Friday, September 22, 2006

Happy, happy, joy, joy

Awoke to find Harrow blanketed in a good old-fashioned London fog. Just thought I'd mention that because up until yesterday, the weather has been consistently fine: only partly cloudy most days, quite sunny the rest of the time, and hardly any rain. When it did rain once or twice, as it did yesterday while we were ensconced in our windowless lecture room, it ended by the time I had to emerge to trundle home or wherever. This is a happy precedent and I would not be upset to see it continued.

Being one of the few Canadians on campus (that I'm aware of), I'm still walking around in T-shirts while most others -- especially those from warmer climes -- are already bundling up against what they perceive to be the autumn cool. I quite like the cooler air; it helps me sleep, among other things, and it makes travelling on the otherwise stifling tube more pleasant. And having lived in Vancouver for a good part of the last 20 years or so, the imminent rainy season poses no undue hardship that I am unprepared to face. Bring it on, I say.

Twice yesterday I was asked how long I've been here, meaning in London. Both times the question stopped me in my tracks, because it forced me to conclude it's now been twelve days (including today). Only 20 times more and I'll be going home! That may sound like a lot, but if the next 240 or so days fly by as quickly as the last dozen -- and I suspect they will, given the sheer volume and variety of activities to be covered in that span -- then I should be homeward bound very soon indeed.

If I sound a good deal more upbeat than in previous posts, it's probably a result of the fact that I've had a very good and deep night's sleep for that last three (count 'em, 3) consecutive nights. Which means one or more of the following:
  1. The freshers (and by these I specifically mean the undergrads) are burning themselves out, as hoped, and are unable sustain a consistent level of revelry;
  2. I am simply too exhausted from the first few days of the "freshers fortnight" (fortnight?!?!?!) to let a few minor atomic explosions interrupt my sleep; and/or
  3. I am becoming accustomed to the din.

It had been suggested by more than one wag that a surefire way to cease being disturbed is to become a cause of the disturbance. In other words, if I stayed out late enough and got drunk enough and was loud and obnoxious enough, I wouldn't care because I'd be passed out in my bed once the noise had well and truly abated for the night. I may keep this strategy in mind for the future, should my current somnolent success not continue. What these callow youth fail to realize is that age and treachery trump youth & skill every time, and besides, after a lifetime of the rock 'n' roll lifestyle there is not much that they can do that I can't do longer, harder, louder or more obnoxiously. And still wake up early the next day to write about it.

In the event anyone thinks my complaints are merely the cranky rantings of a boring old curmudgeon, I'm not the only one. Not one but two separate warning letters have now been circulated to all the residence halls, so clearly others agree with my assessments. (Though I admit they may be fellow members of the Cranky, Boring Old Curmudgeon Society.)

And lest you think this post will devolve into diatribe, I would like to clear up a misconception. I have recently been accused of appearing "not very happy" in previous posts, particularly those dealing with the externally induced insomnia thing. First, let me say that I am quite happy here. But an overall state of happiness, it must be noted, does not preclude other occasional feelings of discomfort, loneliness, confusion, homesickness, and other things. I really must insist that those who fear I might be losing it read my previous post on the "W-curve" adjustment cycle, which explains why my seeming hate-on for all things British is really part of the natural order of things.

Besides, some people simply don't appreciate all the nuances of my subtle and sophisticated sense of humour.

* * *

Cool! I believe I've just had my first ever Comment from someone who is neither a member of my immedate family, nor married to me, or both. Danke schoen, Ms. Postmodern Sass. Needless to say, I understand what you're going through. I hear you.

As mentioned previously the British national sport is not "soccer," as we heathen foreigners call it, nor football (as it is properly called), but rather qeueing -- which is far easier to do than to spell. It means lining up for hours on end and I am already quite good at it, but perhaps this comes from being of British/Irish lineage. In hindsight, we (collectively) are no longer quite so good at this back home in Vancouver; in my opinion we are losing the art. This is perhaps one of the uglier aspects of our otherwise glorious multicultural makeup: apparently other folk from around the world ain't so accustomed to this quaint passtime, and my guess is that certain countries that shall remain nameless are a long way from finding enough members to field an Olympic Queuing Team anytime soon.

Had our opening workshop at the Marylebone Campus over the last two days. It certainly put the frights into us. We have been told in no uncertain terms to enjoy our current relative freedom, because we may not see any more daylight at least until our Christmas holidays. Consider ourselves warned.

Fittingly, we closed our two-day introductory workshop with a pub night at the Angel in the Field in the Marylebone High Street. Tonight we party; tomorrow, we work like mad.

(Actually, I lie. Our classes begin "officially" on Monday. But this morning I have to run off to help Ian move into his new abode in Tottenham. Plus, it just sounded better to end on that dramatic note.)

No comments: