Girl on the Northern Line... wants to head South. Wants to go home.
Today I handed in all my coursework and then sat an excruciating forty minute Chinese listening exam. Despite nailing the question in which you pick a menu for each mythical candidate according to their likes and dislikes, I blindly guessed the answer to pretty much every question. In the words of Clare, who is hitch-hiking to Morocco tomorrow, ' what larks!'. So now that I've effectuated a re-sit and ascertained two thousand word's worth of physical differences between a crisp sheet of modern paper and a piece of bristling Medieval parchment, I'm ready to come home. More than ready. I just don't know what I'm going to do with myself over the next three days. Avoid Shentacles, naturally, as she's on a mission to hire the two of us a female stripper, (she's going through a 'phase'), and perhaps get my teeth stuck into some meaty blackboard. There's that 'Subversive Spaces' exhibition on next door that I've meaning to go to for ages, along with laundry, packing and the removal of the sleazy piles of crockery that crust silently in the crevices of my prison cell. (I've got all the plates, I've got ALL the plates.) Yet I've resigned myself to the fact that I'm most probably going to just sleep, like the fetid heap that I am, for the forseeable future. Unless I get a better offer. Which would of course be looking for hotels in Paris with my Creature, at my Creature's, or shopping for nauticalia around the Seven Dials.