Day Thirty-Two: Oxford, Oxford, Oxford

The boys left on time today, and Jheri and I followed about a minute later. Unfortunately, "on time" was on time as per the email, and not as per the train timetable, and so we all missed our train! We were able to buy a group ticket for one that left twenty minutes alter though, so it was all okay. I did some of my reading on the train, and I managed to get about three-quarters of my reading response done, and then, all too soon, as always seems to be the case with train rides, we arrived in Oxford. I didn't have the phone with the data bundle and so I couldn't access any maps, which meant that I relied on the other three to get us to Oriel College, where we were supposed to be meeting our professor. I wore my long skirt and wedge-heel shoes today, and though they are comfortable, they are not designed for hiking along cobbled streets! The original plan failed because we came across a seemingly infinite series of road-works, which meant that all the footpaths were closed and that we had to re-route. None of the navigators seemed to be in much of a hurry, which meant that we moved slowly, re-routed slowly, asked for directions slowly. It was like being dependent on a car GPS that was on low battery and only had intermittent signal. My bag was also full of heavy STUFF: books, laptop, water bottle, lunch... So it was an arduous hour we spent circumnavigating the town. 

Fortunately, our professor is very understanding and he was not all perturbed by our tardiness. We finally met him below the Rhodes statue - which is incredibly underwhelming I might add! I thought that something that created such a frenzy would be terrifyingly imposing, but it was a tiny statue! We walked along the streets, our professor telling us about the city and the colleges, and noting the different influences of Empire on the buildings and the statues. We visited Rhodes College, and throughout the walk - and especially in the dining hall of Rhodes College - I was constantly amazed at how similar the mechanics of Arundel are to traditional British university ones! I mean, they came from here, I suppose, but seeing the equivalent of "top table" and listening to descriptions of the set ups of the place, I was just reminded of how British our Zimbabwean education system really is!

The last place we visited was the Bodleian Library, which is apparently enormous, though it is difficult to get the full sense of space when there are vast buildings everywhere! They are having an exhibition about Jane Austen and her connections to Empire, to summarize rather crudely. However, as always seems to be the case when people try to draw these strange connections, I thought that the content of the exhibit was not particularly supportive of its intentions. It was fantastic to see Austen's original manuscripts, and her letters, and her writing desk, but I can't help thinking that the links to empire were rather tenuous. I think that if you search for them in any writings of the time, especially in a vivacious, shrewd, socially aware author's work, you will find them! But anyway, it was incredible to see what her handwriting looked like! 

After the Bodleian, I ventured over to Christ Church Meadows to eat my packed lunch. There wasn't really any space to sit because all the grass is fenced off - or you aren't allowed to walk on it (hello Bishopslea and Arundel quads!) - and so I plonked myself and my heavy bag down on a legal patch of grass, right in front of one of the buildings. I read my Tuscan Living book for a little bit, and then I pulled out my scrap book/drawing book/everything book and attempted to draw the magnificent building in front of me. I took the liberty of using quite a large amount of artistic licence, and the final product doesn't look much like the real thing, but I was happily occupied for over an hour, so really I think it was time well spent! 

Once I'd completed my creation, I packed up and moved on to a coffee shop that my friend (Sabrina who I met up with a few weeks ago) who lives in Oxford had suggested. It was called Society Cafe, and it was, thankfully, not in the main line of the pesky tourists. I don't know if I am entitled to be annoyed by tourists as much as I am, since I am not a native here, but honestly, they are the most frustrating phenomenon I have had to confront this entire trip! They walk slower than I do in a stationery shop; they take eons to cross the road; they pose in completely impractical places and unrealistic manners for numerous photos, all of which I am sure is a futile venture because barely one will ever see the light of day; and they simply cannot decide which side of the path to walk on - I have to navigate my way through the seething masses like a rally-car driver negotiating hills and bushes and other dangerous, inconveniently placed objects. I don't think I could bear living in a place where there are SO MANY TOURISTS.

Anyway, the delicious salted caramel brownie and the mocha made up for it all. Although the brownie made me feel slightly sick it was so rich, I enjoyed my hour in the cafe immensely. Except for that moment when I had to move because a pair of wretched tourists came in and there were no chairs next to each other, so they stood turning in fuzzy circles, flustered and apparently incapable of asking someone to move over. I had to move over because I couldn't bear feeling their aura of confusion disrupting my blissful solitude. I finished off my reading response in the cafe, and then I packed up again - my bag lighter because I'd finished my water - and walked purposefully toward the station. I was fast enough to catch the 4:01 train, which was fortuitous because if I hadn't got that one, I would have had to wait for the 4:31 one! At first I sat facing the wrong way, because the seats face both ways and I had no idea which way the train would be moving. I discovered soon enough, and made the appropriate seating reassignments! I got home in good time and then did my photography reading for tomorrow, after which I went to the shops to purchase green veggies, some more carrots, and a new pot (or is it tub?) of my favourite Greek honey yoghurt. I could live off that stuff! Then I made a rather yummy salad, using half my can of red kidney beans, and then I made my vlog, and after that I sat down to write this! 

It was a slightly wobbly, but altogether lovely, day!

Day Thirty-One: Darling ducklings

I had to come home today. Back home to one of the many places, rooms, apartments, houses that I have the privilege of calling home. Perhaps I shouldn't write at night, because I always feel so sentimental in the evenings! My mind is simply ready to explore all the thoughts that it was fed but didn't have time to taste during the day. I think though that that highlights the best way to live: you have to let your mind think during the day, because when you get to the end, and the moon has overtaken the sun, you don't have the energy to wonder. 

I woke up and wandered downstairs this morning. Jules made me a lovely cup of coffee and then we all went to get ready for the day. I stand by the idea that you should ALWAYS pack the night before, and so this morning all I had to do was get dressed, brush my hair (which reminds me, I need to do that now!), and pack away my pyjamas. And Toby. Can't forget Toby! Then I went downstairs again and we ate another yummy breakfast. I always love eating other people's home-made granola, but when it comes time for me to make it, I usually don't, so I have been eating raw rolled oats for the last 31 days! We could have stayed there sitting and chatting for the entire day, but unfortunately I had to go back to London! I mean, it's not that I didn't want to go back, it's just that I wanted to stay there, with them! 

We made it to the station in good time, and I used my electronic ticket - on my phone - to swipe in. I get great joy out of using my phone as a ticket, for some odd reason! I knew I was supposed to be in Coach B, because it's the quiet coach, and that's what I'd asked for, but I couldn't remember which way the train was going and so I didn't know which end of the platform to sit on. If I'd thought ahead, I would have asked Jules and Brian, but I didn't and so I found myself having to make the great trek down to coach B, right at the other end of the train. When I was at about coach D, the conductor walking past looked at me as if I were possibly a little mad, and told me to just get on the train and then walk down the passage to wherever I needed to be. 

"Oh," I said, the air heaving in and out my lungs, "that makes sense! Thank you!" and I promptly hopped on the train. My only issue with that is that it does cause congestion in the narrow doorways, but I suppose that since the train ride is an hour long, it doesn't really make much of a difference if it takes you three minutes extra to get to your seat. Or you could just be prepared and know where your coach is going to be! Either way, I learned an important lesson and from now on I will know what to do! I've tried to cultivate that spirit of enjoying travel since I became a long distance traveler last year. Now even if something goes wrong, or someone tells me I can't sit here, or I need to move there, I try to just do what I'm told, follow the signs and instructions, and not take offence. I think really that that last point is the most important one: don't take offense! It's something Mum has being trying to teach me for the longest time, but it's only recently (the last few years) started to sink in. Other people's bad auras are not worth absorbing. It is highly likely that, after the journey, you will never see said BAP (Bad Aura Person) ever again, and so it is better for you and the general aura of the vehicle if you simply say no when their negativity comes knocking! Don't sacrifice your enjoyment for a BAP!

That being said, I had to struggle to maintain my calm when an unruly posse of strident-voiced teenagers entered the QUIET coach. I wrote this when they came in: 

PEOPLE ARE MAKING NOISE IN THE QUIET COACH>>>>>>>>>!!!!!!! SHUT UP 

They didn't. But I was determined not to let them spoil my enjoyment of the journey, and so I plugged my earphones into my computer and opened up some music. Unfortunately, the sound wasn't working for some unknown reason, and so once again I lumped the metaphorical ice onto my seething spirit and cooled down, or calmed down - whichever you choose. I transferred the earphones to the phone and all was well. The only problem is that I don't have much music on my phone, and so over the course of my travels, I have become very well-acquainted with Granny's "Cream of Country" CD, which I have on my phone. At least the music is good! 

I got home safe and sound and made myself some lunch. It was not much to speak of compared to the lunches I'd been spoilt with over the weekend, but hey, hummus toast is good for you, and you can't go wrong with lettuce, carrot, and tomato. I even put some salt on the tomato, which always makes a huge difference. I didn't want to sit inside and waste the day (though it was overcast and not at all a sit outside sort of day!) and so I took my plate and a little flask of tea and my book-bag down to the Floating Park place I discovered the other day. It's the one that I thought you had to pay to go onto, next to the weird Scandinavian restaurant. You don't have to pay. I sat by the water and ate my eats, drank my drink, and read my reads. I'm still going with Tuscan Living if anyone was wondering what I'm reading. 

My leisurely repose was disrupted by a loud quack just below my right elbow, and I looked over the edge of the floating park thing (it's basically a big raft) to find a mummy duck and eight little ducklings powering by. Of course I dropped everything and watched the ducklings and their mumma duck intently for the next ten minutes. They truly are the most delightful little creatures! I'm not such a fan of actual ducks, but when they're babies, they're precious! It was obviously nearly lunch time because pretty soon a whole menagerie of water birds was floating by. They were mainly different families of ducks, but there was also a scary looking fishing bird which didn't eat the bread a kind lady was throwing into the water because he preferred to dive down into the murky depths and gobble up what I can only presume are invisible fish. Purposeful pigeons picked their way around me too, in the hopes of finding some food on land. They always remind me of pompous, self-important businessmen in grey morning suits making their way down the road to the office! 

I didn't do much for the rest of the afternoon. I decided what to write about for my history essay and I Facebook-Messenger-called Mummy. But other than that, nothing to report! For supper, I embraced the spirit of adventure and made butter-bean and sweet potato "curry". I actually looked up a recipe for it, but since I only have the ingredients I have, recipes aren't much use except as an inspiration. So it is supposed to be a curry, but I don't have nay of the stuff that makes a curry a curry, and thus it is a butter-bean and sweet potato dish! I put in some garlic and tomato and tomato paste and the ever-present carrots, a splash of salt here and there, some of my infallible spice from Waitrose (which goes with EVERYTHING!) and that was that. Heaped on a bed of lettuce with freshly chopped spring onions and coriander to serve. It was incredibly delicious and I am proud to say that I scraped that bowl clean! Also, now I have yummy lunch for tomorrow!

A lovely day!

Day Thirty: beaches and love

I have finally hit the big three-oh. I have lived in London for basically a whole month and I am extremely sad that I only have two weeks left. I wasn’t sure if I would like England or not, before I arrived, but now I just want to stay! Every time I go somewhere outside of London, I fall in love with it and I think that it (the new place) is the best part of England, and the place that, if I stayed longer, I would want to live in. But then I go back to London, and it’s like I’m going home, and I realise that I really wouldn’t be able to pick a favourite place. That’s what I’m sure I’ll feel tomorrow when I get back to London but, for the time being, I adore this tiny little village with one shop and endless walks.

Today we went to Felixstowe, by the seaside. It’s about a fifteen-minute drive (and I could easily be lying because I was talking the whole way and was paying no attention to the time!) I can’t for the life of me remember what the little beach barrier things are called, but they are probably the most prominent feature of the landscape. We studied them in Geo class in form Four, and they are designed to stop the tidal action from destroying the beach. Anyway, the result is that you can’t walk along the beach because it is divided up by wooden barriers every thirty-or-so metres. This isn’t a problem, though, because, being England, there is a long perfectly-placed concrete walk-way slithering along the coast line for as long as the eye can see. It wends its way like a great grey snake, glinting in the bright sunlight. The sun shines differently on the sea; it is harsher, stronger, more powerful. I think maybe when confronted with the enormity of the ocean, it feels the need to prove that it is older, and wiser, and more. More what? I think when you begin discussing eternal entities like the sun and the ocean, there is a “more” which us puny humans can’t comprehend!

We rode on the snake’s back all the way to a Martello Tower. Brian showed me an encyclopedia entry about the towers before we left, and if I remember correctly the towers are look-outs dotted along the coast from the Second World War. They are based on an old design used in France, I think, for the same purpose. Really, they look like the fat, insolent cousins of fairy-tale castle turrets! This one was certainly imposing and impressive, squatting heavily on the links golf course. Its two boarded up windows stared unblinkingly at the waves, daring them to come any closer. This could have been the reason the tower also seemed rather belligerently proud: the waves have never been able to follow through with their threat – each day they come close, just the other side of the pathway, but they falter at their pinnacle, frightened. Just when they seem most dangerous, they fade away and the tower heaves a sigh of relief and sits up straight, pretending it was never worried.

Brightly painted beach huts loll about above the walkway, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the beauty of the horizon. They don’t seem to mind the huge container-ships that dominate the skyline. Some of them do, however, look a little lonely. Though they are so beautiful, their souls are quiet without the chatter of people sitting inside. There are hundreds of huts like this along the shore, but only a few of them were occupied while we were there. I know people are busy, but if I owned a beach hut, I would be there every day! It’s the ideal spot to have sundowners! Not all of them were pining for their humans though; quite a few families had opened up the doors and were enjoying the lovely day! Each hut has a number and some of the them have names: my favourite was “Reasons to be happy Number 923”.

The beaches, as I may have mentioned are pebbly beaches. It took all my mental strength to force myself not to collect every single gorgeous pebble! We had ice cream and sat on the beach to eat it. My hands – when they weren’t busy holding the ice cream cone - found themselves caressing the little rocks. They are so smooth and stroke-able! I couldn’t resist some of them, and so I will be carrying rocks back with me to Zimbabwe! Jules and I splashed around a little bit in the cold water. It wasn’t freezing, and there were some people swimming, but I most certainly was not going to venture any further than knee-high! Even so, the waves were a little cheeky, and one splashed my shorts! I chose salted caramel ice cream, by the way, which was on a par for deliciousness with the Berries and Clotted Cream ice cream from Hyde Park.

We went home for a lovely lunch. I think I have eaten more this weekend than I have in a long time! It’s not that we ate badly, or ate a whole lot, it’s just that I’ve realised I don’t eat very much interesting food when I’m by myself! The best bit of lunch was Jules’ three bean salad, which was delectable. I met Brian’s sister after an afternoon rest, and then we went for a walk in the gentle rain. I was able to use my new umbrella for the first time, and though I doubt it will last very long (it is a cheap umbrella!), I love it! It has flowers on it!

We had a fabulous supper, with crispy sausages, Brian’s roast potatoes, and a fantastic cheese sauce veggie dish. We also had gem squash from the garden! And then there was Jules’ delicious apple crumble – with ice cream and honey yoghurt, of course – for pudding. She very kindly packed about half of it into a container for me to take home. I can’t decide if I should ration it out and keep it going for the next week, or if I should just be a little piggy and eat it all when I get home tomorrow.

All in all, it was a warm and wonderful day and I don’t want to go home!

Day Twenty-Nine: A Poem for a Village called Nacton

This world is a beautiful place, and despite all the problems, life is grand. There is no world like this, 

where the sheep are lovely and lonely, and the hills roll endlessly and end abruptly at the granite sea-beach. The pebbles are un-alike: there is not one that is the same as another, and yet they are all pebbles. The people are un-alike: there is not one that is the same as the other, and yet they are all people. 

Time passes with every moment, 

even in the moments when we aren't awake to watch it go. 

It sets itself to the clock on the wall, 

and the wall was built by human hands and so was the clock, 

and yet time is an abstract noun 

that passed before man claimed it. 

The sunflowers are yellow here, 

in this little village of the world. 

They sit and bob, and they bobbed and sat 

and waved to me as I walked by. They knew 

I was coming, to this little world. 

Those two ones in full ball-dress were ready for me, 

ready to take my soul and dance with it 

when I fall asleep tonight. 

Then the lavender in my room will strike up a tune, 

whistling fresh-scented air through its dangling bells. 

The moon will hum like a motor boat zooming 

across the horizon of a lake, so far away

that it seems not to move at all, and yet 

so close that you know it for what it is. 

I will visit the waves in slow-motion and dive

into the yellow grains that crown her shores,

a flower crown without the flowers, 

yet she is beautiful.

That is the beauty of this world: this village is small and unobtrusive,

it is not particularly particular or spectacularly spectacular

and yet it is beautiful.

It is the queen of its world, and that is all the world, because the world is no world without each baby world which makes it whole.

Remember that, 

young seedling tree,

young teething babe,

young wobbling bud:

you must be as proud as if you were the whole world,

because you are -

to someone, somewhere,

you are.

One day one soul will dance with you, for a moment,

for a moment that stretches to the end of time 

and back,

for a moment that swirls around the milky way and deep inside the blackest hole

and back,

for a moment that is beautiful because it is.

Do not be so busy seeking the right moment that you miss the one on the left.

Day Twenty-Eight: NO TO SWEARING

Today we visited the National Army Museum, in Chelsea. I didn’t know that it was in Chelsea, and when I first got off the tube, I was pleasantly surprised by how beautiful the area was. I walked past the Royal Chelsea Hospital (I think it’s called), which is a vast complex of, from what I could see, deep red brick buildings and gold edged signs! We saw a slightly underwhelming selection of photos, not because they weren’t impressive, but because the curator didn’t give us any time with just us and the professor to sit and discuss the pictures. It’s less interesting to have them just flipped through in front of you. Also, we were looking at some of the first “war photography” photographs, and back then they were mostly staged pictures of officers, and so they all begin to look the same after the first twenty! However, there was one image that I really enjoyed seeing, and that was of a woman. I’m not sure who it was, because back then – and still now I suppose – people didn’t caption their photos Anyway, what struck me was her clothing. (I wanted to say “attire” there, but that’s a bit much!) I don’t know how women survived back then, wearing those tiny-waisted, broad-skirted dresses! Especially in army settings! I have to pick a topic to write about, two actually – one for the photography class and one for the history class – so if anyone has any ideas, they are very welcome! I want to do something not obviously academic – maybe a study of how women are presented through their clothing as captured by photography? I DON’T KNOW HELP ME!

After the museum tour was over, I wandered around for a little bit longer, checking out two of their other sections – Army and Soldier. Secretly I was hoping to see something about Zimbabwe, but it wasn’t really that kind of museum. From there, I checked in with coffee shop suggestions on Google Maps, and then wended my way to a place called “Paul’s”, on King’s Road. That road is a dangerous place – not because of crime, but because of how tempting al the expensive shops are! You know when no one is in a “60% Sale” that it isn’t really a true sale. Although that didn’t prevent me from going in and examining the clothes as if I was a clothing connoisseur, unimpressed with the stock on offer. But then I spotted a bright red and white siren sign in the distance: a Zara Sale. Zara sales are real sales, I say with all the experience of my two visits to Zara! I did find three beautiful tops, all at least half price!

But before I found my three tops, I sat for an hour or so in Paul’s. It is a gorgeous, genuinely old coffee shop, with a quaint little seating area crowned by an intricate skylight. I had a very foamy cappuccino and a delectable caramel tartelette. I chose the caramel tartelette over the chocolate one because it was prettier and because it was a chocolate "tart", not a chocolate "tartelette". What kind of person would I be if I chose a stodgy tart over a fairy-like tartelette? Their presentation was slightly ruined by the plastic tray they arrived on, but that didn’t affect the taste! I read my new book called "Tuscan Living" as I sat and sipped my cappuccino deliberately slowly. I would have liked to have been able to eat my tartelette equally slowly, however, due to its enticing sweetness and my newly discovered inability to break off neat, small pieces, that was not an option. The tartelette disappeared in large chunks. In retrospect, this was a good thing, and something which the Tuscan Living author would have condoned: having to concentrate completely on breaking off an eatable-sized chunk of tartelette meant that I was engrossed with the tartelette and all its components, leaving no room for me to not savour the taste! I thoroughly enjoyed my little sortee to the cafe. 

The only aspect I took issue with, which almost - but not quite, because that would be impossible - ruined the scrumptiousness incumbent in my mouth, was the pair of pseudo-adults who littered their conversation with vulgar swear words. Maybe they have never had to pick up rubbish, and they have simply never learned that littering causes rubbish, and it is unpleasant in every way, shape, and form. However, I, being the unwilling and unhappy recipient of such garbage, am fully aware of the stench spiraling from its reeking mass. Usually I keep quiet about people swearing, and I simply move away from the scene. I don't want to cause problems, and I do think that people are entitled to choose how they wish to present themselves to the world - a thing affected most clearly by the language they choose to use. Thus normally, if the person is a friend, I ask them not to pollute the air I have to breathe. However, I always thought that this was hardly possible, nor completely reasonable, in a restaurant or cafe setting, when the polluter was a stranger and was not intentionally trying to destroy my environment. 

But now I think that may change. In a public setting, the duel between the two Freedoms is made public; there are no seconds in this fight, no one to come to the aid of the dying loser. No, instead, one must bow to the other, defeated and angry. I am talking about the two Freedoms of Speech. This is a problem which is so evident in America, and it has been very difficult learning that sometimes it is better to bow out of a battle you know you won't win, rather than running foolishly into the barrel of the gun. Sometimes, I just shut up because I think that saying something won't achieve anything. I don't say what I think because there isn't really any point. I don't exercise my Freedom of Speech, because I think, sometimes, that by not exercising it, I am facilitating someone else's. But aren't those the very things that every advocate of Freedom of Speech uses to support their argument? Maybe not exactly the same, but close enough.

So, from now on, when someone is swearing like the regular degenerate teenage-adults he/she/they is/are, I will ask them, kindly, to respect my freedom to sit in a cafe in peace, to sit without the detritus of their foul mouths cascading into my tartelette and ruining its taste. I have the right to ask, right? 

Other than that, it was a wonderful day! 

Day Twenty-Seven: Blonde Tarzan asks Me Something

I really need to buy an umbrella! My hurried steps bombarded the pavement as I dashed to Waterstone's in the tumbling rain. I made it, the only minor casualties being the temporary distortion of my vision by murky glasses, and the equally unimportant darkening with damp of the front of my jeans, which had borne the full heft of the rain. Once safely inside, I completed my normal routine, but unfortunately the girl behind the counter doesn't know that I like to sit in and drink my coffee, so the two times she's made my magical mocha, she has made it in a take-away cup. This time I marshaled the shy scattered spirits of confidence, and I asked her if she wouldn't mind changing it to a proper cup, if it wasn't too late. 

She has a lovely smile, and I firmly believe that people with lovely smiles are lovely people. When I say "smile", I don't just mean the mouth part: I mean the entire face, the voice and the eyes, and the eyebrows. You can't fake a beautiful smile, because the beauty is embedded in the uniqueness of the person, and thus a unique smile will always be a beautiful smile. A copy of true beauty can never match up to the original, because once it's a copy, it isn't unique, and the uniqueness is the whole essence of the beauty. That's another philosophy I have been trying to understand and apply recently: seeing each person as unique, and thus as beautiful. The winning aspect of this philosophy, which makes it one that I sincerely hope I will be able to begin to apply subconsciously, is that it's always possible to find something unique about a person, and therefore it is always possible to see beauty in them. 

This just reminded me of Plato's discussions of the Ideals - where Beauty is the ideal from which beautiful things result. Oh my goodness I feel so blessed. There are so many times during class, or discussions, or life in general, when I realise what a well-rounded and wholesome education I have been given. I had a sort of revelation today, as we were studying the late 19th century British and Boer politics: we learnt all about this in Form Two. It wasn't in as much detail, but this period of history had an existence somewhere in the timeline in my mind. My understanding of the world had already been expanded by this knowledge, and learning all of this Empire stuff now is defining and filling in the details and the colour and expanding my mind's scope even further. And the more we read and discuss now, the more I recall vague lessons and discussions from high school, and junior school too actually. I remember learning about the Bantu migration in Grade Three, I think, and drawing little maps. And we learnt about Bilharzia in Grade Four. And mud and the earth and chameleons in Grade Five. It's interesting though that the facts and knowledge I remember most vividly are not from the higher up years of junior school, when I was 11 or 12. Rather, I remember the excitement of Environmental Science taught by Miss Cox, in Grade Four, when I was nine. I remember becoming an "Insect Inspector" and copying down notes written in her graceful, elegant, swan-like handwriting on the chalk-board about the queen bee and her worker bees, and colouring in a picture of two queen bees fighting for the role of queen. And compound eyes and flies. It isn't limited to that sphere only though: I remember the delight and sense of pride learning about long-division, and being able to divide three digit numbers instead of just two. And then realising that you could keep doing the same thing, even with five or six digit numbers - that was honestly and truly the high point of my mathematical curiosity! There was nothing more satisfying than getting that right, and it actually making sense. Daddy divide, mummy multiply, sister subtract, and brother bring down. Repeat. SUCH excitement. And then the poems we learnt in Grade Three, and the stories we wrote in Grade Two. And Carla's real live chicken at Show and Tell in Grade One. Does anyone know this poem? I still remember most of it by heart, twelve years later!

"Cats sleep anywhere, 

any table, any chair.

Top of piano, window ledge,

in the middle, on the edge.

Open door, empty shoes,

anybody's lap will do."

Okay that's all I remember. I could draw you the picture that accompanied it though. 

Here's the real poem - let's see if I remembered right!

"Cats sleep anywhere, any table, any chair.

Top of piano, window-ledge, in the middle, on the edge.Open drawer, empty shoe, anybody's lap will do.Fitted in a cardboard box, in the cupboard with your frocks.Anywhere! They don't care! Cats sleep anywhere."
 - Eleanor Farjeon (1881 - 1965)

See, I told you I'd remembered most of it!

All this to say that I am so grateful for the education I received, a bright education which revealed this wonderful web of the world to me! In spite of all the negatives of the "old" school system, the strictness, and the sometime-presented inflexibility of fact, I was shown so much of the world from my (most of the time!) safe seat in those rickety desks and bottom-pinching chairs!

HAHAHHAHA I just heard someone say "So have you started looking for a husband yet?" "Oh, yes, I've found one." Oh wow.

So back to the title of this blog! "Blonde Tarzan asks Me Something". After being presented with a mocha in a cup by the obliging lady with the beautiful smile, I got up to go and put some water in my bottle. You have to walk around the counter to get to the water dispenser, and on my way back, I almost bumped into a large man clad in a large red rain-coat. Usually I just smile and say sorry for bumping into you and keep on walking, and the person either has already moved off, or smiles back and moves off. But this person didn't move away. Instead, he bobbed his head tentatively - any more vigorous bobbing may have sent it tumbling off the precipice of his shoulders, long, blonde hair and all - and he moved his mouth as if he wanted to ask something but wasn't sure how to form the words. Obviously I either frequent this spot to such an extent that my aura has been imbued with the essence of the place, and he just thought that I worked here; or I am an approachable and inoffensive looking soul, who seems to anxious beings as if she might know how to solve their problems. I am happy to accept either of these positions! His blue eyes had diamonds in them, so bright and sparkly they were. For a man of such an imposing stature, a veritable Tarzan of a Prince Charming, he was rather shy, and the question in his mind was not forthcoming. So I smiled at him. (You see, my philosophy, though not designed to be, is also self-serving: if my smile is unique, it must be beautiful, right?) That seemed to encourage him, and within a moment he realised that the next step in this human interaction was to ask his question.

"Um, could you, um, tell, um, where is the, um, bathroom?" he mumbled, though not so incoherently that I missed the dashing Australian accent that punctuated his sentence. The virtue of exploring a place and expanding your knowledge of its inner workings (ie. being nosy) was made reinforced to me in this moment. 

"Well," said I, grinning knowledgeably, "yes, I do." I proceeded to give Blonde Tarzan directions to the bathroom, not without a hint of triumph, as, for those who know me, it is quite an achievement for ME to be able to give directions, as that gives some proof that somewhere inside me, I actually do have a sense of direction! Blonde Tarzan went on his way, and I sat down to write about my oh-so-eventful life. Honestly, it is ALL about the small things!

That's all I'm going to write for today, because I don't think I can handle any more events like the Blonde Tarzan Moment of 26 July 2017; in the hopes of proving the existence of the Positive Thinking phenomenon, I will end here and positively think that nothing more eventful will happen today, and that I will get home peacefully, sans monumental moments.

Last thing though: a really cool story about Winston Churchill! Churchill in the Boer War

Day Twenty-Six: unhurried living, and why teddies are alive

I sat today in the coffee shop and read and read til my eyes were so tired of deciphering the squiggles on the pages that I couldn't read anymore. This last week has been testing. We had two essays to do, and though they're both done now, it was difficult adding two essays to the normal reading load. I didn't do much at all today, except for reading. I am beyond grateful that I found Waterstones. It has meant that I can settle down to work quickly and conveniently, and everything I need is right there. I get a student discount with my drink, and I always go for a Mocha because I can make coffee at home! So how the days usually stretch out is like so: I will wake up just before my alarm goes off, although today I woke up an hour before it went off! I have found that if I make my bed the moment I get out of it, I already feel as if I have accomplished something for the day, and I can move onto the next task satisfied with life. Making sure that Toby - my teddy -  is comfortable is always the last act of the bed-making. I set his head gently against the pillow so that he can get up easily if he wants to.

We were given Christmas presents when we were in Grade 0 at Bishopslea (when we were five), and I remember being so upset that I hadn't received a barbie, or colours, or something bright and colourful. Instead, I was the mildly disappointed owner of a book. I think I took it home and tried to "read" it, but since I couldn't really read yet, it ended up on the shelf and I didn't look at it again til I was a teenager. But when I did eventually get round to reading it, I realised what a special and perfect gift it had been. It was a book about teddy bears: their history, their types, their personalities. I can't remember what it's called, but it was something like 'A Collection of Teddies'. In it were stories and poems about teddies, and these are the lyrics to one of my favourite poems/songs:

"Teddy Bear Picnic"

If you go out in the woods today
You're sure of a big surprise.
If you go out in the woods today
You'd better go in disguise.
For every bear that ever there was
Will gather there for certain, because
Today's the day the teddy bears have their picnic.

If you go out in the woods today,
You'd better not go alone.
It's lovely out in the woods today,
But safer to stay at home.
For every bear that ever there was
Will gather there for certain, because
Today's the day the teddy bears have their picnic.

Picnic time for teddy bears,
The little teddy bears are having a lovely time today.
Watch them, catch them unawares,
And see them picnic on their holiday.
See them gaily dance about.
They love to play and shout.
And never have any cares.
At six o'clock their mommies and daddies
Will take them home to bed
Because they're tired little teddy bears.

Here's a wonderful link to Bing Crosby singing it: Teddy Bear Picnic

The thought of teddy bears being alive and going exploring has captivated my imagination since I can remember, and this book had the beautiful illustrations and stories to grow those creative thoughts. There was also a story about the teddy bear who was discovered every morning with a new scratch or tear or bandage, and it was because he defended his little child every night. The point of all this is to show you why I make sure that Toby is always comfortable and can see everything that's going on. He is old now - 18 to be exact - and I'm sure it gives him some extra time to react and prepare if he has a good vantage point. Also, if he's been looking after me all these years, I think he deserves to be comfortable.

After I have made my bed, I choose what to wear and get dressed, and then I go through to the kitchen and make some breakfast, depending on what I feel like. Today I had yoghurt and strawberries and bananas and oats. Then I take my half-packed bag and finish packing it, and within an hour of getting up, I try to be out the flat. I am going to try and get up earlier tomorrow so that I can miss the crowded train! I know which platform I have to go to now too, which is reassuring when you're in a hurry. When I get to class, I either go to the kitchen and snag the beautiful yellow cup before anyone else does, or I just sit and hope that no one feels like a yellow cup! If I was in time to get the yellow cup, then I pour half the tea from my flask into it (saving the half for later).

After class, I head straight to Waterstones and order my student-discounted Mocha, and then I sit at the broad table with my book and my Mocha, and while I wait for it to cool, I eat my packed lunch. I've been in a yellow mood recently, sunny. I have a golden-covered book and I love the yellow cup. And the sunshine today was just beautiful. I try to do about an hour of work downstairs in the coffee shop, and when I'm tired of sitting there, I pack up and move upstairs, into the bookstore.

There I stay until I get hungry and have to leave to make supper.

I think that the most important message I want to send fluttering through the internet to you is that time will always keep moving, but you can enjoy every moment and feel every sunbeam of every second if you choose to. In drenching each moment in delight, you can turn each second into a lingering twirl of honey. If you don't like honey, I'm sure you can think of something equally beautiful.

So that's all for today.

I hope you enjoyed :)

Posties poem

Wander through the library shelves
and smell the stories that they hold,
watch them unfold as the letters scramble round
before you open their book.
They chatter, waiting between the covers,
some watch the others play out their scenes
and others act and dance or cry if that's what the writer said.
As you walk past, they rush to their spots,
curve quickly into lines you'll understand, and wait.
Anticipating your curious eyes, they dress themselves up
with serifs, a dash here, a spot there.
They space themselves neatly, for your viewing pleasure,
and the older ones have to stop the baby ones from wriggling with excitement.

Do you know when the words seem to dance on the page,
and you just can't focus? Each letter shivers
and shimmies up and down as if it is alive.
Do you know, when the words seem to dance on the page,
they really are dancing.

Day Twenty-Five: VEGETARIAN

I really believe that the hour between 10 o'clock and 11 o'clock at night moves faster than any of the other hours in the day. Tonight was no different. I guess it's not a problem, if I know that that's the case. This afternoon went by slowly, like the beginning of a sunset. The colours of the afternoon faded quietly into view, deepening every time I looked up from my work, but never quite reaching darkness. I sat in Waterstones with a piece of carrot cake on my left and my laptop on my right. I wrote my essay, slowly but surely, mimicking the afternoon and its cautious light. I am nearly finished with my essay. It is something I enjoyed doing, and it was surprising moving up the page and realising that I had written a lot more than I thought I had, because I think I had more to write, though I'm not sure.

There are lots of things I'm not sure about. There are also lots of things which I am sure about, and in the end the certainties and uncertainties seem to balance each other out, and I am able to waltz happily from question to answer and back without feeling too dizzy. Question, answer, question, Question, answer, question. Down, up, up. Down, up, up. There are more ups than downs and though the downs are heavy, they steady the soul, and though the ups are quick, they lighten it. Lighten the weight or lighten the dark? I am not sure. 

I sent a letter to Zimbabwe and a letter to Russia this morning, before I went to class. This time I went to the counter instead of the self-service robot, and the lady gave me real stamps instead of pre-sticky ones. Licking the stamp yourself and knowing that you are responsible for connecting the stamp to the envelope is a powerful feeling. It's like being the only person who knows the password to the safe: if you forget it, no one can get in. If you don't stick the stamp on properly, it won't go anywhere. Little scrawls of my soul are sprawling across the universe as I speak. Or maybe they're not. Maybe they're vying to be on top in the red post-box and eagerly anticipating the post-man's approach. Or maybe they're trying to sink to the bottom, afraid of where they might end up and wearied by the weight of the words they contain. If I were a letter, I would be one of the excited ones, I am sure.

I also went shopping today. I have decided to go vegetarian this week, mainly because I didn't have any meat in my cupboards when I went shopping, and I don't eat much anyway and so I wanted to see if I could do it properly. I bought beans for protein and honey yoghurt too. And when I got home, though I'd been to two different shops and I was tired, I made a proper salad. Usually I make the same old salad - lettuce and tomato and carrots and spring onions. It always taste good, and it's obviously always healthy. I vary the presentation, which satisfies both my longing for spontaneity and my appreciation of habit. But today I branched out and made a chickpea salad, with diced red onion and tomato and carrot. I heated the chickpeas up first, in boiling salted water. I am not sure if that was the right thing to do, but the end result was, I am sure, satisfactory in the highest degree. I added my diced carrots to the chickpeas and then strained them over the sink. Then I scraped the chopped red onions off the edge of the glass chopping board. They moved reluctantly, like children that have to be pushed off the diving board because they are afraid of the water and the height. Everything landed in an ocean of lettuce, and I scribbled some mayonnaise across the top, and then a spark of pepper and the meal was complete. I was felt very full when I'd finished eating, I am sure of that.

I also made three video vlogs today, but when they will be uploaded is dependent on the Internet and not my creative endurance, and thus I am not sure when you will see them. I bought flowers, too, at Waitrose. They were at a reduced price because they were old, but Is till think they're beautiful. Apart from the fact that I wanted their bright pink and red and yellow and orange to liven up my room - which apparently, according to some, looks like a "hospital" - I also couldn't leave them to die. Few things hurt my heart more than witnessing neglect, and flowers are no lesser creature than any other. Thus I could not stand by and let them wither away int heir plastic coffins, when I knew that they could share their vivacity if only I would buy them. I bought them and they are lovely.

I am sure, however, that I will sleep very well and so I bid you adieu and you and you and you-ou.

Day Twenty-Four: I worked out(side)

The title is actually half a lie. Or half a truth if you are a glass-half-full sort of person. I worked outside the house today. The sun rose upon a sleeping me, but I did not wake. It was only a few hours later that I opened my eyes, although I can't be sure because I wasn't awake to see it rise! I made myself the standard yoghurt and strawberries and oats breakfast, and then proceeded to pack my bags in readiness to take the tube to Waterstones. Fortunately, I checked what time Waterstones opens on a Sunday, and discovered that I would have been stranded outside had I left then. So I sat down and id some of the reading I had to do, and had a look at my essay.

Eventually, it came time to head off, and I did. I arrived at Waterstones approximately five minutes after they opened, and had a pleasant conversation with the tall man behind the counter. I was a little bit disappointed because the Mocha was presented to me in a take-away cup, and I do get so much joy out of drinking out of a real coffee cup! Unsurprisingly, the mocha tasted just as good as it usually does in the real cup. I'm excited for this week, a little ironically: we aren't going on any trips - that I know of - but that means that I can sit in the bookstore and work every day! I sat at a big yellow table today, and drew an orange stained glass window with a blue Mary and baby Jesus and two angels with my watercolour pencils.

I needed a change of scenery, so I went up the three floors to the top of the bookstore, only to find someone in MY spot. I peered tentatively round the corner of the bookshelf, hoping that my hide-out would be empty, but no: a cruel wench had commandeered my chair. So, I found another one. Which was blue. Unlike the faded grey of the chair I had lost. Unfortunately, the blue chair didn't come with a table, and so I didn't sit there for very long. I transferred myself and my belongings to a new spot.

But I took a while to settle down, because the table was sort of broken. It was a little bit wobbly, but if I put one of my legs over the other and balanced the table part on my knee, it stayed up. By this time I had almost finished the first half of the essay and so I took a break - which turned into the end of studying - and read my new book, a Cairo Anthology. I left just before they kicked everyone else out, and started walking in the wrong direction. I felt that something was a little odd, and so I checked my map and I turned around and made it home in record time, because I wanted to escape the impending rain. 

I made an interesting supper: mushroom and spring onion omelette/scrambled eggs on a bed of lettuce. It tasted amazing!  

The best part about today was sitting in the cafe and writng about photos as the rain came down outside.

Day Twenty-Three: WAY past my bedtime

Today was a lovely day, in spite of the rain. I won't go into much detail, because it is incredibly late, and I do have an essay to write tomorrow. However, here is a little snippet of some of the delightful and warm and fuzzy events of the day:

- I ate an almond croissant

- I discovered a new book store

- I waled to the book store, and got caught in the rain

- while waiting for the rain to pass, I wandered around in a beautiful flower shop, which I would say smelt like Heaven, if I didn't think that Heaven needed to have Indian food, and thus probably smell like Indian food

- I bought a book called "An Anthology of Cairo"

- I bought a wonderful present for mum <3 

- I made my way home, barely using my map!

- I got all dressed up in my new dress for Kate and Chris' Engagement Party! 

- I was so happy because I got to wear my yellow shoes and my new dress, and I got to put real shimmery make-up on

- I arrived five minutes too early at the party place, which was in a larney (spelling?) part of Kensington! I have officially been inside one of those gorgeous houses I usually gape at from a distance.

- I was served champagne by a butler. WHAT

- I met many rich people...

- The hostess asked me where my dress was from, and said that she would go and buy it! She also asked if it was "from this season", a question that has never ever in my entire life ever been a relevant question, but which was extremely flattering all the same!

- I exercised my small talk skills, and realised that high heels are highly empowering.

- I ate a delicious meal of: starter - salmon (YAS Mummaa) and green sauce and cucumbers, main - well-done beef (YAS they asked and I didn't have to politely eat rare meat! Also, this was the first read meat I've had since coming to London!), mashed potato, and lettuce, dessert - chocolate bomb thing and butterscotch ice-cream.

- I realised that butterscotch ice-cream is my favourite ice-cream.

- I had white wine and red wine and a small argument (mainly one-sided, because I was doing the talking) with an old man because I think that traditions - like red wine with red meat - should be kept, and he thought they shouldn't.

- I didn't finish either of the wines, because I don't very much like wine!

- I came home in a cab which Kate ordered for me, and the driver was South African! 

I had a glorious evening. Thank you Kate and Chris for getting married!

Day Twenty-Two: I'm feeling twe-en-tyyyy (T Swift)

So if Taylor Swift had written her song about being twenty instead of being twenty-two, it would have sounded a bit more realistic, and wouldn't have had the silly line "we're happy, free, confused and lonely at the same time". I am happy and free, but not confused and lonely! You would think that by the time you reach 22, you'd have some idea of how to make yourself feel less lonely, and that you'd have some friends! I don't really like that song very much.

Anyway, after that slightly negative introduction, I bring you happy news: I bought lollipops today! And I submitted my essay! And I wrote a letter. So much joy. Oh, and how could I forget? I met up with Sabrina -  the girl from Yale - today! We sat in an expensive but beautiful cafe, which was coincidentally right next to the one I was in yesterday. I had a latte and some carrot cake, and although none of the carrot cake I have had here seems to match up to a carrot cake I made once a long time ago, I'm not sure if that is a fair comparison to make, because the-cake-I-made may well have grown in virtue over time. But I have struggled to find a carrot cake with the right combination of vital organs - it has to be moist, but not too muddy: fruity, but not too itty bitty; it needs to have been iced by a munificent chef (I have been trying to force that word "munificent" into a sentence since I learnt what the word meant, and this is the first time I have been able to do so. More cause for joy!), and it needs to taste somewhat like carrot! This one came close, but it was a bit too crumbly. It was lovely seeing Sabrina, and seeing as she lives near(ish) London, hopefully I'll be able to see her again.

I didn't get much - really any - work done today, except for finishing off my essay! I woke up late and just simply didn't feel like working. You know how you just have those days when it's more difficult than usual to sit down and do work. And of course everything that possibly can collaborates against you to prevent your half-hearted attempts from coming to fruition. I couldn't decide what to eat for breakfast, and I also didn't feel like eating in the dining room, but the kitchen was hot, and so eventually I decided that I would take a picnic breakfast to the new spot I found yesterday, behind the post office. I was in a fiddly mood today, which meant that everything took four times as long as it usually does. I would traipse with my goods and chattels from my room to my bathroom to the kitchen and then back to the start and repeat and repeat and repeat, achieving one miserly thing at each station, and then realising that I needed something from the room I'd just left in order to do something in the next room. FINALLY, I was ready. I think that it probably sounds a lot more depressing than it actually was. It wasn't all that bad. I don't mind ferreting around if I have the time to, with nothing else to do. But unfortunately I did have other things to do!

I set off with a flask of tea, a tupperware container of scrambled eggs, my laptop, my notebook, my watercolours, my drawing book, my lid for water for the watercolours, my water bottle, and two cards to write letters in letters. Oh and a pen. I sat down on the steps and ate my egg with the spoon from the flask, one of the most satisfying things I did all day! The other satisfying action was pouring tea into the lid of the flask and drinking it as the wind swept hair across my face and the world rushed around me. Tea is beauty, world.

I didn't feel like rereading my essay, so I decided to start my photography essay instead. Unfortunately there was no wifi, so I couldn't pull up the readings or the questions because they were in the Dropbox folder. I could hear it mocking me from some cloud in the sky. I was not in the mood for patiently waiting for a wifi signal to appear, and so - and what else is one supposed to do in this situation? - I dived into the nearest coffee shop, which would undoubtedly have wifi! The cafe I found was strange: retro-modern, the furniture was a combination of metal, wood, and brick. That doesn't sound particularly exceptional, but there is something about the style "retro-modern" which necessitates the exaggeration of each of these elements. So the bricks were REALLY brick-y, adn the metal bare and bold, and the wood almost unearthily earthy! Also, a weird combination of pastel and orange colours made for an eccentric appearance! It is a Scandinavian cafe, and their mochas are wild. I say wild because I can only assume that they are made from giant, untamed cows' milk, with water from some natural geyser somewhere, and chocolate straight from the cacao beans in the wilds of somewhere else exotic. It was the strongest and most bitter Mocha I have ever had in my entire life. I was saying to a friend today that I don't actually drink coffee because I like it; I drink it because I adore the cafe-going experience, and coffee is an integral part of that. You can't say you had coffee at a cafe without actually having coffee at a cafe! I mean, even the word "cafe" means coffee! They are a pair which cannot be separated, and thus I have been obliged to embrace coffee. And mochas are usually sufficient compromise, because at least they're sweet, But this one had not one milligram of sugar in it. EW>> If you're going to call it a Mocha, it is only fair on your average customer who thinks mochas are sweet to provide them with something with some semblance of sweetness! I suppose that would be one way to deter children from eating chocolate, or sweets: you give them something really gross right at the beginning, and call it some deceptive name, and they will never want it again. The epitome of a misnomer. 

However, it was an interesting experience. I didn't get much work done there either, because I realised that my notebook was full and I needed a new one, and I didn't want to start reading if I couldn't take notes, and I needed to do the reading because I have to use those sources in my photography paper! But that gave me an excuse to go back to the stationery shop, where I had a funny conversation with the salesman. I was examining a selection of notebooks very closely when I was accosted by this salesman. He just wanted to help, but really I didn't need help: it's a notebook! But I listened to him patiently and answered his questions. Eventually he asked me if I had any specific colour in mind, and so I said, matter-of-factly, "No. You see, the notebook has to speak to me." After that he left me alone.

I forgot to avert my eyes as I passed the card section, and a splendid card with cats and mice on trapped me and I couldn't not buy it. Thus when I came to the counter, I discovered that I was one pence short. I had my card there, which would have been fine, but a sweet lady at the other counter handed me a 20p coin! In the end I didn't actually need it, because there was a student discount, but when I told her that, she said "no, no, just keep it." This 20p resurfaced later this evening, when I had THE EXACT amount in coins for my lollipops! I absolutely love the self checkout at Marks & Spencer, because you can use coins, and so you can literally pay all in pence if you want. I enjoy that so much.

Thus with my new notebook, cool card, and 20p more than was actually mine, I made my way home. I made lunch and then set off to meet Sabrina. I caught the right tube and arrived in good time. But I couldn't find the exit which the app told me to take, so I ended up walking in almost a full circle (just one block)! I was early though, so I sat down outside, on a concrete sculpture thing that people sit on and wrote in one of the cards. Then I went to the coffee shop and Sabrina came soon after that. We chatted away for about an hour and a half, and then she had to leave to catch her train. I stayed and drew some strange pictures of the people sitting outside. Then I packed up my goods and left. Somehow I got on the District Line Tube instead of the Hammersmith and City one; I am not quite sure how that happened because I triple checked. Anyway, it was not the end of the world because all it meant was that I had to change two stops along. I made it home in one piece!

All in all, it was an odd day, accentuated by a selection of satisfying high points! Tomorrow I think I am going to go down to Pret a manger and just sit and write! I also had yummy supper.

Day Twenty-One: HALF WAY THERE

I have survived a whole three weeks here in London! I woke up in the middle of the night last night, and I had to open my eyes and turn on the light to make sure I was here! Literally, in the dark I just felt that I was at home in Zimbabwe. And then that made me think - yes, at midnight - of how many homes I have now, if you qualify "home" by calling it a place in which you know what the bed is like! Obviously that isn't the only definition of home, but it does contribute to it. 

I am so excited to go back to school, at Yale, because Chelsea has been organizing our furniture and I really feel like we'll be able to make a little house there! The new colleges just feel more like apartments than dorms, and it's going to be such fun setting up house again. I have grand plans for my little room.

So today we had "class" at the Victoria and Albert Museum. We had been told that we needed to meet at the Cromwell entrance at 10:30, but at about 8:15, we all got the message that our professor wanted to meet us at 10:15. Fortunately I had woken up with lots of time to spare, and so I was still able to walk, as I had planned to do. It's about a half hour walk through Hyde Park, which is wonderful. However, as I made my way down the streets of London, I noticed a grey blob amassing in the sky above me. There was no rain as yet, but the clouds were bearing down on me hard and fast! Needless to say, I picked up the pace!

I took the most direct route through the park, and, amazingly, I made it with plenty of time to spare. The other girls were already there, so I sat with them outside, tentatively because the sky had by no means cleared! London has the potential to go very grey when it's overcast, and grey today it went! I know that most people detest that sort of weather, but to tell the truth, I actually enjoy it (when I don't have my laptop in my backpack!) Brick and tar and sandstone buildings emit a warm glow, as if they are holding hostage the sun's heat to force the rain to leave. I particularly love the old red brick buildings, with pointed roofs and ornate, wrought-iron window frames. The V&A Museum sits like an old man on Exhibition Road, opposite the massive Natural History Museum. If I could zoom out and see all the buildings from above, I'm sure they really would look like a group of people sitting round a table, or standing in a line. I wonder where they'd be going?

In the museum, we had the privilege of looking at some of the originals of the photos we've studied in class! It was amazing to see them, and hold them (their mounts)! How lucky am I? Class lasted a little over two hours, and then we were free to do whatever we wanted. I forced myself to leave the museum and not get distracted by the numerous exhibits because I still had my paper to write! I ventured down the street and picked the most comfortable looking coffee shop. It was called Brown and Rosie, and it served the best Mocha I have ever had. If you recall, a long time ago in one of my first posts, I talked about the judge-able qualities of a Mocha: this one was perfect. It obviously contained real, bitter chocolate - not juts chocolate syrup or sprinkles, and my only complaint was that it was not hot enough to keep me from drinking it quickly. I always feel awkward once I've finished my coffee, because there is the perpetual lurking suspicion that someone will come and tell me I have to leave! Not that I really think anyone would have the nerve to do that, but you never know. 

I wrote most of my paper there! And whilst I was sitting, I overheard a very sweet conversation between a grandpa and his granddaughter: 

"A coffee connoisseur, " he said to her, nodding his grey head, and arching his bushy eyebrows, "is someone who knows"- he winked - "about coffee."

There is so much that we can learn from our grandparents! 

When I couldn't focus anymore, I left, content. I couldn't resist the museum. I really do think that buildings, as they are so much like people, have the power to call another person and make them talk to them. When I say "talk", I really do mean talk: I made a beeline for the fashion exhibit, because I desperately wanted to see REAL old dresses, and when I saw them (especially this one fuchsia one) I told them how beautiful they were. And then as I was trying to escape the clutches of the museum, I stumbled across (or actually, I waked past the entrance to, and couldn't resist going in) an exhibit on wrought iron! I adore wrought iron everything, (which means Yale gates elicit much delight in me every time I walk past them!) So I spent a while admiring that exhibit.

Finally, I left. I made my way back to Hyde Park, and found myself a bench by the Serpentine Lake, as I think it's called. I really should know because I've been there often enough! I have found that I am much more aware of places when I've only been there a few times. I know that I have walked along a specific path, and I am so conscious of walking on it again, even two weeks later. It's as if I have a heightened sense of the meaning of place, simply because it is so new. 

I sat on a bench and wrote about the ducks and swans, and watched the little children play with the ducks. Then I attempted to illustrate my drawing with my watercolour pencils! I also received a pleasant surprise when my brain decided to remind me that I had coffee in my flask in my bag! Coffee, drawing, and writing, and swans: wonderful. It's also so interesting to experience stories and pictures you've heard and seen in a book, like seeing a cygnet and being able to put a physical reality to the imagined reality (in my mind) of the story of the Ugly Duckling. And seeing how soft a swan's feathers really are!  

When my watercolours had dried, I packed up and came home, without any navigation because my phone had died! I am proud to say that I made it back quickly and without getting lost once! I made myself some tuna and mayonnaise and spring onion and red onion and carrot and lettuce for supper, and then I had a cup of tea and my ice cream, and then I listened to some marvelous Bon Jovi - LOUD because no one was here - and then I made my vlog for yesterday (I am so behind) and now I must sleep! I am seeing a girl from Yale tomorrow, in the afternoon, which is exciting! And then I need to write my photography essay!

Day Twenty: Oh such peace

Such a sense of peace prevails,
within the winds that blow the sails
of my soul,
and send me onward.

I arrived in time this morning, early, the first. I have been dreaming vividly, dreams so real that I wake up with a plan already formed to counteract the mistakes of the dream-me. I woke the other day ready to email the College dean about my room, because it was the wrong one. When I have such real dreams, I start to wonder what the dream world is. When the dreams are hazy and unrealistic, it isn't hard to think of them as regular dreams, just our minds imagining away as we sleep, the cogs of thought continuing to move while the body rests. But then there are those dreams that happened. They were of a different caliber than other dreams. Maybe the BFG was a little too enthusiastic.

I have written the first third of my essay. I still need to negotiate the watery depths of the other two thirds, and then make the return voyage, double checking that this is the route I want recorded for posterity. Shall I look to the stars for guidance? It is difficult writing about what I'm writing about, paradoxically because it is so interesting. These papers are different to DS papers, which is probably obvious seeing as they're not DS papers. They have a different sense though: less rushed, less restricted, less pressure. Also I want to sit and write. I want time, time to sit and think about everything that I could be thinking about. 

There is a man in a green-blue shirt sitting five metres away from me. His hair is tousled, brown, blonde, in between. I think he is writing an essay, but I also saw that he was on Facebook. Is that how we write these days? Multitasking is the word, or so I have heard. Do you think that the more we feed our senses, the more perceptive we become? Are we able to multitask better if we give ourselves more tasks? I wonder. He has a lime-green phone case, and he is sitting up straight. Is that how we write these days? Straight up. It may be because he is tall. Do you think that being tall and sitting up straight is a sign of confidence? Isn't it traditionally tall people who slouch? Well, he is very tall and he is sitting up tall too. Too tall to be small? I wonder. He reads. He pauses. He types a sentence. Pause. He highlights the typed evidence of thought in a milky blue and presses delete. It's a macbook, so it's delete, not backspace. On my laptop, I can delete and I can backspace. Do you think that that influences the way that my thoughts exist. First, is there a difference between backspace and delete, or are they one in the same? And second, has the ability to so easily undo our thoughts changed the way we think? Are we more reckless now, because we can undo? Or would you term it more enthusiastic, more eager to think, to experience because we are able to forget our mistakes. Or maybe typing has nothing to do with the way we think, because letters are generic and anyone can write them, while handwriting it genetic, heretic, specific. Handwriting is personal. That's why I love letters.

Being away from important people has forced me to try out a whole host of different conversational mediums. I have been the letter-writer, the whatsapper, the emailer, the instagrammer, the facebooker, the vlogger, the blogger, the phoner, and finally, as of today - and that one moment when I sent Granny a postcard from the Vatican in 2013 - I am a post-carder. By far my favourite way to communicate - apart from actual speaking - is with letters. 

We have been discussing the impact that a photo can have, in our Victorian Photography class, and one of the points raised was the question of the photograph being a way of stealing a moment from the subject of the photo, creating a reproducible image of a soul which, according to one critic, Walter Benjamin, "shatters the aura" of the subject. When I heard the word aura, my ears pricked up like a little dog's when it hears the word "walkies". There are few things that excite me more than a discussion, in any regard, of the "other". Aura is other. Like a dream. And thus I was thinking, does receiving a letter from someone, a physical reproduction of their thoughts shatter the person's aura the same way that a self-portrait's aura, which the subject was happy with and sent purposefully to you, is supposedly shattered? 

A man with curly grey hair trapezed past with two blue tea-cups balanced on two red teapots. 

I personally do not think that the aura of the subject of a photo is "shattered" when the photo is taken, or reproduced. I think that auras exist in a realm that humans cannot interfere with. A counterargument to that could be that cameras exist in a realm that humans do not, and can therefore pierce into the world of auras where humans never could. But I think that humans are above cameras on the perceptiveness scale, something that I would measure how we can affect the other realms by, because realms aren't much unless we have some perception of them, right? And so I would rank them:

aura

human

machine

I don't really know what I'm talking about, but writing about history and being around so many people who have all been affected by that history, and are part of the making of more history which will affect them and their children in the future, is an eerie experience, and one which makes the concept of an "other" seem like not such a distant and unbelievable idea. I feel as if I am living in so many worlds, because, even though I can't see it, I - and my thoughts and soul - make up each other individual's world. Their worlds would look different if I, and every other unique person in this space of time and existence, wasn't here. So by virtue of that, I am living out my own perception of my existence, and everyone else's perceptions of me too. 

So back to the photography question, about the shattered auras. I think that maybe if the subject of the photo could exist in complete isolation - imagine a void full of nothing but the subject - and if you could somehow obtain an image of that subject without anyone having any interaction with it, allowing no perception of the object whatsoever, then maybe the aura of the subject might be shattered when the image is viewed, because the aura of the subject would never have the chance to be viewed in completion. But at that rate, isn't every aura a shattered aura? When you observe someone, you only observe what you sense of them, which can never be their whole being. You perceive fragments of them, for whatever reasons, and as such no image can render whole what even in reality cannot be perceived as anything more than fragments. 

This is so interesting!

I have to go home soon, because I am nearly hungry.

And then I need to make my video.

But I am grateful for the opportunity to sit here and think. Thinking is such a powerful phenomenon: it can make you go crazy, numb you, or have no effect at all. Do you think that you can perceive your whole self? Or is the person you always thought of as "you" merely a fragment of the whole? And will you ever be able to perceive that whole? Do you think that a photo of you is maybe a scary thing, because it can capture your whole, when even you can't? Or, as I often feel like saying when we end up getting carried away in class, isn't it just a photo?!

Day Nineteen: my mind is nigh saturated, BONUS CAT

I didn't think I was capable of reading 111 pages solidly. That was A LOT! But now reading is done. Also, I actually enjoyed that reading. It was about the British Empire, as one might have reason to expect considering it was for a class titled The British Empire. Not much happened today besides the reading, simply because the day was mainly reading! I suppose I did have a cup of coffee and an apple muffin at Waterstones, and I did sit in the most wonderful window seat to do my reading, nestled right into the turret of the wonderfully old building. I really enjoy working in there. It's a book store, as I'm sure I've said, but it is also a book store which "encourages browsing" according to its Google description. That entails placing an assortment of chairs of varying comfort-levels in random locations, most frequently by windows. And my little spot. Ah. It's at Rapunzel-tower altitude on the third floor, a hexagonal window seat, minus two sides, so a four sided-window seat settled in perfectly over time beneath broad arched windows, without window bars or a stupid 10-cm-open-only line! 

The wifi doesn't reach the third floor, which is another plus. It's not that I don't like the internet or social media: that would be a hypocritical thing to say, and if there's one thing I am determined to try and never become, it's a hypocrite. So although I don't have a grand and passionate hatred for the internet, I am still glad that it doesn't reach the third floor. Sometimes I think of the internet as a creature - well, I think of everything of a creature of some sort - and in my mind it isn't evil, as one might think. It isn't dark and looming like a cavernous night or like that Sailortown exhibit in the museum yesterday! It's kind of like a dog, really. It's not the prettiest dog, or the sweetest, and it isn't a normal dog, because it never sleeps. But it is always watching, always on the prowl, and it's a temperamental dog. Most of the time it's relatively sweet and playful, but it can get pretty annoying when it won't leave you alone! You know those sorts of dogs? The ones that are sweet for a while, but just sometimes go over the top? Yep. That's my dog, Internet. So it's good to escape sometimes, although I wouldn't like to be away from her for too long... Maybe I would? I don't know! Anyway, I was able to focus for eternity up there in my tower. I loved it, and I will one hundred percent go back there tomorrow after class. Don't tell anyone though, because it's my hideout. (... she says, knowing full well that her dear dog Internet is preparing to carry this post to anyone and everyone who asks!)

Oh goodness. I'm sitting in Starbucks, because it's open latest, and I'm listening to a marvelous song with a title that must include "rollercoaster" because it's mentioned in every second sentence, and I had to stop myself from dancing. Music is fantastic. Oh my: Elvis' rendition of "Can't Help Falling in Love" just came on. I love this song! OOOOOOH and now Toto's "Africa"... YouTube knows me so well.

This is a very short story because I need to do my essay. I've done absolutely all the other homework I need to do til next week Monday, so I really have no excuse to not do my essay! I've even made my vlog already - which is appropriately short. I guess there isn't much to video if I'm sitting and reading all day. One thing I didn't video, which probably deserves a mention, is the fact that I went shopping - very economically, she adds proudly - and made a successful fried egg post-shopping. If there is one thing that living (sort of) on my own has taught me, it's that there are certain skills that are completely underrated. Like frying eggs. And cutting up veggies. And loading a dishwasher! It is only when you have lived with people who don't particularly enjoy loading the dishwasher, that you realise that it is a skill that should be on the compulsory part of the curriculum at every school in the world. And how to clean dishes when the dishwasher is full. But yes, frying an egg and eating it (that sounds similar to an expression which I can't remember at them moment... any help?) is a hugely gratifying experience.

And now I must leave this screen and switch over to my word document to write my essay.

I leave you with an "artistic" rendering of an angry cat, which I drew in Waterstones: