Woke up early after a good, long, deep and comfortable sleep in my new bedding. It ain't exactly 400-thread count Egyptian cotton, in fact it's pretty raw and scratchy in the absence of a good pre-washing, and I have no idea what colour the sheets are. It's probably something horribly mismatched to the rest of the decor, but I don't care. They worked a treat, and that's what matters.
Outside it’s surprisingly bright and sunny already for so early in the AM, and warm. The hall laundrette is closed, which is unfortunate because having been here a week I am now out of clean clothes, and starting to smell like it. Under the circumstances I do not want to start wearing my warmer fall attire and/or my “good” business-casual clothes. No problem, I decide; after all, “an adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered,” as my good friend G.K. Chesteron wrote. So I shrug it off and decide to get an early start on my e-mail and catch up on the blogosmog. Off I trot to the Kenton road, laptop slung over my shoulder.
Except there’s no web café today. It too is shuttered.
Bugger.
It's then that I realize this country’s national anthem is not God Save the Queen, as I originally believed. Nor is it Rule Britannia. Apparently it is Sorry, we are closed, for this is the song on most everyone's lips seemingly since my arrival. As catchy as it might be I can't say as I like the tune.
So I did the next best thing: I joined the university gym, which is about 20 feet outside my window. The fresher’s special saves me a considerable sum for the 9-month term, and I am determined to get (and remain!) in shape while I’m here. Hopefully the physical fitness will support the mental and emotional fitness, and vice versa. The young, buff men of intimidating physique and indeterminate European accent have promised (threatened actually) to provide me with an ab program that will "make me feel like a saw is cutting my stomach in half," or some such.
Done. So then Plan C takes effect: off to buy more T-shirts because I failed spectacularly to bring enough of them. At Primax I get 3 for 5 pounds. I will not stink Britain up, at least not for a few more days yet.
On a complete unrelated note, my left hand is all but useless. Having badly injured it (apparently) playing basketball several weeks ago, I now need to learn to do things with my right hand because otherwise everything I do just re-injures it. If anybody can tell me how to immobilize a thumb, I’m listening.
The afternoon is beautifully and warm, not quite as humid as it’s been lately, and a light breeze is blowing which helps take any residual edge off. I go for a run around the extensive grounds of Northwick Park, happy as a clam. A 43-year-old bipedal clam on dry land, to be sure, but a happy one indeed.
Dinner is yet more cheap-and-cheerful comfort food (Baby-and-Baby stye), ie., our old reliable standby: curried rice and lentils. Yum. Feels good to be in a fully stocked kitchen, making healthy meals again. Mentally and physically I feel like I'm coming back to form.
Now that most everyone has moved in – the last couple of days around the halls of residence have been a beehive of activity – there will be a kitchen meeting tonight for our floor, or at least our side of it. (There are 8 flats per side, and each side has its own kitchen). At issue: the fridge is way too small. We, postgraduates* all (except for the two French undergrads, whose incessant chatter and vodka drinking during our meeting fills me with a certain foreboding), have been underestimated by the university. We all cook, and we all value good food. And there are 11 of us, at least for another few weeks until Neeraj leaves. Then there will "only" be 10 of us... sharing the same small fridge and freezer.
Collectively we decide to agitate for another fridge. We also spontaneously decide to call our kitchen Café Gauche, or at least I do, if only because it’s on the left hand side as you enter the hall. No one else is amused by this, least of all the French kids.
(*This is neither a typo nor a delusion of grandeur. Don’t blame me. Apparently a Bachelor’s degree here is called an undergraduate degree, and anything above that – be it doctorate or Master’s – is called a postgraduate degree. There’s a bunch of other bizarre quirks of the U.K. university scene, some of which I can’t decide if they’re really cool or kind of frightening, so I’ll explore them further and report back later.)
I am surrounded by journalists on all sides. Seems everyone on this floor is doing their MA in journalism. Except the French kids. I have no idea what they’re up to.
Neeraj, who is finishing up his degree here, is a veritable wellspring of information: cheap eats, best tube ticket-buying strategies, how to travel abroad on mere coinage, and generally how to live on about 10 pounds per week. I am grateful for his knowledge. Apparently the library lends DVDs, this sends shivers of delight through my spine and wallet. (This assumes I may actually have free time in which to view said materials, of course.)
My new favourite CD is Lily Frost’s, aptly titled Cinemagique. Thanks, Nancy! You rock, as always. Oh, and hey, Sam, the Butch Walker is pretty fookin' ace, too! Thanks!
11:46 and time for bed. Tomorrow’s a big day: we get Internet access in our rooms (theoretically)! Also, banking stuff and laundry. Then the gym.
Good night.
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