Sterling times in Stirling

I thought people might like an account of the epic BUCS journey this weekend, so here it is.

Last Friday wasn't an especially cold day in town. I remember cramming all the stuff in to my suitcase and popping down to college to hand some work in and sweating in my coat on the way. It wasn't going to be that mild in Scotland, though, so I sweated all the way to King's Cross where I arrived with ages in spare time. As we boarded the train I remember someone giving me the most horrendous death stare as my bag gave him the lightest touch on his shoulder. After nearly five hours of uneventful travel (excluding a wild hen party and crossing the Tyne) I had arrived in Edinburgh for the very first time. We connected onto the Stirling train on which I opened the world's best dish of pasta, no lie. After nearly an hour we got off and found the hostel after an unexpectedly short walk. It was run by a middle-aged Danish bloke who appeared to be backpacking. He liked to drink. A trip to Tesco ensued in which I made the most bizarre discovery of own brand Irn Bru, and bed was at 11. Too early. I had been to bed the night before at about 2, but I slept remarkably adequately. Had the obligatory breakfast of cold oats and milk, and headed up to the race.

The race was too long for me. Eleven kilometres is okay but too much when you have to stay focussed for more or less forty minutes. I came 102nd, missing out on a half purple for ULU by two places. Ah well. That's what you get when you don't revise hard enough. It was alright anyway.

We proceeded to watch a very successful game of rugby on England's part, and sampled Tennent's finest lager before going to eat feeling tipsy from three drinks. The bacon burger helped. The after party followed, which took London's mildness to a new level. The dancefloor had no air conditioning and was packed full. The bar wait time was about half an hour, if you were aggressive enough. We left at about half 1 on Durham's coach (don't ask) and it was straight to bed. The following morning's run was a laboured affair initially, but we soon made light work of 62 minutes.

Shower and we left. I sent the folks a postcard, and we boarded an earlier train for Edinburgh, so we could spend a couple of hours marvelling at the sights. The 'Burgh was indeed marvellous. We caught some food (my choice was sausages and mash) and we went for Waverley. We all sat together which was fantastic, and I showed Stephen the magic of Sporcle.com. Jelly Babies and M&Ms were distributed in abundance. At about half 8 the train arrived in London again, ending the magic...

The after-after party is on Wednesday. Looking forward.

Getting on

The year's getting on, we're already twenty days into it. I'm finding myself a lot more at ease than last term, maybe because my social life hasn't quite exploded into three or more nights out a week this year.

I actually enjoy my course now though, and I really enjoy French as a language. I find André Gide most engaging, which is fortunate because I'll probably have to write an essay on his work at some point. Now for Duras, Beckett, Éluard and Genet. I need to go back across het Canaal. Thinking of Paris at Easter if I can afford it. Spanish, meh. I want to go to Madrid next year though.

I've only done two track sessions so far this year, one indoors and the other outdoors, and the latter was so poor I could well have been walking. Backwards. I can't say I'm overly concerned about it, though. I'll get better in time for BUCS. Sixteen days to go, until R3 goes north, dudes. Race in Reading next Wednesday. Let's rip it up.

J'suis Londonien pour toujours.

Oui, j'écris cette message en français. Je sais pas pourqoui. Je peux peut-être m'exprimer mieux comme ça. Que dis-je? Ouais. Je retourne à Londres demain, où je vis. Je suis Londonien pour toujours, même si mon niveau de français améliore autant que j'oubile l'anglais. Je ne choisirais aucune ville française avant Londres. Je m'excite peut-être trop d'y aller. Qu'est-qu'il y a à part beaucoup de travail et la manque de nourriture? Il y a mes colocataires, ou bien mes frères. Nous nous saoulerons ensemble le mercredi, woooo, la boîte Roxy! Et bien je me réveille le matin suivant avec une migraine. Ça vaut la peine, hein?

S'il reste de la neige chez moi ça m'irritera. Je dois préparer pour le championnat britannique. C'est pas facile avec ce temps. Ça me fait penser qu'il y a une personne qui fait tout qu'il peut pour m'empêcher. Ça ne marchera pas. Je vais courir le mieux possible.

Twenty-ten

Hi! It's twenty-ten, or two thousand and ten. Or two thousand ten, if you don't like limes. I think I shall pronounce it twenty-ten. Fiona Bruce does, I noticed.

I had a good Christmas. I hope you did too. I stayed at the folks' house in old KL, saw old friends, and generally just chilled out. London's calling though, as Joe Strummer once sang. The fam are missing me. I'm itching to go back, and the only thing stopping me isn't emotional. Mum won't miss me that much. It's physical. It's the weather.

Now I don't mind the snow for a few days, people at home, go sledding, et cetera. But after the excitement, you realise that it's neither here nor there. It's a nightmare hindered by the council's categorical refusal to grit pavements because someone might slip because there's no fucking ice there. I was planning on running today and now I can't go quicker than eight minute miling without breaking an arm. The track's shut. It's cold. The trains probably won't be running. The Spurs game is off. I'll probably get snowballs thrown at me when I do finally get back to London. At least the cricket's a nice restbite.

Now I've jinxed it. We'll probably lose the last test. Sheer brilliance by Paul Collingwood, Ian Bell and Graham Onions keeping the series from South Africa. Now let's not make ourselves rely on poor Graham's batting ability. I hope he takes all twenty wickets in the next match. Strauss and Cook will each get a century in the first and second innings respectively. Now that's wishful thinking.