his own blasted private amusement of drinking with me, but no bloody way is he going to get me to spend any money on it.

Birthday tomorrow. If any of the staff even so much as attempt opening their gossiping mouths to squeak out something they prefer to call a birthday song instead of deafening pandemonium with no regard for intonation nor quality whatsoever, I shall personally--do something. Oh yes.

current mood: cranky
Saturday, April 12th, 2003
11:02 pm
I am doing my best to avoid Sinistra. Have been doing that for the last week, really. Am quite successful as well. After all, I do have got some practise at this.

Will not elaborate any further. I cannot, as that would enquire more thinking about the subject in question, which again would eventually lead to extended sessions of despairing, and I really would not want that when there is so much else to be despairing about.

I did do the right thing, I am wholly convinced of it. I can not be expected to stick my tongue down the throat of a stargazing, naïve and intriguing absolutely repulsive woman and at the same time maintain our flourishing discussions, as I prefer to call them.

All my private cauldrons are now shining to the point of cheeriness, and my new system of organisation my ingredients is perfected. My books bore me after a single glance at them, and my bottle of red ink is currently empty, which means no satisfaction of marking essays as of yet. I suppose I should venture forth to the library and acquire some new mind-tickling texts, though there are still a couple of tedious things to do still.

Pardon me, as a blunt quill is calling out to be sharpened.

current mood: bored
Monday, April 7th, 2003
12:38 pm
Good God, I needed that.

With this, I would like to direct a message to a particularly incompetent and inadequate dark corner of my pathetic excuse for a well-functioning brain and ask, “What the merry fuck happened to that last ounce of accepted behaviour and dignity?” Though perhaps I ought to direct my enquiries elsewhere, as I cannot be entirely sure whether it really was my brain or some other part of me coming up with such a foolish and detestable idea.

Well. The kiss in itself was not that detestable, I feel obliged to admit.

But that is, obviously, beside the point. The point, overshadowing every minute feeling resembling one of distant pleasure with its infinite size, is that even the mere idea of the two of us continuing our activities for the smallest of nanoseconds is so entirely pointless and ridiculous that my having a harmonic and exciting intimate relationship with a jug of pumpkin juice would seem more likely to work out. And, mind, I loathe pumpkin juice.

Ah, I know. The whole incident is naturally a direct cause of the traumatising sight it was to catch Lupin and sodding Black at it. Solution found, mind eased. The bastards just have to shove the fact that I am more surrounded my particles of air than anything else into my face.

I wonder if that is a good enough excuse.

Oh, I am fooling no one with this constant elusion of the subject, as I upon rereading this load of rubbish have concluded with.

Very well. The woman is entrancing. I hope that satisfies the other dark corner of my brain in which something rumoured to be called a conscience is lurking, because that is all it is going to get as of today.

She kissed enticingly well, too.

current mood: cynical
Friday, April 4th, 2003
11:10 pm
Halloween was the usual dreadful business, this year even more so, as I had the pleasure of having the rather annoying brightly orange robe of Lockhart’s in my direct line of vision all the feast. At least the evening passed without any major incidents as have been the nature of past celebrations.

I have started the attempt of reorganising my ingredients. Formerly, they were merely alphabetised. Now I shall make a system so intricately devised that no other than myself will be able to locate any of them in a reasonable amount of time; this to delay any intruders trying to snatch whatever strikes their fancy just long enough for me to manage getting there in time to catch them.

I am rather looking forward to the completion of this.

I am also looking forward to Mahler on Sunday. I only hope that the orchestra will pull itself together for once, I know of their reputation as a rather accepted orchestra in the wizarding world, though personally I have to admit that I have certainly heard better. The Heidelberg Philharmonic is exquisitely refined in their musical interpretations, whereas the Hogsmeade Symphony Orchestra in comparison is only starting to learn how to operate their instruments. The only good recording of the HSO is in my opinion the Beethoven’s 7th of 1983, where they were particularly lucky with the conductor and his way of working. I only hope Sindre Holseth will do half as well as Geoffrey Wolti, and then Sunday’s performance will be quite pleasurable. Also, going with Sinistra shall prove to be interesting. Perhaps Sinistra, after this, will learn to appreciate Mahler as he deserves.

current mood: calm

3 snivelling students + be scowled at

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