Tuesday, November 22, 2011

I have a lovely little group of friends here at UCF. As many a wise owl told me before I moved down here, I would find people who liked the same things I do. These people share the same opinions as me and enjoy the little things, like drawing zombies in our notebooks and playing endless games of pool during our free time. I guess (as people in general) we're all pretty desperate at the beginning of university to make friends so we end up becoming this exaggerated version of ourselves. Like some sort of weird animal attraction display. I admit I blew my crescent like any good Parasaurolophus in the first week and yes, I did speak to people but it was after the first week that I finally settled down and talking to new people actually became just the normal thing to do rather than some sort of omgIhavetomakefriendstalktomehahahahahaaa.

So there we were, my group of sandwich-eating ornithopods, at half ten in the morning some time last week. Probably Thursday. We were in the Stannary (student chill-out area/canteen) when a load of guys rolled in and ordered a round of beer at the bar. At half ten in the morning. Was I wrong in thinking 'blimey, they're a bit early'? I guess if you want to drink from half ten in the morning then you can, who am I to judge. I caught the eye of a Parasaurolophus on my right and went back to my roll. Half ten on Thursday morning might suit you as a pefect time for drinking, especially if you're a heavy set Ankylosaurus like these blokes were.

And then today I was sitting back on a stool in the Stannary before I was joined by two students I know, both in their second year. It wan't half eleven. No exaggeration, every two minutes I was asked to go and get a drink, to buy a drink, to go and get a drink, to have a drink, to go and buy a drink. And I got so sick of it. I like these people, but I almost just walked away. What is so unfathomable about not wanting to drink alcohol in the morning? It was like I was trying to protect my eggs of moral highground from a pain in the arse Dilophosaurus (the one that kills Wayne Knight in the original Jurassic Park).

This is why I'm glad I'm a Parasaurolophus. Because I have a herd and we like each other and all agree on the same things. And there's no real pressure to do stuff we don't want to do. My crescent is finally a nice, healthy colour.

And that's not a euphemism.

Sunday, November 13, 2011

So here I am, back in Falmouth after a week at home. I have to say that I was surprised at how much I missed being near London. It was a weird feeling getting off the train at Paddington last Saturday. Dad wasn't sharing my excitement at the new tubes on the metropolitan line or the lovely interior of St Pancras. It certainly cemented in me the fact that no matter how much I might like the countryside and being near the sea, I feel like I belong either in or close to London in the future.

I had a pretty good week. It was busy and despite being called a 'reading week' I think I read more of Caitlin Moran than any newspaper over the course of the seven days. I walked round Verulamium in the drizzle and went on the swings and played CoD: Modern Warfare 3 with Maddy and had a posh lunch in Tunbridge Wells. I also got my hair cut because it had got to a stupid length and now it's nice and manageable again.

I have four weeks until I come home for Christmas. That's no time at all and yet I have so much to do. I'm currently restless about not being able to crack on and get going.

The train ride between Paddington and Truro (four and a half hours) was interesting. It was quiet until we reached Plymouth and then all hell broke loose. I specifically reserved a seat in the quiet carriage but these two oldish ladies got on and started talking really loudly between themselves. Another lady got on and took the seat opposite me and within two minutes had put her iPod in. She said I was allowed to poke her if she was playing it too loud, because I was trying to do shorthand, her excuse being "I need to drown out those two". Then everyone and the dog (literally) got on, including two eleven year old girls who proceeded to eat a pomegranate between them (I watched them, bemused, in the window reflection) and unpack what seemed to be all of Plymouth's Toys R Us. They were sitting across from the loud ladies, who were now quiet and watching disapprovingly as the two little girls covered the table in plastic boxes and toys. Then one of them got over-silly and spat her Oasis all over the table into the lap of one of the older ladies. I would have laughed if I hadn't found it so disgusting. She then laughed so hysterically she fell out of her seat and onto the dog. Her friend sat and ate salted cashews loudly the whole time.

I was glad to finally get off.

I get back into the flat and within five minutes of my arrival the walls are trembling with the bass music from the room across from me. I thought I was going to explode but didn't have the time as I was on all fours mopping up the pond on the floor of my flooded bathroom.

Good to be back, eh?

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Congratulations to me. This is my 400th blog entry!

I could say that everything is fine and dandy (and for the most part, it is) but I'm looking forward to coming home and getting my head out of this place for a little while more than you could think. I know I have to come back at the end of my week off, but I'm hoping I'll come back feeling better about everything having been given the chance to step back and write down everything my weeks are full of, and think about everything I've done so far.

Football was utterly brilliant last Thursday. We played outside, in my perfect conditions. The ground was wet and soft which meant control was key, and I happily put away at least six goals before netting the 'last-goal-wins' winner, too. Kirsty slide tackled me, leaving me to walk home with one leg compeletely brown from the mud but I didn't care.

I slept at Bryony's house last night. She lives in a tiny Cornish village called St Newlyn East, and I thought it was gorgeous. I've been re-reading The Hound Of The Baskervilles for about the hundredth time and it was very much like what I imagine Grimpen to be like. Anyway we stayed up late and watched Sherlock Holmes (of course) and discussed the more pressing matters in life, such as whether we'd still date a guy if he laid eggs like a chicken.

Madre has informed me that Padre was 'quite taken' with my idea of building a Hobbit-hole style door up at Grandma's house. They've got the planning permission to do the conversion at Easter and seeing as her house is called Bank End (only a wee difference from Bag End) it makes perfect sense to me. Can you imagine? With my plans for my own birthday treat (too early to tell) it would just be amazing. I'm not getting my hopes up, just sayin' is all.

Happy 400th Post Day!