Three hours of class is brutal. The first half involved reading Middle English, Bede, and Chaucer's pilgrimage accounts, and the second half was immersion in Vera Brittain's Testament of Youth. So much old coupled with so much tragedy ends in the students being entirely spent and starving. We're certainly pleased that we're headed to Canterbury tomorrow.
The Tube went on strike yesterday (reasons are likely poor pay and bad hours) in an attempt to cause the most inconvenience; most students and workers are back to work Monday, many after a summer of idleness. The city has kindly promised a hundred extra buses to ease the streetload, but most of us stuck around today and avoided the patchy clouds outside. I walked to do some errands, not the least of which was to find a suitable post office and mail a letter to a missionary in the states. Tesco provided some particularly cheap laundry soap and Double Decker bars, but I asked two different people where the post office was and found it on my own anyway. Is it too silly to be charmed by everyone calling me "love"? I guess it's an endearment entirely lost on the cowboy frontier.
Needless to say, the UPS store gave me a stamp for 97 pence but no Air-Mail stickers. I stuck it in the box, praying that it would reach its destination. I fully expect to find it returned on the mantle tomorrow. In the meantime, I'll sit and finish Notting Hill with the rest of my flat, squealing at the places that already seem so familiar.
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