Monday 3 October

It turns out that England suffers from a complete and total lack of folders — the ones that are basically a sheet of cardstock folded in the middle with a pocket for papers on each side and sometimes holes for a binder. I ended up with some random folder things that will do the job, I hope. I also found a book for class that cost me a whole £2 and came with a free book.
I had pasta for dinner, which was rather hurried but can be considered a success.
English Lit 1700-1789 was awful. I only regret missing last week because the poem discussed is a nightmare to examine on one's own. Alexander Pope is not a nice author. I fully agree with Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, who, in her poem insulting him, says that no one can endure his "crabbed numbers". Amen.
The professor reads through the poems rather slowly, pausing at awkward spots to explain random things from the footnotes while ignoring things that could use a bit of discussion.
Geh.
The walk to the uni bus stop was a freezing journey through the dark where every shadow held rapists, every patch of grass held unseen sprinklers, and every footstep was the sound of my doom. Most of the three minute walk was spent grumbling to myself about Thomas the irish guy, who is indeed in my unfortunately timed lit class. He's big and imposing enough to ward off serial killers, but was he here this week? No. He's not back from ireland. Jerk.
I got to the bus stop with no mishaps and met an iraqi guy who made me realise that I really don't know much about the world. He was nice, but I was pretty mortified about my total lack of knowledge regarding iraq and the rest of the world in general over the last decade.
Back at the flat, I watched everyone play hearts. We're becoming quite the hearts flat, although there's only five of us who play at the moment.