After some persuasion, I've decided to document the thrilling escapades which constitute my current existence in England's smallest town, Watlington. Here, my liberal student inclinations are being besieged by conservative flags, range rovers, and boules. Pugs adorn the leafy lanes, Pimms jugs stand proudly astride cheese boards and cricket apparel. Unacquainted yummy mummies nod and proffer "good morning" in their branded wellington boots. It's definitely an Orwellian vision of English patriotism, and unfortunately I will be trapped here for at least 7 months. Therefore, occupying officially the sleepiest residence known to mankind, it is likely these musings will be a. commonplace. b. mild and c. tainted with marginal elaboration. But well, we all enjoy a meandering narrative.
I've recently returned to the nest after graduating, leaving a life of mouldy mugs and risottos for dishwasher tablets and central heating - the latter forced upon us poor shivering Brits by some mix-up in the gulf stream. Apparently "the sun is lingering south of south France", I'm told by prolonged and often merry discussion across the Co-op counters (Watlington's finest, and only, food stop). At least it's "bringing us all together".
Aside from the weather, which hopefully will not form the basis of these musings, there has been little else to life other than endless menial job applications, and happy anticipation of my sunny escape with boyfriend Wil at the end of the month (I realise "sunny escape" does also lean towards contemplation of the weather) to Croatia. I'm already fearfully contemplating the packing; eyes darting from the mountain ranges of selected clothing scattered on the bed, to the inadequate orange rucksack - confined by easyjet's meagre measurements - drooping hopelessly on the floor... a feeling of resigned defeat dawning, as I attempt various abstract packing techniques and eventually collapse, sweating and exhausted, with items galore strewn chaotically, some hanging from lampshades.
Luckily today I will be distracted from such fears by Andrew Murray and Roger Federer; one who will secure decades of the nation's happiness, the other who will make my viewing much more pleasurable by being a bit of a hunk. Surprisingly, I'm yet to see any bunting around the town in preparation, or even any Murray-themed snacks being flogged down at the co-op. But the frenzied excitement, a-la royal wedding/jubilee is definitely brewing. Later on there's a coupley dinner with best friend bab and wifey soph - I say "coupley" as both their chaps will be present - wifey soph's chap I have yet to meet, so tonight is a bit of an occasion.
Anyway, it's still drizzling outside but I can smell more coffee coming from downstairs, so I'll emerge from my little retreat.
R x
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