So yeah, dissertation. Read all about it, oh yey oh yey. Oh no oh no. What on earth possessed me to choose early Georgian interpretations of Covent Garden as a subject? Did somebody slip something into my campari and soda when I wasn't looking? Well, I'm stuck with it now. I spent all morning and afternoon alternating between scratching my head and pulling faces reminiscent of Munch's The Scream (or Skrik as it's known in Norway - and which I prefer). I looked at my essays lying scattered on the floor and thought they fulfill their needs just by being there. Mmm, sorry, just had a Dave moment there.If anybody reading this happens to have any images of Covent Garden and its inhabitants circa 1700-1760 perhaps they could send them to me. It's a long shot, but you never know. Actually, the tricky bit is coming up with something meaningful to say - I'm not short of material. More of this later.
Jude's afternoon walk got rained off - as we set off through the park I heard one hooded teenage mutter to his friend, 'Who the hell would take their dog for a walk in this weather?' I swiftly turned on my heels and headed back indoors, Jude slightly dampened and smelling distinctively of wet dog. At college I sat through two 'work in progress' presentations and then retired to the spartan yet not unwelcoming bar of the Tavistock Hotel. It was a spontaneous and well-attended happening, and 11 of the clock came around sooner than it should have. I travelled home on the DLR with drunken city boys who slumped in their seats with heads lolling and dribble cascading in perfect arcs momentarily connecting their mouths to their pinstripes. The semi-conscious guy next to me slid further in my direction with each jolt of the train until completing the full 90 degree movement by sliding into my lap, at which point I decided standing was the better option. Smashing.
I particularly enjoyed this today: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EVh15aUt8-c&mode=related&search
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