Sorry about the slightly lame start to this blog. I haven't lived a particularly eventful life for the last week or so. But then again most of you lot don't, or you wouldn't have the time to read this blog (zing!).
Well, that's joke one. I've never been particularly good with jokes; or with keeping diaries. As you've noticed, probably.
(ENTER: HORNS PLAYING IN A WAGNER-TYPE WAY, INITIATING SOMETHING IMPORTANT)
So it's come to this; Post 8 and I'm diving head first into the realm of cliché. I know. It's not a nice place. It mostly resembles a derelict Austrian holiday camp, unused since the early seventies and with the carcasses of disappointing barbecues and abandoned family pets strewn hither and thither across the empty, algae-encrusted outdoor pool. Like I said, not a nice place.
This last week, from the inside of my flat looking out on Brighton's main bus shelter, I've seen about 70 different forms of rain. And since I still don't have my grant (grr. Erasmus. grr!) I seem to spend my days intermittently looking out of my window and randomly reading stuff on wikipedia; which is the new nerd heaven. Not helped by the fact that my first course, starting tomorrow, is a course on Tragedy. Yeah, I'm that kind of guy.
I've seen some rain alright (enter weird gravelly cowboy-based voice). I've seen drizzle, I've seen dew, I've seen showers, I've seen mist, I've seen some good old deluge and I've seen some monsoons. I've seen flurries, I've seen storms, I've seen torrents, I've seen floods, I've seen so much rain that it gets embarrassing to mention. I've seen (and this is honestly one of the synonyms on thesaurus.com) the wet stuff (that's pathetic, isn't it? It is..
But today, the weather's fine. That's a bit annoying, since I'm waiting for a man from the off-campus building to come by and check on a leak in the bathroom. But now I am here, writing this. Swings and roundabouts.
Yesterday evening, I let myself out to go to a party (YOU: Ooh! A party! Why, look at you! A party! A real one? ME: (TILTING BACK HEAD, WHILE WEIRDLY LOWERING SEVENTIES-STYLE GREEN-TINGED SUNGLASSES MAKING NO DIFFERENCE TO THE VISIBILITY OF MY EYES)Ooh yah... (TICK),(AUDIENCE EXHALES WISTFULLY)...).
Just days before, I got a ticket for the University's International Students' Welcome Reception. The doors would open at 6.30. I put on my suit (or what passes for it), in order not to feel underdressed. Then it turned out I was ridiculously overdressed; which was remarked upon by some people. I looked like a trainee estate agent missing the point at a casual-dress conference for Earth-based casually dressed people in an over-extended (and -dressed) metaphor. Or just the eternally drunk village poet (I love those people).
It was at the Brighton Dome Concert Hall. There they had free food and drink (on coupons. I had two free Guinness. V nice) and a three-piece jazz band. A twenty-year old undergraduate claimed she felt really grown-up now, as she took another swig of her Raspberry Breezer.
A French girl was mortified at the bread that was used for sandwiches, saying: No, I can't possibly eat that. It's looks too professional. I said, what do you mean? She told me she missed French baker's bread which was usually a bit lumpy and weirdly shaped. Ah well. Embarrassingly, when I chatted with her about something French (in English) I responded to some questions with: Ah, ouais. Leading her to think that my French was much better than it actually is.
The party turned out to be of less interest than I had anticipated. After about two hours, I left. I did meet the only other person on exchange from UvA, though. She had been there for a month before I got here. She said she really enjoyed her time there so far, but had been back to A'dam. Apparently, it's still there. So they can run the country without me. Good.
FINAL THOUGHT: Even though the truth is malleable it can still be boring.
Until next time, bye!