I do not deserve to be a grad student.

Haven’t written much because I’ve come home for the holidays and have been too busy eating high-calorie meals with long lost pals, getting drunk with elderly relatives, and making out merry all over the city of Toronto. This is a good place. 

While looking through boxes in my mum’s LOVELY new place in Cabbagetown, I found a folder full of my undergraduate essays, including a gem called: ‘“What a rant, say you, is here”: Problematizing Edward Young’s conception of ‘Originality’ and the Author in his ‘Conjectures on Original Composition’’. First off, I’m not sure when I discovered the formula for essay-titles, but if anyone is not aware yet, this is it:

Witty pun or quote/Colon/Explanatory bit about your essay with a few academic-sounding words. 

e.g. Pic of the Litter: The politics of cats, captions and ‘laughing out loud’ in the internet’s postmodern milieu.

A+.

The essay I found is not exceptional. I did fine on it, but reading it over, it mostly just ramblingly contradicts Edward Young’s opinion that imitation is a low and ultimately useless form of creative output. (Sorry, everyone after Madonna.) My chosen approach to debunking this theory was to craft some imitative poems of my own, and being the hopeless Bard-worshipper I am, I rewrote some of the more famous sonnets. About cheese. And Maury Povich.

Hoff the hook.

I'm not going to dignify the closed airports with a post. I think we can just all agree that 10 centimetres of snow should not completely shut down one of the world's busiest airports for 48 hours, and move on. Fuck you, Heathrow airport, you are terrible, the end.

In happier news, I don't even need to go home, or even stay alive, really. I could just die right now and it would be okay, because I saw this:

Look at those gentle yet mischievous eyes. They're looking right into your sense of childlike wonder 

(and love of dirty jokes about 'rodgering').

The photo doesn't make it clear what THIS is, but I think it does make it clear that this is amazing. Basically, when we heard that David Hasselhoff was starring as Captain Hook in a children's Christmas panto, we had no choice. Tickets were purchased, the train was ridden to Wimbledon in the bitter cold (a newspaper literally described it as a "bone-chilling -2 degrees", so...) and the greatest theatrical journey of my life unfolded.

"Just look at the camera for a.... there we go."

Watching Bridget Jones on my next door neighbour's telly (just kidding that is not a real word I would use, although I'm all about "chunder" to mean "vomit") last week I realized that its eponymous heroine lives right around the corner from my house. Mainly this lead me to consider why, despite the millions of times I have embarrassed myself in the area through "charming" Bridget Jones-y mishaps (falling, clothing malfunctions, a general lack of awareness regarding British traffic directions, etc.), I have not been asked on a date by a beautiful-if-horrible Hugh Grant type and then rescued from that terrible relationship by beautiful-and-perfect Colin Firth. Not the type, just the man himself.

And then I realized that I carry the reason in my wallet.

Like a party at a banker's house in 1982. (Tons of snow?)

That is not what London looks like right now. There is some beautiful snow action happening, but it is mostly ambient and airborne, the kind that turns to regular ol' rain once it hits the ground. The rooftops are slightly whiter than normal, but otherwise it's business as usual here at the Ye Olde Britishe Water Emporium aka the whole country all the time.

But. Everyone is losing it. Seriously. For one thing, people are walking around everywhere huddled in groups under snow umbrellas, which are their regular rain-time umbrellas being used as some kind of snow-defender. Guys, snow doesn't get you wet like that. Also, you look stupid. No one can see where anyone else is going so there is a lot of tutting and hawing and hemming as people try to skirt around the other bundled up, wet feet they can see from beneath their nylon guardians.

In addition to the pedestrian chaos, a lot of trains and roads are just not happening, and people can't get into the city or out of their homes. A lot of people's workplaces have been shut down for the day. Maybe it's the Canadian in me, but I'm just sort of finding all of it hilarious. My real hope is that things will get like the picture above and everything will shut down and I'll just make hot chocolate and go skating and for walks and read in my room with my pathetic electric candle and christmas lights from Poundland.

POUNDLAND IS THE NAME OF THE DOLLAR STORE HERE.

Right, so this is probably the most embarrassing blog post ever written.

Every time a new Harry Potter movie comes out, I wonder if this will be the time I am finally a grown up and stop leaving the theatre thinking (sometimes secretly and sometimes out loud), "GOD I wish magic was real so badly." Deathly Hallows Part Two is my last chance to be a real person, you guys.*

Tonight I went to see Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part One for the second time. The first time was free though, which I'm pretending makes that less lame. My friend Heather had been given free passes from her place of work, and at that screening there had been free popcorn and drinks and actors dressed up as professors from Hogwarts doing imitations of them and talking to all the patrons of the theatre as if we were students. It was both great and lame, which is one of my favourite precariously balanced states. I came for the free stuff and stayed for the RON.

Now, I did not make this Rupert Grint collage, but I would. (Not really, but I make mind-collages of him on the regular.) He is a beautiful ginger man who I love a lot. My love of gingers is well documented, and this movie franchise features a large ginger family, the lone female of which is so redheadedly seductive she snares the hero of the entire thing, so obviously I'm all about it.

The most shardiest time of the year

My favourite thing in the whole world, the Shard, became the tallest building in London today, and it is only partially built. Suck on that, 1 Canada Water, title-holder for the past 20 years. I learned about this via the twitter account @skyscrapernews. That's a thing.

There used to be this beyond amazing display of children's Shard-inspired artwork at its base by London Bridge Tube Station, in theory based on what the building would look like when completed. In a solemn reminder to take opportunities when they come to us lest we miss out on something GLORIOUS, I did not take any photos of the child's drawing that turned the Shard into a giant super hero, or the ones that gave it weird spirals, or the one of it poking the moon in the face. Tragique.

To supplement, here is some artwork of my own. Family and friends should look forward to receiving these beauties in their imaginary mailboxes shortly. Merry Shardmas everyone!

Weekend update

(See what I did there? That's already a thing!)

The main point of this post is to offer this piece of advice: if you are pushed into an already packed car on the Tube by a group of people, one of whom is being particularly rude, tutting and fussing and being generally curmudgeonly in a very British-in-a-bad-way manner, it is probably the man with the silk paisley ascot, pinky ring, and large, curled moustache. The good news is, he will provide entertainment for the rest of your journey, as he is not only disdainful and furious when getting on the Tube, but also horrified by the incorrect subway etiquette of passengers in general. Let the theatrical eye-rolling, exaggerated sighs, and somewhat terrifying sneering begin!

Ladbrokes also runs a tasteful event called 'the poker cruise'. 

Also: LADBROKES. Ladbrokes is an English business that I had presumed was a place for betting on sports games and horse races and the like. Turns out, you can bet on anything you want. Anything. People who got wind of the William and Kate engagement were rushing into Ladbrokes' all over London before the news broke in an attempt to get that bet in. You can still bet on where the Royal couple is going to get married, though, so good news. Ladbrokes is the commercial equivalent of saying to a friend "Oy, mate, bet you it's going to rain later today." "Bet it's not." "You're on." That is a real business here. Also, why would you name your gambling business Ladbrokes? That just seems like a bad plan, from a branding perspective.

"You probably get this all the time, but..."

I get compared to Drew Barrymore semi-often. One time, in LAX, a confused family actually asked me if I was her. I take this as a big time compliment and am very unsecretly pleased about it, as Drew Barrymore is quite a cute lady. Usually if someone starts a sentence with "You know who you look just like..?" I just sort of presume that's where things are going, commence feeling good about it, and get my smiley face on. Since moving here, I've been told by a number of ladies (and one old man) that I bear a striking resemblance to the singer Adele. On the one hand:

I guess?

On the other hand: 

I bought a fur hat, everyone be cool.

You know when you go shopping by yourself and somehow end up sucked into a delusion-vortex where you are completely cool and can pull off anything you've ever wanted to wear in your wildest dreams? Typically, I call this Euro-shopping, where you go out to a store in Italy or something, and everyone else is wearing camouflage jeans with "Sexy and Military" written on them in rhinestones, so you think your shirt with the see-through sections over the shoulders is cheeky and fun, instead of super weird and embarrassing. Or you go to France and decide that since the gamines can do it, dammit you are getting one of those gray tunic-y sack things and rocking the HELL out of it, instead of looking like a B-list celebrity trying to start pregnancy rumours. The good thing about Euro-shopping is that it only happens in Europe. (In the twitter version of this post, the hashtag is #ohshitiliveherenow.)

I went to a vintage market in Brick Lane the other weekend, and had been looking for something fur, as well as something leopard. Drunk on my obsession with the '60s and that weird mildew smell that is ubiquitous wherever second hand clothing is sold/your great aunt's basement/Miss Havisham's house, I found EXACTLY what I was looking for.

Then I took it home:

some pictures

I am really terrible about taking pictures. I know in this age of flickrtumblrtwitter "check out our brand on facebook" that if you don't document it and then post it on the internet, it didn't happen, but a lot of stuff happens too fast to take pictures, okay? Anyway this is the best I could do:

Somerset house is right beside my campus. Amazing.

See all my sexxxxxy pixxxxx below. ($1.50/min)

ill, bruv.

That's me. (Artist's rendering)

Have fallen ill with that grimey cold that seems to always coincide with the start of winter in earnest. It does not help that the weather for the next week is slated to be 100% Go Back to Bed weather. Which, I'm realizing, is England's default forecast.

Today I caused a minor scene in Sainsbury's while trying to get some Neocitran. I guess the cashier had never heard of this brand, but when I tried to explain what it was and how it worked, he looked at me like I was an alien. In an effort to be helpful, he started listing brand name products, but I had no idea if liquifen or any of the other context-less names represented what I was looking for. A line (sorry, queue) formed. It was awkward. I eventually struck off on my own to find the medicine section. Sainsbury's, riddle me this: why do you have three different brands of anal lubricant but no lozenges?

Point-form weekend

1. It is 'bonfire night' in London, also known as Guy Fawkes' day, also known as the weekend everyone, regardless of familiarity with pyrotechnic safety procedures and/or blood alcohol level, lights fireworks and bonfires all over the city, in backyards and on street corners. It is also the first week of London's firemen and women going on strike.

2. I have spent the weekend being a hung-over academic at a gesture lab/conference at the Globe, which has led to a lot of doodling, most of it Shakespeare-based, all of it embarrassing.

3. The gesture lab has involved a lot of professional actors explaining their theories of early modern performance and workshopping ideas/methods of staging. A lot of it has involved some very floofy acting-type exercises, including something about 'floating' and 'falling' based on Chekov, and actors moving feelings and colours to different locations in their bodies. It has been a cruel reminder as to why I ultimately failed as an actor: my complete inability to let the colour purple govern my movements.

4. Spent last night at a party in Peckham talking about time travel and the way British people say the words 'pedophile', 'hummus', 'yogurt', and 'albino'. (Spoiler alert: they say it weird.) In the name of bonfire night we sent up this firey lantern thing into the air, although as it floated into the night sky it looked suspiciously like it was about to become consumed in flames and maybe land on someone's roof. Whoops. No one called 911 because a) I don't think that's the number for emergencies here, b) The firemen are all at home on strike laughing at their genius trick, and c) It was pissing rain and went out on its own anyway. All's well that ends well and all that.

Here is one of my aforementioned doodles. I presume by now I don't have to preface this with NERD ALERT:

Home is where your psychotic pet is

Monica: For the first time since coming here, I'm legitimately homesick today.

Emily: Why?

Monica: No real reason, that's the worst part!

Emily: Oh, I thought you might have seen a crazy dog, or a dad having portraits done of his daughters.

I miss my weird family and my weirder friends.

listen up London, you too crowded

oh, oh dear, terribly sorry, would you excuse me, just trying to get by, ah, yes, mmmm quite.

"Where'd you find the ringer?"

I would never have guessed that it would take moving to London to get some damn stage time, but here we are. I now do improv twice a month or so as part of 50:50, a show that is half our in-house improv group, and half an ever-changing line up of guest acts who do other types of comedy, music or performance of some kind. My first show was last Tuesday and while it would make a way better story if something had gone hilariously wrong, it was just a really great time. AND a bunch of wonderful friends came to watch. I am a lucky lady.

In case you were concerned that I had gone a full 24 hours without embarrassing myself, fear not: I popped into Starbucks before the show and ordered a grande 'London Fog' without thinking. The baristas were confused to the highest degree and had no idea what I was trying to ask for. I think they thought I was a moronic North American overcome with the WHIMSY OF TRAVEL."Yes, do get me a crumpet, and a large serving of London Fog, with a side of Prince Harry... am I right, Harriet??" "Oh Charlotte, you are BAD. Look at that policeman's hat!" Yikes.

Attitube

There are no garbage cans at all on the Tube (pronounced "Choobe"). They removed them after the 2005 Underground bombings, apparently. I told a Tube operator that it was kind of a hassle. "Less of a hassle than being blown up, I reckon," he said. "Have a lovely day miss." Touché. 

Night class

(Photo stolen from Kim Villaweever)

WTF, England. A Drama in One Scene

A university campus overlooking the Thames. Three girls eat sad-looking packed lunches in the cafeteria.

England: Ooh I love a cheeky sandwich.

Canada: A cheeky sandwich? What does that even mean? Is this a gross lunch meat thing? 

England: Oh you know, you can just put 'cheeky' in front of things. Cheeky sandwich, cheeky pasty, cheeky jacket potato...

Canada: ...

THE SHARD

Okay, so when I moved into the London Bridge area the first thing I noticed was The Shard, an ambitious-looking but partially-completed construction project that appeared to be about 80% of the way towards becoming a decent-sized skyscraper. I have since learned that The Shard is going to be the tallest building in Europe when it's completed in 20Never and that the current structure is a little under half of its total height. I have also learned that it is the Construction Site that Never Sleeps. Brutal.

However, I am obsessed with this thing. It is gauchely large and so ridiculous and, well, LOOK AT IT:

All the pictures of what it will look like in the future are swathed in the kind of softly emanating, holy glow usually reserved for saint's heads or Barbara Walters specials. The 'vision statements' that are printed on the side of the construction site are also really amazing:

Say no to selfies

My digital camera came in the mail the other day, leading to a thrilling moment where I thought I had mail from a loved one or something, and then was brutally denied. Not that I don't love Amazon for sending me the technology I ordered, I do. Just not as much as I would love real mail from home. (a-hint, a-hint)

Anyway the good news re: the camera really is that I won't be taking lame-o pictures like this anymore to illustrate that I made and then ate a delicious, piping-hot curry (out of tupperware because these are desperate times):

This is also good because it means the auto-timer will not capture me doing this immediately after the first picture: 

I just want mashed potatoes so bad.

Sunset in London from my residence. Photo stolen from Daniel Giacopelli. 

This weekend has been packed with improv workshops, which has been great fun and full of lovely new people (and some old Canadian Improv Games amigos... there is no escape.), but has also left me somewhat homesick. It does not help that today is Canadian Thanksgiving, and I know for a fact that I am missing out on more than one amazing turkey dinner. 

Mostly I've had to turn off my iPod; it is too full of music I associate with people and places that I love in Canada. It's not just the sad songs (or even the good ones) that get me all mopey: Justin Bieber's "Baby" and various tunes from Glee, for instance, recall embarrassing dance parties past that I would like to be reliving right now. Plus, JBiebz has been mocked to my face a number of times since I've moved here... some people are just intimidated by raw talent and true follicular beauty. These tunes are all prime for inducing "misty water coloured memmmmmmorrrrries" moments: 

What'd you do today Monica? Explore the city? Go for a pint with some pals?

Better! I hung out desperately needing to wash my hair and vacuuming my room on my hands and knees.

... with this.

Try not to be jealous, especially when I tell you that I also spent about an hour and a half photocopying most of a book one page at a time. Ahhh the crazy London lifestyle.

Remember when I said my programme sounds cool but is mostly really dorky?

I rest my case.

Henslowe's Diary is basically an oldey-time account book chronicling money lending from a man who also happened to own the Rose theatre. According to some critics he was a bit slow/potentially functionally illiterate. While this has been hotly contested by other scholars, he has recorded several performances of Titus Andronicus as "Tittus & Ondronicus," so you be the judge on that one. In case you're interested (and who wouldn't be?), a man named Robarte borrowed roughly 20 pounds on the 25th of 'febreary,' 1598 for a 'boocke called the myller'.

On the bright side, while I was eagerly and captivated-ly perusing this non-stop thrill ride of a book, the Globe's music department was practicing their military drums/trumpets for the entry of Henry IV later that afternoon, which felt a bit like time travel and made me geek out in a huge way.

In a few weeks or so the actors move out of their dressing rooms in the Globe and then we all get one as a 'study corral'. I'm not crazy about the image of MA students as a bunch of studying bison, but I'm presuming this will be a similar geekcitement opportunity, and am pretty jazzed about it as well.

"Oh my actual God..."

Have moved house, partially because I do everything Brian Rieper tells me to, and partially because tumblr was getting on my nerves. There are just a lot of sardonically captioned photos in my life already, you know? Now you can comment and I can keep track of all seven of you and what you're looking at.

I spent the weekend in Brighton with Hannah, in her home which is the most picturesque British cottage ever created. I literally want to get married in her back garden. (Maybe to her, at this rate.) We mostly explored the local pub scene in torrential rain, failed to get Glastonbury tickets, and watched the X-factor with Hannah's mum. Oh my God you guys. British reality TV is hilarious. Things are just a bit more whacked out, the variety of accents and styles of dress is brilliant, and they are simultaneously dirtier and more intensely earnest and emotional. Plus, they are called things like "I'm Famous and Frightened!" (exclamation mark theirs). In this show, celebrities "spend three nights in a haunted castle and do terrifying challenges for charity."Some other highlights:

Animal Airport
Celebrity Love Island
Baby Ballroom: The Championship
Death Wish Live
Chaos at the Chateau
Flog it!
The House of Tiny Tearaways
The Edwardian Mansion-House

I really hope they are all exactly what they sound like, especially "Flog it!"

Charit-e

Got very lost on the way to a party in Shoreditch hosted by a house full of dancing Greek men. Fortunately, a kind benefactor with an iPhone appeared and gave us very solid directions, as well as information about his own evening’s plans, which included a late night rave/benefit event in an abandoned warehouse, thrown to raise money to save the rainforest. What a hero. When he is not helping lost damsels in distress with his fancy gadgets, he is doing MDMA for the Amazon. The charity raves are held right by my residence apparently, which means I may finally achieve my dream of becoming a philanthropist. It just feels good to help people.

Sisquotable

Today during the first day of my MA programme we were having a very serious academic discussion about a very seriously old and obscure British play called Hengist, King of Kent. Everyone had very well thought-out things to say about the portrayal of women in the play, the differences between the quarto and the manuscript texts, and the influence of the British folkloric tradition on its ‘historicity’. Mainly, I found it amusing that the aforementioned Hengist lives in a place called ‘Thong Castle’. Good ol’ Heng-y names the castle himself in a fit of superb creativity and unbridled masculinity. BTW, this is what comes up if you google that phrase, which is a real place in England, in the town of Thong.

Chance of rain

I get pie with a little help from my friends

There are some things that you can tell are gross without tasting them. For me, this includes any of those fancy-party pâtés with gelatinous components, MacDonald’s ‘Chicken Mayo’ and those Scotch eggs with the weird crust that are then baked or something. Up until today, this list also included Cornish pasties and English meat pies. I was very wrong indeed.

The pie shop Pieminister was recommended to me by a Real British Person, my friend Hannah who is also doing the Shakespeare MA. It’s pronounced ‘Pie-Minster’ and Alison and I have been joking about it all week. But when we saw a stall from the store tucked amidst the fresh produce, cheese and weird-looking meats at Borough Market, we had no choice. 

The Thai Chook Pie is made with “free-range British chicken, fragrant Thai green curry, sweet potato and lime in a lovely pastry”… I know. These unassuming little guys are so, so delicious. It’s hard to eat, and fairly hefty, so it functioned as two meals in one: cold in the garden of a church near the Thames, and later heated in my grotty dorm kitchen (where the food thievery, janky leaving out of dishes and other housemate crimes have already begun). Honestly, I wanted to think it was disgusting, but it was, as the description says, lovely. I ate my words and then I ate that pie. Hard.

Another great discovery: If you show up at Borough Market around closing-up time (due to thriftiness or hangover, whatever) you can get all the delicious fresh produce for half price. Also, it’s all organic and local. And sold to you by hot farmers. I promise I’m just there to support local/green cooking.  

"What does one wear to a 10 year anniversary party for a  Shakespeare centre?"
"I don't know, a ruff?" 
- Alison Mowat, flatmate extraordinaire. 

A broad, drinking

I got drunk on England and bought a cape. Then I got drunk on alcohol and made friends with my program. Everything at King’s seems to involve large quantities of free wine and “nibbles”, which I am obviously very okay with. However, as the lightweight of the universe I’m still trying to figure out how to booze with my superiors and NOT ramble to them about my childhood love for Anne of Green Gables and the perils of growing up ginger (to be fair, she started it). 

I knew this was a good place when my professor bought us all beer and crisps during an ‘early modern meet-up’. At least I’ll be acquiring pounds in some sense over here. 

gnarly dorm rooms: universal.

My happy place

Now five minutes from my bedroom.

L'undone

So, I am the kind of person who lives abroad now. I am also the kind of person who blogs, I guess. this is a real journey of self-discovery. The main thing I have discovered about myself while living in the UK is that my voice is about 10 x too loud for any given situation. A few friends have called me out on this before, but it has never mattered until I moved outside of North America, and realized that the Loud American stereotype is a real thing. Interestingly, I have chosen to combat this by compulsively mentioning my Canadian background within ear shot of Real British People, I suppose in some kind of attempt to excuse myself. “Well, that’s not so different from the Toronto subway map!” I'll exclaim. “Oh no, it’s raining again, eh? EHHHH?” and so on and so forth. A really smart person would probably just quiet down, instead of loudly confirming their outsider status while trying to ingratiate themselves to their sovereign nation, but here we are. 

And where we are is LONDON.