Day 85: We had British Life and Culture today, where half of the class gave their final presentations, ranging from why museums forming connections with their local constituencies are important to the history of the London Underground. All were entertaining; even the London Underground one, which I have to admit didn’t sound that interesting at first. I gave mine as well, and got a good reception. I think Susie enjoyed it, and I know she liked the first draft of my paper, so I’ll probably do well in that class, since the presentation and paper were my final exam. That night we all had our final dinner at a Greek restaurant, where I devoured hummus, pita, and domous like it was my last day on Earth. It was a lovely dinner, and we found out that all of our professors like us quite a bit and think we’re one of the best groups to come from Hendrix in a while, which is awesome.
Day 86: That day dawned sunny and bitterly cold, befitting the Arctic weather warning the National Weather Service had delivered. We met Barnaby in the far north of London in a district called Shoreditch, which is beside Whitechapel. Since Shoreditch’s creation as a borough, it’s been known as a place of prostitution and crime, which is a reputation that’s stuck with it from the 1600s until the 1990s, when artists, looking for cheap real estate, moved in to the repurposed industrial space in the district. Now it’s starting to become gentrified, and all the artists have had to move out because of the rising property costs.
Shivering in the cold, we all trooped after Barnaby like a horde of sulky ducklings until we fetched up on the steps of the White Cube gallery, which is neither white nor a cube. The exhibition of art within was called ‘Lamentations’ and involved what looked like Christmas wreaths made up of porcelain phalluses. Not something I’d hang on my door. Then we went to another gallery, which had a display of photographs by a man named Mick Rock, who’s photographed lots of rock stars and celebrities and was David Bowie’s personal photographer for a while. Bowie hasn’t aged a day since the 70s, which is kind of creepy and impressive, and I think that scientists should apply themselves to the problem of Bowie’s seeming immortality. Barnaby then led us through the empty back streets of Shoreditch, past walls covered with graffiti and small, random shops carrying bespoke clothing, to two more galleries, one of which housed the photographs of a girl named Francesca Woodman, who killed herself at 22 by jumping off her studio balcony. After viewing her photography, I can say that I’m not surprised by her end.
We then went back to the flat, ate a hurried lunch, and went to Shakespeare. Also I got an A on my paper for Shakespeare, so yay. As we had covered everything for the semester, we ended class early, and Jean came with us to a nearby pub where we watched the students protesting in Whitehall and discussed accents. Jean also shared the stories of the two movies she’s played zombies in. All in all, an exciting time; I’m going to miss Jean.
Day 88: In Politics and British Literature, we finished discussing A Man for All Seasons and Dr. King handed out the sheets with the final exam questions. But class wasn’t terribly important on that day; what was important was making food, and lots of it. I spent the afternoon engaged in cooking the butteriest dressing the world has ever seen, and by four I was done. Slowly, the rest of the Hendrix group trickled in, bearing food: a giant turkey, vegan gravy and dumplings, carrots, biscuits, potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, green beans, vegetable quiche, salad with pears and feta cheese, chess pie, pumpkin pie, and apple pie. For two hours, we devoured food and talked, before most of the group left to go to the pub at six, when it was already pitch-black outside. I, already in the thrall of a food coma, elected to go to bed and vegetate watching documentaries before falling asleep at eleven. A thoroughly satisfactory day.
Day 89: I slumbered until noon, when I got up, had eggs and toast for breakfast, and engaged in washing some of the copious dishes from Thanksgiving for a while, before retiring back to bed and laboring over my preparatory notes for Dr. King’s exam on Monday. There was no reason but my own laziness that this process took four hours, but as it’s the day after Thanksgiving and I’ve done well in all my classes so far, I’m not worried. Dinner was left-over dressing, apple pie, and Yorkshire pudding. After dinner, I had the urge to bake, and so made chocolate-chip cookies which were shared out among the flat, and now I sit in bed typing this up. Tomorrow we’re all going to a football/soccer game between the Queen’s Park Rangers and Cardiff City, where they play for the opportunity to get into the Premier League. It’s supposed to be bitterly cold, and so I’m going to wear as many sweaters and jackets as I can, but I’m still excited. I’ll have to buy batteries for my camera, though, since I’m out, which is why all the pictures in this post have been pilfered from Facebook.
Making the aforementioned butteriest dressing in the world.
In the wonderful depths of a food coma.
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