MY E-MAIL IS DOWN. THE NETWORK IN THE HALLS OF RESIDENCE IS DOWN. MOST EVERYTHING IN ALL OF BRITAIN, THIS GODFORSAKEN HELLHOLE OF A PRIMITIVE BACKWATER, IS DOWN. NOTHING WORKS AS IT SHOULD, AND EVERYTHING THAT SHOULD BE WORKING IS PROBABLY CLOSED ANYWAY.
It is only by a stroke of the purest good fortune that I was able to log on to the University's network today (although it failed to recognize my login ID, tried to shut me out and, once it deigned to log me in, exhibited profound limitations).
So, to emphasize: I cannot read your e-mail. I have no idea what matters of utmost urgency you may be desperately trying to communicate to me. My only means of contact with the outside world are this blog (and frankly it's a miracle that I can even log onto the university network and access that) or the telephone (assuming it's actually working, of course). Sadly, it may be wise to assume that this will be the case going forward; it is difficult, at this early juncture, to believe that anything will get any better as time elapses. Therefore if I do not reply to your e-mail in a timely fashion (or ever), or if I never seem to be online, it is not for lack of trying on my part. You and I must simply resign ourselves to the occasional communication and hope that nothing really bad ever happens until I get the hell out of this terribly backward and technologically medieval place.
This entire unfortunate circumstance was foreshadowed earlier in the week, when I was blissfully unaware that life as I knew it would soon come to a crashing halt and was listening to CBC's Ideas podcast featuring pseudonymous guest Theodore Dalrymple. He is a psychiatrist whose latest work takes as its subject the imminent collapse of British (and eventually all of Western) civilization, at least from a cultural perspective. While his thesis was never really made clear in the program, he did indicate that he has perceived a general trend towards violence and "barbarism" in English culture. He was able to describe the phenomenon but could not quite explain it, at least not in the time allotted.
So, "Mr. Dalrymple," allow me:
Britain is going to hell in a handbasket because nothing works properly in this country. And the thin veneer of civility (read: undeserved air of smug superiority) that keeps people from ripping each other's heads off and shitting down their necks out of sheer frustration because nothing works properly, is wearing dangerously thin. It's even more cloying when served up with a snotty British accent.
As Leonard Cohen once famously said, "Everyone is on the verge of throwing in the towel and no one can stand what's going down." This ain't rocket science, trust me. To quote another great poet of our time: "You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows." Anyone who's ever had to struggle with successive layers of incompetence and/or bureaucracy, only to give up because the frustration and further cost mitigate or totaly negate the value of fighting the good fight, knows what I'm talking about.
And there you have it.
* * *
You might have guessed from the tone and timbre of this post that I did not sleep well last night. Quelle surprise! This time the fire alarm went off about an hour into my repose when some knob in the building decided to have a smoke in his or her room. The good news in this incident is that (a) people won't be able to stink up the building by smoking, and (b) there is at least one resident who has been forcibly outed (in more ways than one) as a Category One Nincompoop. Whether that lesson sticks, of course, is another matter entirely. One can only hope.
Then, an hour or two or three later, a very loud party erupted elsewhere in the builing, and a chorus of Neanderthals (with apologies to true Neanderthals everywhere) started singing heavy metal songs at the top of their leathery lungs. The thunderstorm that erupted shortly thereafter was quite tranquil and soothing by comparison.
Today, being Saturday, I have little hope of an improvement in the situation. My only hope is that someone seriously lays down the law during next week's compulsory residence hall induction meetings (notice of which was circulated yesterday), and that the proper authorities make good on their threats to deal promptly and effectively with offenders. Otherwise I'll be investing in a cricket bat and doing a Buford Pusser on their miserable pantywaist undergrad asses.
* * *
On the bright side, there were several highlights to the week. One was the arrival of my Oyster card a mere week and a day after I'd posted my application form. Although this development appears to fly in the face of previous claims about the British way of life, I suggest this is the exception that proves the rule. The card was not properly registered and so it took several more bureaucratic steps to (allegedly) rectify the situation. The Oyster will hopefully help save money on transit costs, and at the very least will eliminate the fumbling around for appropriate cash trying to buy tickets at tube stops or on buses.
Yesterday I almost succeeded in opening a bank account. A small victory, perhaps, but I am one step closer. Still, it is hard to place any trust -- to say nothing of my money -- in a bank whose employees can't work out something as simple as the length of time elapsed between two given dates. You see, my letter of introduction from the school specified that my full-time program began on September 18, 2006 and will end next September 30, 2007. However, at the bank I was told that this information was not sufficient and that my letter "must specify that the program is of a duration of at least one year."
Still think my frustration is exaggerated?
Happily I also learned from one of my flatmates that it's not necessary to call to get an appointment with a local GP to register for the NHS; apparently it's a lot faster if I simply take my forms and information to the office and do a walk-in. This is another minor victory, given the amount of time I have already spent trying to get a human being on the line in order to simply make an appointment. One day I will make a fortune writing a book on the way things are really run: "Never mind what they say in the official guides, here's how to actually get something done in this country," etc.
Earlier this week I obtained a mobile phone. Calls to Canada or the U.S. are a mere 5p per minute, anytime, which is almost as cheap as the most competitive land-line calls from Canada to the U.K. My local calls aren't cheap, of course, but then I don't expect to use it much here. In fact, of the two or three times I've used it thus far it's mostly been to "text" London-based friends. Texting is generally much cheaper than voice calling, which is why it's so popular here. Annoying as hell, but popular. If I start calling a lot in the next little while you'll know why. I just hope my cellular connection, which is spotty at best here on campus, holds out.
But the biggest win of all this week was a visit from Helen, who very kindly brought a care package lovingly prepared by D. Among other things it contained my slippers, three indescribably delicious Fat Witch brownies (thanks Mickey!), a batch of newspapers, some important books, photos, and some additional winter running gear. It was like Christmas come early. What more could a person want? Aside from consistent Internet access, I mean. And a bank that can tell dates. Or a local doctor who accepts phone calls...
I probably shouldn't have read the aforementioned newspapers although I did spent an hour or more with them over coffee. I thought, naively, that I would be comforted by current events from home. Oh, at first I was amused by the tempest in a teapot that is Belinda Stronach's alleged affair with Tie Domi -- how typically Canadian is that?! -- but I was also appalled (though not at all surprised) that the papers completely ignored the real news. The more I read, the more depressed I became. At least here in Britain you've got the Guardian and a few other outlets to provide a counterpoint to the sensational, hysterical, right-wing drivel. Reading Diane Francis' inane capitalist boosterism nearly made my blood boil; this time she was ranting about selling all our water. In typically short-sighted and simplistic fashion she makes it appear as though this would provide free-flowing money for all our public goods, cautiously circumventing the obvious result that any profit would be diverted to private interests even though the capitalists would likely beg, threaten or cajole the public into paying for the necessary infrastructure. And conveniently, of course, she omits certain salient facts such as the actual amount of remaining potable water in Canada, which really represents a small fraction of the figures she (selectively) cites. She completely sidesteps the issue of price and most other normal considerations, in that typically alogical, greed-driven, Adam-Smith's-invisible-hand-will-sort-it-out kind of way. And so on.
Serves me right for reading the National Post, I guess. Not that the Grope & Flail was much better, or the Vancouver Stun. In retrospect I would have been much better off spending my time by gouging my eyes out with a rusty spoon. (As a sort of amateur social science experiment I have lent the papers to the several International Journalism students on my floor, and I look forward to their analyses -- if they can stop laughing long enough.) I console myself with the knowledge that few sentient beings actually follow the mainstream media anymore, so the ultimate effect is that they are preaching to the converted. To paraphrase my great and good friend Otis: if you're smart enough to read these papers, you're smart enough not to read them.
Anyway, not wanting to look gift horses (gift flight attendants?) in the mouth, I was grateful for Helen's visit, however brief, not only because of the goodies but because it was genuinely wonderful to see her and catch up on all the news of the last few months. We went for coffee at a French style cafe near the hotel, which by the way took me about a half-hour to find even though it was only two blocks in a direct line from the St. John's Wood tube station. Did I mention I'm absolutely useless with a map, and have an even worse innate sense of direction?
Unbeknownst to me poor Helen didn't get much of a chance to sleep before I called in at the hotel, and so once the coffee's effects faded so did she. So around 7:00 I bade her goodnight and headed home on the tube. She's coming back to London on the 11th October, I think, so -- note to D.! -- there's another opportunity to send supplies. Speaking of which, another book I'll need from my library is the Leonhard & Kusek. At least that one is a small, pocketbook-sized tome.
* * *
Last night I ate dinner in the company of another Canadian, Amy, who (I've only just learned) lives on our floor. She's originally from the east coast and is taking a Master's in photography. Her boyfriend, who is also Canadian, is a doctor doing his internship at Cambridge. At least I will now have nearby fellow Canadian(s) with whom to commiserate when and if anything else goes pear-shaped.
But to end on a more positive note, I received more invaluable information about Portugal from my friend Ricardo, who incidentally shares my admittedly dim and bemused view of things here. More on that later.
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