22/01/2020 . A Wednesday in January
Today, on this foggy and cold January Wednesday, I've had a day so completely normal that It's hardly worth talking about never mind writing about. But perhaps, whilst I'm writing this on the tube, something brilliant (or at least fairly comprehensive) will occur to me somewhere from the depths of this dull and dragging mundanity. My day began with a run while I listened to a Russel Brand podcast in which he interviews Richard Ayoade. I really like Richard Ayoade; I think he's funny in a blunt, almost unintentional way. Though of course I imagine that this dry humour is all carefully articulated in his head before it is laid on before an audience. Perhaps the man is not at all in fact who he presents himself to us as. Unless he's one of those bastards that is naturally funny in an improvisational sort of way.
The running itself I guess I see as a sort of semi-futile attempt at productivity. If I've done nothing else with my day at least I've made an effort at expanding my lung capacity and putting one foot in front of the other for several miles - reading this back, I'm aware of the nihilism oozing out of that sentiment. Although that being said, I did run past a miniature coffee shop which looked like a nice place to take Liz next weekend maybe.* I then go into uni for my Spanish class. A few minutes early, outside the door I meet some girls who weren't there the week before - this being only my second week in a new class. The girls kindly throw a quick smile vaguely in my direction but happen to be all speaking French to one another. I feel it is imperative at this moment to emphasise that my minuscule grasp of French as a language doesn't extend beyond Duolingo - my grasp of the French people being even less so. However, as we enter the classroom I'm delighted when the girls make the first move and begin a conversation with me - a gesture to which I of course respond enthusiastically (famously socially inept, we English degree students). They seem really nice, first years like me, but studying liberal arts which sounds far more interesting than my degree. Upon reflection, I really should have looked at the course more thoroughly when I applied here.
The class persists, the Spanish teacher a lovely and patient woman who does her best to explain everything to us and make sure we're keeping up with the occasional 'sigue me?' I almost feel bad that I think for the majority of us the only part we actually definitively understand is when in English she asks us 'does it make sense?'
"No, aun un poquito, Senora," but we all nod along for the two hours that the class goes on for nonetheless. I then rush along to a freelance lecture at which I am basically too late to learn anything of use, before heading up to the cafe on the 8th floor where I order no food but do pass a pleasant half an hour or so writing up my most recent existential crisis, of which there are numerous.
After this I take the tube (which normally I abhor but at this hour you can usually get a seat and effectively do some writing if you find yourself so inclined) back to Stratford so that I can get ready to go out to a student club that I haven't the least desire to go to. There's got to be some irony in repeatedly going to sports night without actually being on a sports team but it's definitely not an irony that I covet alone. But heaven fore-fend I spend yet another Wednesday night in bed by 7:30pm. People really will go to some lengths to socialise, maybe I should learn to be more malleable.
In many ways, the tube embodies my feelings about London as a place in general. It is to a certain extent just a means to an end which the majority of the time is insufferable but necessary. When visiting the capital city with my family when I was younger, I used to love the excitement of hundreds of people all crowding onto one tube, crushing each other. It was all part of the novelty. A novelty which, without a doubt, has worn off.
* Since originally drafting this entry I can confirm that we did go to the little wooden blue hut for coffee and breakfast and it was pleasant but I wouldn't scream about it. A nice place to take someone locally for a quick bite to eat but not with necessarily the most welcoming atmosphere.
The running itself I guess I see as a sort of semi-futile attempt at productivity. If I've done nothing else with my day at least I've made an effort at expanding my lung capacity and putting one foot in front of the other for several miles - reading this back, I'm aware of the nihilism oozing out of that sentiment. Although that being said, I did run past a miniature coffee shop which looked like a nice place to take Liz next weekend maybe.* I then go into uni for my Spanish class. A few minutes early, outside the door I meet some girls who weren't there the week before - this being only my second week in a new class. The girls kindly throw a quick smile vaguely in my direction but happen to be all speaking French to one another. I feel it is imperative at this moment to emphasise that my minuscule grasp of French as a language doesn't extend beyond Duolingo - my grasp of the French people being even less so. However, as we enter the classroom I'm delighted when the girls make the first move and begin a conversation with me - a gesture to which I of course respond enthusiastically (famously socially inept, we English degree students). They seem really nice, first years like me, but studying liberal arts which sounds far more interesting than my degree. Upon reflection, I really should have looked at the course more thoroughly when I applied here.
The class persists, the Spanish teacher a lovely and patient woman who does her best to explain everything to us and make sure we're keeping up with the occasional 'sigue me?' I almost feel bad that I think for the majority of us the only part we actually definitively understand is when in English she asks us 'does it make sense?'
"No, aun un poquito, Senora," but we all nod along for the two hours that the class goes on for nonetheless. I then rush along to a freelance lecture at which I am basically too late to learn anything of use, before heading up to the cafe on the 8th floor where I order no food but do pass a pleasant half an hour or so writing up my most recent existential crisis, of which there are numerous.
After this I take the tube (which normally I abhor but at this hour you can usually get a seat and effectively do some writing if you find yourself so inclined) back to Stratford so that I can get ready to go out to a student club that I haven't the least desire to go to. There's got to be some irony in repeatedly going to sports night without actually being on a sports team but it's definitely not an irony that I covet alone. But heaven fore-fend I spend yet another Wednesday night in bed by 7:30pm. People really will go to some lengths to socialise, maybe I should learn to be more malleable.
In many ways, the tube embodies my feelings about London as a place in general. It is to a certain extent just a means to an end which the majority of the time is insufferable but necessary. When visiting the capital city with my family when I was younger, I used to love the excitement of hundreds of people all crowding onto one tube, crushing each other. It was all part of the novelty. A novelty which, without a doubt, has worn off.
* Since originally drafting this entry I can confirm that we did go to the little wooden blue hut for coffee and breakfast and it was pleasant but I wouldn't scream about it. A nice place to take someone locally for a quick bite to eat but not with necessarily the most welcoming atmosphere.
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