I’ve had the (mis)fortune of catching the tail end of whatever Fresher’s Flu was floating around Wolfson Court this weekend and am hanging out in bed on this fine, grey morning in London. I’ve gotten through half of the December issue of Vogue (which even included a whole three pages with words) and have put my sad, dried-out teapot back in action with a round of chai and a second round of fresh lavender infusion. It’s almost like a day at the Whitechapel Spa, complete with the soothing buzz of the Overground twenty meters away and the smell of frying onions and curry from every single apartment in my block.
I realized that I haven’t actually spent a full day alone since early September. I’ve miraculously managed to become a working girl, and The Austrian and I have successfully maintained a weekend relationship ever since I left Cambridge and he returned from the Holy Land of Sachertorte. I work five days per week, and then either head straight to the train station on Friday and return Sunday night, or meet up at the train station at around dinnertime on Fridays. The arrangement has worked pretty well so far, but I’ve definitely forgotten what it’s like to have more than one hour at a time for myself. I thought I would have solved world peace by now (12:30 PM), but so far all I’ve managed is a healthy dose of Facebook scanning and a thorough debate with myself about whether or not I really need to put on pants today.
American pants. Not British pants. Relax.
Pictures, top to bottom: Attempting the Nobel Prize in blogging from bed; The Austrian and me from last weekend after discovering our new favorite pub in London (I’m not telling…); and an evening of British coworkers learning how to handle winter in what should have been the location for the cheesiest Love Actually scene.