I write to you from London. I am currently installed on my aunt's couch, sitting next to a snoring cat that does his weird owl-with-a-cough purr to the beat of The Roots. There is a cup of green tea in my hand, and my belly is full of cookies, curry and carrots.
Ahhhhhhhh.
After facebooking frantically in french and english (getting neither right...) and trying to write coherent emails to my daily correspondents, I am linguistically rather pooped. But happy.
Today I cleaned up my sordid nest in the country (packing took four hours... I'd been there three weeks. I got a little distracted practicing my tap dancing, otherwise it would've taken two.) and drove up the M21 to the tune of Caroline Smith & The Goodnight Sleeps, Lisa Mitchell, Seeker Lover Keeper, The Pierces, Emily Wells, Bowerbirds and Laura Stevenson. My grandpa had requested music that "wouldn't make him ashamed of my generation."
Kitty sleeping next to me has awoken with a start and begun to glare at me. S'not my fault you broke your REM cycle, demon cat.
I also went on a walk in Richmond Park with my aunt, and while we had a parking debacle (cursing colorfully anyone who dared park where we wanted to... which was anywhere), it was a lovely experience jumping in good english mud and feeling very cynical and british.
Which is how I take my tea. Cheerio!
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