Funny how when in England, ‘home’ is people who you went
to school with, grew up with, family, as opposed to those from your alternative
uni life. Here, it’s pretty much anyone
over that side of the great ocean. That
place where life is continuing on without you.
Lectures full of people you actually know the names of. People who don’t give two hoots about your
accent (shocking that when you sound just like them...). Where to buy alcohol means a 2 minute walk to
Saunders (rather than an hour long round trip).
Where people make tea in tea pots and have a hobnob (or four) with it
(rather than an Ice-Cap and a cookie/muffin/bagel/all three). Don’t think it’s fitting to say I’m homesick,
but I also cannot deny that one epic night out in Arena would not go amiss...
However, give it a few more months and I’m sure I’ll be thinking of all sorts
of way to get my final return ticket back to the land of custard (apparently
they don’t have the proper stuff out here. A terrible revelation) refunded.
Other news, I have a job! Now I can actually afford all
those bagel, fro-yos and trips round this country. Oh and don’t forget the double Ts that
ensure you pay almost double what you actually anticipated the cost would be.
Tips and Taxes. The bane of life out here. Not tipping a bar man for pouring you a shot
will have you waiting an extra half an hour to be served again. (Yes. I know such an epic task is tough, but surely
you don’t have to spill most of it on the bar and then expect me to give you
another $2 for the honour? Please.)
Anyway, the cohort of Carleton now has the pleasure of me pouring their
coffee (literally all over myself half the time. But don’t worry, I’m not expecting them to
tip me for that....) and taking their food orders (‘Bagelwich’? ‘Western’? Right.
Yes. I’m assuming that is food in some
form and I’m sure it’s just splendid...).
Lucky them to have the privilege of a permanently beaming (...yes that
is just my normal face. I don’t actually
want to kill something), always a ray of sunshine, British gal serving
them. (One customer literally couldn’t
finish making his order he was laughing so hard at the way I said bagel. Yes, no need to then attempt to imitate me
either. You sound far more stupid than I
do.)
The paint party and homecoming. Feeling like a slimy slug and having my
clothes and hair dyed pink whilst dancing away (stunning those standing around
me with quite how excited I can get and how many people I can hit when I’m ‘in
the zone’). Getting drenched tailgating,
watching all two seconds of the football game and subsequently loving life on
the nectar of jungle juice at a house party.
A successful weekend I would say.
Unfortunately, the jello-wrestling party was not experienced as drinking
for a solid 12 hours took its toll too much for us to continue onto it. Though the famous Canadian dish of poutine
was encountered (chips, gravy and cheese curds) with a spontaneous rave to Avicci
in the underground campus cafe. Memorable to say the least (both for us and the
taken aback locals).
Overall, this subsequent week has been a slight struggle as I have
indeed been struck down by ‘Froshers Flu’. Now would be the ideal time to pop home for a
few days to my own bed and copious amounts of that tea-pot brewed tea and those
biscuits... Yet, it is not to be.
Instead, on to Montreal is the next adventure to be experienced and I’m
sure I can ‘man up’ and wholeheartedly take whatever delights that city has
offer/throw at me.
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