Norfolk Terrace, Day 48. Wetherspoons
I enjoyed my morning in calm inactivity. Vinnie left the room, mentioning his star appearance on Joseph’s (New Zealand) Hydration Station radio show (known for its hungover Friday morning chats) on the campus channel Livewire 1350. Today, Emma (his friend) and Joseph had their normal quizzes and argued whether Ben Howard was any good. Nevertheless, Joseph played “Wolves” and I facebooked him that it was my favourite song of BH—he mentioned it (and the fact that I was listening) and I suddenly felt like I was in a conversation without any way to say anything back (except through facebook). It was frustrating because I was tempted to just talk to my computer screen and have the illusion that they could hear me.
With Romanticism seminar cancelled, I wandered around campus, to the post room (or mail room), the travel centre (got my train ticket to London the day Katya arrives!), and to the music hall reception office where I finally received a swipe card (access to pianos all day any day; woo!)
I ran into Marika, Rebecca, and one of their friends and in the midst of my errands, I stopped and had a bit of lunch with them. They invited me to their karaoke night at Project (a club in town) tonight, which I ended up sleeping through unexpectedly.
The middle of the day I’m drawing a blank over, two-day detailed memory span it seems. Ah! There was skype with Katya, which turned out awful: both of our internet connections were fickle. Just before this—memory’s coming back—I went to an informational meeting with Dan about “Jailbreak!”, a charity event in which uni students get as far away from University of East Anglia as possible—without spending any money. Yes, hitch-hiking and/or pleading with flight attendants, bus drivers, truck drivers, train ticketers all in the name of charity are game. Dan and I (our group name “The West Coast Guys”—he’s from the west coast of Britain, I’m from the west coast of the US) will start a Just Giving account probably on Monday so I’ll do a little advertising pitch on the blog then.
It was a flatmates’ night out at The Bell, the name of an individual restaurant amidst the chain of Wetherspoon pubs (it confused me at first too). Apart from the initial hassle in gathering up four tables and a dozen chairs in one of the large dining spaces, the dinner was amazing. The six-lb. (yeah, the British use pounds when talking about burger weight) beef burger was impressive—and unexpectedly cheap! I got a pint of Thatcher’s Gold cider and the burger for six British pounds (as in the money—wouldn’t it be even more confusing if one pound weighed one pound? Ha!). I need to say that this cider was the best I’ve had in the UK—leagues better than Strongbow and smoother than nearly all other alcohol I’ve tried before. I bought a second pint of it without hesitation.
The whole occasion for going out was a farewell dinner for James, who visited our flat again (he first visited Day 32) on a random Wednesday and left tonight. He got yet another tattoo on his left arm, vibrant illustrations running from shoulder to wrist now.
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| Aw, Vinnie and Steff sleeping |
Interestingly, as much as my flatmates and I were set on going out to the clubs tonight, the dinner was too early, the taxi ride back necessary, and the burger and cider induced sleepiness. Upon reaching my room, I, of contented body and tired mind, fell asleep at 10:50, my earliest UK bedtime yet. (It turned out that everyone in the flat, who went to the dinner, stayed in tonight too.)
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