It's all a bit posh.

It was pointed out to me that I had not indicated who the "we" of my previous blogs might be. To clear up any confusion, the whole reason I had been in Guildford to start with was to visit a fellow horn-player who is in her final year of her Masters program at the University of Surrey. She is the other member of the "we" to which I referred in earlier entries. Hopefully that answers the question that only one person asked.

So this was a long day. I woke up this morning in Guildford at about 5:15am, showered, shaved, and put on my nice pretty suit. The train I had booked was scheduled to depart Guildford at 6:13am, arriving at Reading at 7:09am, to get me to Manchester by 10:49. The usually-reliable British rail system failed today. In a big way. So as I'm standing outside in the FREEZING cold at the Guildford train station, the clock ticks to 6:13. And then 6:14. And then 6:15. And then the scheduled departure for Reading disappears off the screen altogether. Not a good feeling. I was already tired, and cold, and hungry, and realizing that I really should used the bathroom before I left the house. Nevertheless, I didn't dare leave the platform in case a train destined for Reading would show up on the platform. ... It didn't. Not for another 30 bitterly cold minutes. And nature's call was only getting stronger, especially in the cold.

When the train finally arrived at 6:43, and I found a seat with my massive suitcase between my knees, I realized that the train I was on was not heated. It got progressively less freezing as more humans got on, but I could still see my breath most of the way to Reading, about a 40 minute trip. When the train stopped in Reading, I expected to have to play musical trains the rest of the way to Manchester, just to get there on time. However, to my (and my cold, cold bladder's) chagrin, I discovered that the train I had been scheduled to be on was ALSO delayed. 53 minutes. Which meant more time standing shivering in the cold. I again didn't dare leave the platform in case the train show up, load up, and take off without me. (I will say that even when tardy, the British rail system is almost excessively efficient.) My 7:09 departure for Manchester became a 8:05 departure.

I found a seat on the train and sat there attempting to warm myself and locate a restroom. Maybe I could have been more proactive in this, but there just didn't seem to be on in car or in either of the adjacent cars. Again, being new, I may have missed it. However, I sat back down attempting to distract myself from thoughts of the massive bodies of water that surround the island on which I was currently traveling and waited.

A voice came over the loudspeaker, through the fog of my daydreaming while staring out the window at the ubiquitous fields and farmyards, stating that this train would no longer be traveling to Manchester due to the delay(I don't know how that makes sense) and would be stopping at Birmingham New St. Which would necessarily only exacerbate my delay. Which is the logical choice, for a rail system. Nevertheless, I was only slightly relieved to know that maybe I could slightly relieve myself. At the station, I hopped off and ran up the stairs looking for a restroom. There was one, and cost 30p to use. I had stupidly left what little change I had left at my friends house in Guildford so I was dry. Well, my pockets were. And then it was announced that the train that would take me to Manchester would be arriving soon.

Again, the terror of being left behind the train overtook my need to "go" and I headed back down the escalator to the platform. The expected of arrival of the train was 9:57. And then 10:00. And then 10:02. And then 10:04. I was struggling valiantly to a) not shiver and b) not squirm like a 4-year-old who's realizing that he really can't just use his diaper. And also trying to maintain a good, focused, open mind and attitude about the interview I was about to do. When the train arrived, I found a car with a luggage rack (as I had been lugging my huge suitcase all day - thank you to whoever it was that told me to invest in a good suitcase) and realized, to my delight, that it had a bathroom in the car! The characteristically grey sky parted and choirs of angels descended into that oddly-shaped, molded plastic room that reeked of the sickly sweet smell of air freshener. It was delicious.

It was only after this point that I really realized that I hadn't eaten. However, since I had lost well over an hour's time and couldn't spare the minutes I would need to eat something, once the train finally arrived in Manchester (at 11:40, after a 5+-hour ordeal), I half-walked, half-ran the few blocks to the school. I wish I could say that I got any sort of feel for the city of Manchester, but I can't say I did. I saw the blocks that surround the train station and the school, but for about .7 seconds each.

When I arrived at the school, I was met by an admission officer who led me roughly 4 bazillion stairs to the "Composition Suite" where there was a practice room with a (well-tuned) piano (hurrayyy!!) and a chair and a table. She handed me three score excerpts - one from Vaughan Williams Mass in g minor, one excerpt from The Rite of Spring, and one strange French piano thing that I didn't get at all - and also a 5 bar melody to harmonize. I had 30 minutes startinnnggggg, now. I took about 10 minutes working out a pretty standard but technically correct harmonization and then spent 20 minutes poring over the scores. I was to focus on one and be prepared to discuss essentially everything about it. The Vaughan Williams is a piece with which I am least moderately familiar, so I chose to focus on that.

The interview last about 40 minutes and was almost identical to the one I had done for the Royal Academy, excepting the fact that this time, the only faculty member there was the Head of Composition, Adam Gorb. Interestingly, when I had initially intended to get out of the Marines in 2007, I exchanged emails with him about RNCM and it's staff and program. It is just strange to realize that this is a path I started really walking down 5 years ago. And it's just now coming to fruition. He was just as friendly, helpful, and accepting now as he was then. The other difference between this interview and the one with the Royal Academy is that he actually gave me some good advice on what to do with some of my scores. It was terrific to hear his opinion and to hear some concrete feedback about what I've done. He wrapped everything up by standing up, shaking my hand and saying, "I can definitely say that we will be offering you a place here in our school. Congratulations."

I have never felt like that before. I didn't know what to do, or how to respond. I had gotten a response from the Royal Academy as well, but it was in letter form and there are more steps I have to take before I can officially accept their offer. This one was in black and white: I'm in. I traveled on my own to another country on the other side of the world and have been accepted to a prestigious university. My dad would always tell me to "finish up strong." It's a saying that echoes in my head. And I think, from this point, that I've done that.

I found my way back to the Manchester train station, finally got myself something to eat, and slumped into a chair on the Virgin train to London. As I was scarfing down my sandwich and wondering why I was so GD hungry, I realized that in the shuffle, I had forgotten to eat. Me, the guy who literally eats EVERYTHING. All the time. I guess I was nervous. Weird. The train ride back to London was much less of a challenge and I think I slept most of the way. Traveler's note: use Virgin train lines whenever possible. They are, how do you say, the shit. The cab driver that took me to the hotel was terrific and talked my ear off about ye olde city.

I'm now checked into the Millenium Hotel which is HOLY CRAP nice (they have a heated towel bar - which is something for which I've never thought to check before, ouch). So now, while I wait for my Dad's flight to land and for him to get here, I'm going to go eat and find a pint. Or two. Because, weirdly, I'm starving.