working girl (not that kind)

I really don't want to make this all about HCIMYLM Man, but today on my way home from work, I discovered he now has a full sized guitar, a giant gold pig-shaped piggy bank on a table, and Sperry topsiders. So, he's great, we all know he's great, the end, just picture an absurdity curve that goes upwards infinitely, and that is him.

Now, I promise that is the last mention of him for a while. I have heard the fans shouting in the streets ("But what has your mom been texting?!" "Have you abandoned embarrassing hats? WINTER IS COMING! Also how do you feel about Game of Thrones?!") and I am responding with a thrilling post about the job that I have now. It is a bartending job and it is great for a number of reasons. I have put the reasons in a list below:

brief update

HOW CAN I MAKE YOU LOVE ME Man has a full-sized guitar now with a case for collecting money. Yesterday he was just laughing to himself and playing one string over and over. More blogs (unrelated to that man) tomorrow.

my dream duet

Okay, so, err'body be trippin' about how I haven't updated this blog in a million years, and I get it, we all love to procrastinate. Except here is the thing: I don't need to procrastinate anymore! I'm officially all finished with school! I have a Master's degree now, which is probably the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my life, but here we are, it's happened, that's just a thing that is true about me now.

This is what I've been doing with my time guys.
I'm obviously really busy, too busy to blog (2B2B), definitely.

THAT BEING SAID, I really enjoyed the ol' blog and I think maybe my legions of adoring fan (singular, hey mom, how's it going) have a point. So, once a week I will try to do a blog on you guys. This week's topic is near and dear to my heart because I see him every day and his story is ever-changing and he is so mysterious. I'm getting ahead of myself.

This week is all about the man my flatmates and I refer to as The HOW CAN I MAKE YOU LOVE ME Guy:

probably that is alright for now, man. you can take it easy.

 

Shakespeare, buddy. Everyone was really impressed by Macbeth. See also: Romeo and Juliet, King Lear... great work! Dramatic and captivating. Poetry coming alive onstage. Timeless masterpieces that resonate as truly today as they surely did hundreds of years ago at the original Globe. But for the next like, two weeks, maybe just can it? Maybe just consider not being a part of my life for a month or more? Maybe get out of here and shut your pentametric mouth? Yes? Good yes okay yes thank you. Great talk. Really appreciate it. Forsooth, and all that.

there are weirder things to study than dissection in the early modern period

monica (4:31pm):
hello hello- what are you up to?

emily (4:33pm): 

researching dog-powered treadmills, you?

monica (4:33pm):

......

emily (4:34pm):

this is my life now.

"hands in the air victory" INDEED

This is a list of words and/or phrases people have searched that lead them to my blog. Each one is a beautiful treasure, and, I think, a wonderful reflection on me as a person. Behold:

- "hatfield house "

- "monica heisey twitter "

- "and the author "

- "the shard "

- "hairy old women farting and shitting "

- "hands in the air victory "

- "hasselhoff "

- "http://www.monic-ahh.blogspot.com "

- "kate middleton ursula "

- "leopard print fur hats+euros" A few things about this list:

Things I Did This Week Instead of My Dissertation:

• Attended a very lovely comedy evening featuring a character called "Party Bee" and a review of all Disney's straight-to-DVD sequels. Guys. Cinderella 3: A Twist in Time is a real thing. But really, the truth of the matter is, I'm never going to have a bad time at a show where a be-stubbled man sings "Part of Your World" and accompanies himself on the ukulele.

• Wandered around London like an impoverished pilgrim, peering in cafe windows like a Dec. 23 Tiny Tim. Went home and discovered my flatmates enjoy eating spinach like it is chips, raw and straight out of the bag.

• Gave up on Google+ at almost the EXACT MOMENT I accepted my invitation. (Related: Shut up Google, "invitation." This is the internet, and if it was invite-only there would be no lonely weirdos making mash ups of cats and Star Wars or whatever it is that I look at all day.)

• Had a lot of pictures of my friends having a good time in Toronto sent to me over bbm. It was kind of delightful and kind of agonizing, and Ava, if you are reading this, your boobs are looking great.

• And lastly, instead of writing my dissertation I ... drew things like this...? for some reason? This is also only one of a number of cartoons I drew where the joke is just a pun drawn out as a literal thing? 

Shut up brain. Go back to reading that play you are reading that one literary critic has called "sensational even by Elizabethan standards", and "almost preposterously violent".

SUMMER 2011, right?

TAKE ME OUT

What I like most about having started a humour-oriented blog upon moving to England [professional tip: probably if that is how you describe your blog it is not very humourous. However, my mom reads this thing and laaaaughs and laaaaaughs so here we are.] is that England is SO SILLY I barely have to do anything. What follows is a description of the British television show Take Me Out. It is just a real show that exists here and is fairly widely watched.

A love match in the making, I'm sure. Paddy is a modern-day Cupid.

Lights up. Thirty or so ladies stand at illuminated podiums with their names written on them. They are very dolled up and wearing shiny party dresses, corsets, fascinators, etc. The host, a cheeky Irishman named Paddy, appears and gives them a hard time about being "singletons", prompting some of them to get VERY cheeky in return, while others look kind of sad in the heavily made-up face.

THEN. A series of male suitors descends from a pod in the middle of the stage. The technical term for this pod is "The Love Lift." They descend one at a time after Paddy shrieks "Single Man, reveal yourself!". Usually they dance.

i promise i will eventually post something that is NOT my dad bbm-ing me, but at the moment he is on fire and who are we to fight it?

7:21 pm DJPete: hey sweetie hope you're having a good day!

7:25 pm monica.heisey: great day. very good day.

7:27 pm DJPete: And why not, it's Friday night, you are a single gal in London on Canada Day!

This girl knows what we're talkin' about.

I'm almost 100% certain that if I got my Mom on BBM I could do daily updates based entirely on text messages from my parents. Miss you guys. Happy Canada day from your SINGLE GAL* IN THE CITY!

*My boyfriend is very nice and you've all met him a few different times.

every day i thank jesus for BBM

5:14 pm DJPete: Honey Badger

5:15 pm monica.heisey: ... say what now.

5:16 pm DJ Pete: Youtube. Honey Badger. Watch it and report! Love dad.

rump stump thump

There is a little brick laneway between the courtyard where my flat is and the main street that runs in front of it. It is a very convenient way to get out to the main road and also to and from the grocery store at the end of the road.

Yesterday, in the throes of research, I went on an emergency Diet Coke run, and ended up picking up a few other groceries as well. With my arms full, I headed back home. As I walked through the little laneway area, I met a man halfway through. He had one arm and was really smiley. I'd never met anyone else in the alley before, so I didn't realize it was not big enough for two people to pass through comfortably until it was too late.

Google search complete wanted me to search for "Winklevoss twins". NOT PERVY ENOUGH.

And by "too late", I mean "the man with one arm slapped my butt with his stump, winked at me, and walked along."

this is what they think of us.

At a "North American-style" breakfast party; streaky bacon, orange slices, legitimate maple syrup and thick pancakes abound.

Brit 1: This breakfast is going to be wiiiiicked.

Lone Canadian: Are you trying to use North American slang to get in the spirit?

Brit 1: Yeah, dude.

Brit 2: Totally awesome breakfast.

Brit 3: Yeah! Cowabunga!

Qui vol cet oiseau?

Okay, Air Transat. Okay, people who take airplanes. We need to have a talk.

To Air Transat:
Your in-flight entertainment plan should definitely not have included Big Momma's House 3: Like Momma like Son, or whatever that nightmare was called. I did, however, greatly enjoy the periodic breaks for Spanish language lessons (me gusta los continental breakfast) and the Canadian trivia from 1991—which female singer had a mega-hit with the song "Black Velvet"? Now I know. It was Alannah Myles.

The main thing I wanted to talk about though, was the occasional cartoon you would put up that was just an airplane with a blinking light on the top of it, and a speech bubble saying "Who's driving this bird?". For one thing, it made me nervous about who, in fact, was driving said bird. For two, it made me really nervous that you guys also don't know how planes work. One of us should know that.

To people who take airplanes: 

like a town in the South of France

I am very committed to fully experiencing this year abroad. I want to do and see British things and learn British stuff and eat British food. It's why I'm getting fat (vegetables in England are illegal unless you put them in a pastry coating), it's why I snog gingers exclusively (Affirmative Snog Action), and it's why I try really hard to accumulate a brain-dictionary of British slang words.

My flatmates have been taking advantage of this interest in the British vernacular. They tried for an unreasonably long time last week to convince me that 'twinkledip' was Brit slang for vagina. Come on, guys. I know the English language is silly, but it is not THAT silly. Also, did we all take note of that seamless use of the word 'flatmates' in the above sentence? MAKIN' IT WORK.

Now, there are lots of funny and silly—and also real—words you can use if you want to sound wanky and British. 'Wanky' is one. 'Well' to mean 'very' is another. But the main one is 'nice.' Nice is the most important word in the British language, because it is basically their only adjective.

Consider this example. The quotation below indicates how a British person would describe these breakfasts:

'Nice.'

Library Listening Update:

Accidentally unplugged my headphones from my computer and blasted "Back to December" through the silent Rare Books Reading Room. I may have to leave.

For some context, "Back to December" is a heart-rending ballad about the age-old problem of what to do when you are careless with your TeenWolf boyfriend's heart. The answer is to invite him to your house, apologize for 'leaving his roses there to die', and ask about his family. Then tell him all you think about is that time you broke up with him. Romanz.

Absolute Sofering.

I'm in the British Library right now. I've been here since slightly before noon. Some equally disheveled/slightly smelly people are here with me, forming a League of the Truly Pathetic: people that are at the library until it the second it closes. "Committed to caffeinated drinks, developing hunchbacks, and forgetting what the outdoors look like!" - League Motto

Earlier today, a distinguished-looking professor (probably) in an actual tweed jacket with elbow patches was sitting beside me, writing in a leather-bound notebook about Romanticism in painting or something equally erudite. On the other side, a 'mature student'—every university-level English class has at least one Mom in it, this is a rule—researched the Cuban missile crisis.

Everyone around me is more or less oozing academia. I've been listening to Taylor Swift almost exclusively, all day long.

Taylor Swift: bibliophile

Blog Hard 2: Blog Harder (Too)

Well, shit guys. I didn't write a single thing on this blog for twenty days. Naturally, the press, blog-o-sphere and twittersphere were horrified and in a general uproar:

"Monic-ahh's blahh-g deserted: Five outraged" - The Guardian
"Has she not burnt her tongue on anything this month? Surely she's made a questionable fashion choice or seven. COME ON." -@stephenfry
"Why did she have to get a life and stop writing useless updates to fill the void??" - CNN.com

As you can see, compelling stuff. The good news is that two major papers are now handed in (have fun with those, King's academics!) and I am back on track and DTB. People are getting really excited about the reinvention of this blog. Some early critics have called it 'edgier than the first blog, but with about the same number of cat pictures.' The blog is going to dye its hair brown and sing about the ISSUES. It wants you to know it's all grown up, and it's not going to sugar-coat its identity just because the blog's managers want it to be a 'role model.' It's getting serious as an ARTIST.

First order of business:
Kate Middleton = Ursula the Sea-Witch in human form?

I mean, the resemblance is uncanny. Except for the fact that 'Vanessa' didn't have a fit sister in a slinky silk dress stealing her thunder as she sashayed down the aisle with adorable children on either side, this is pretty much how the royal wedding went, right? Related: as a child I used to just sing that Ariel tune to myself and others. Nobody liked it. I LOVED IT.

And now a photo-essay on what happened this month:

Priorities, British people. Priorities.

This is an actual transcript from an actual conversation that was just televised on Antiques Roadshow.

Evaluator: Well, given that this particular vase is from Lalique's opalescent line, I would venture you'd probably be able to fetch 3,000 pounds or so for it at auction.

Vase Owner: Wow. I could pay for my funeral!

[Update: Maybe they really are all like that.]

"Where are we?" "We're still on the island." "But where are we IN TIME?!"

Coming to England is a lot like time travel: you get into a rickety metal canister, get a bit drowsy and shaken up, and when you emerge, you're in A FAR AND DISTANT LAND... and, probably, THE PAST.

I don't mean that it just seems like the past because people still think the word "tart" is offensive and to open a bank account you have to send three different letters to the Isle of Wight and people still sometimes conduct their business via fax and Hyde Park has special paths for horse-riding and the other day someone near me referred to a young boy as 'Master Stephens', but rather because Hollywood has taught me that a British accent of some kind is film-speak for "this happened a long time ago." 'Where' seems to not be a big factor- the English accent was the accepted language of all people prior to this moment in history, guys. Accept it. Get on board or sod off, right?

It's actually a bit of a cause for concern. Maybe I am displaced in time! For all I know I could be living in 1940s Russia: 

That makes sense. Just a bunch of famous English people using their regular British accents to play Russian soldiers during WWII. The Germans have German accents, duh, because we all know German is one of the most evil accents ever.

It is also possible I have ended up in Ancient Greece:

movin' out

I love Billy Joel. I discovered this while backpacking around Germany and some neighbouring countries—Belgium, but who cares about Belgium? Give me some waffles and let's move on, right?—and I've never looked back. I will love him oooh-oooh-oooh, for the longest time. Or until my friends read this and mock me into submission. Laughter: enforcing social norms and stopping me from liking weird stuff since 2000 BCE ("hahaha... now pray" - Jesus). Anyway, that's really just an explanation for the title of this post more than anything anyone wanted to read about at all.

The main point is: I have a new flat and she is a beaut! I live with three other "young professionals" ('other' might be a bit much, basically I am a boxcar hobo/benevolent squatter living amongst three young professionals) who are all lovely and explained our downstairs neighbour to me thusly: "She's... fine. There's just a ... smell." She apparently also once described her younger son to my flatmate Adam as "Straight as a dyke." We think perhaps she meant like, straight as a levee used to transport water from one place to another, or perhaps she meant "I'm insane and hilarious!". Either way, point taken and I am looking forward to meeting her, instead of just passing the pram she found on the street that she carries her groceries in.

Pretty much that's my exact moving experience.
I'm the one in the middle, throwing my chubby little hands in the air in jubilant victory.
Also, this image is from the website "urbandaddies.com".

Purchases from Poundland

Made plans to meet my friend Craig for an "early breakfast" so we could get work done. Meant to have met at 10:15, we both sent polite "let's defer til 10:45 I'm still in bed" texts (only polite if the other person happens to ALSO be still in bed) and I think I'm still going to be late... grad school is ruining my life.

On the plus side, on a scale from One to Awesome, this is about a 12:

The best tote bag, or the best tote bag ever? Happy nuptials Wills and Kate! I put my laundry in you. 

Just checking.

1: Any clue where you want to grab food? I have to plan travel. Also, are you trying to have a threesome with me?

2: Indian food by The Miller at 6 or so? Also, no.

early modern anglia is for lovers

So, I think my next-door neighbour is in the middle of a beautiful coming-out narrative, wherein coming to university in a big cosmopolitan city allowed him to meet the love of his life and discover the joys of his burgeoning homosexual identity. It's pretty beautiful. Except for right now, when it's horrible. The walls in this place are really thin and him and his Italian stallion/"friend" are mere feet away from me giggling like the keynote speakers at the 2011 Man Giggles Symposium and TickleFight Expo. While I feel a bit weird interloping unwillingly on their hairy tryst—seriously, they're both real hairy dudes—it's mostly just making me heartsick.

These guys know what I'm talking about.

Now, to deal with problems in life you're supposed to use what you know, right? This is what I try to do. Having spent the past five years of my life mostly reading early modern poetry and drama, this means I solve A LOT of my problems by dressing up like a boy and trying to pun them away, and also via that potion you can get from any priest that makes you look like you're dead, when really you are just INCREDIBLY asleep. Regardless, I've never taken the advice of witches, or been duped by a bed-trick (exactly what it sounds like, just the very normal Elizabethan practice of turning the lights off and forcing your maid into bed with your new husband so he would think you were a virgin, whatever) so I guess I'm doing okay.

Being lovesick was considered an actual physical illness in the early modern period, like having the flu or being insane (also considered a physical thing—there was no twitter so it was harder to diagnose back then).So what does Renaissance medicine have to say about the longings of the heart?

... If you read that last question and are legitimately interested, I guess keep reading this, and if you're my mom (the only other option) please be warned, shit gets REAL.

The King's Speech

I'm not generally into bathroom humour. But the other day I was literally doubled over crying on the tube, thinking about The King's Speech and how hilarious it would be if instead of a stutter, Colin Firth's character just had a flatulence problem whenever he tried to speak in public. Everything else about the movie- the subtle acting, the complicated exercises with Geoffrey Rush, the pressure from World War II, Helena Bonham-Carter as his supportive, understanding wife- would be the same, except that instead of stuttering, high-pitched ladyfart-type sounds would come out when he attempted to give a speech. Watch this trailer and tell me you're not losing your mind thinking about that. No? Just me? Come on guys. Give in to your inner five year old. (Related: Having cookie dough tonight for dinner.)

And the Oscar for Greatest Fart-Based Rewrite of an Original Screenplay goes to me. It's just an honour to be nominated in the company of past winners like Celine Dion's "My Fart Will Go On", Tarantino's masterpiece Inglorious Gas-turds, and The Defarted. 

PS. "The war will come, and when it does, we will need a King we can all stand behind."

Van Gross

A posh British family sits in a cafe in an art gallery, dressed in their preppy best, ignoring the redheaded grad student in the corner reading a THRILLING and not at all creepy history of Renaissance stage representations of female orgasm. While she attempts to hide the unnecessarily graphic illustrations from those around her, she creeps on the family's convo, because kids with British accents make her more serious than normal about her fantasy marriage to Prince Harry. Just THINK of the ginger babies! Adorable!

Child: Who was that artist with the orange hair we saw? He made a painting of sunflowers.

Her Dad: Van Gogh. He cut his own ear off.

Child (horrified): ... WHY. WHY DID HE CUT HIS EAR OFF. FOR WHAT.

Her Dad: I can't remember. Because he was sad.

Her Mother: He was sad because a girl rejected him. I think he sent her his ear.

Child: That is gross and stupid. Of COURSE she rejected him, he's ginger.

Czech, please

Badummmm-shhhhh. (That's a drum. The sound FX on this blog are stunning. It's all about #multimedia right? (...what is happening.))

Okay, so opening with a bad joke and a double parentheses doesn't bode well for this particular post but I promise it's worth it because the glories of Praha, where I went on reading week with my visiting famiglia, are multitudinous. To wit:

THE HAT got taken out in all its leopard-print, furry glory, beause if you can't wear a leopard-print furry head covering in the cold winter of Eastern Europe, when can you? I was emboldened by the many and various beautiful fur hats/ensembles of the local stylish Czech ladies; I have seen the utmost in glamour and function, and it is a full-length fur cape.

THE HAT was really in its element in the Czech Republic, where fur hats were one of the things sold at Prague Souvenir shops, alongside "czech me out" t-shirts, marionettes (?), and those stackable dolls. Nothing says "my beautiful Eastern European vacation" like a set of stacking dolls with the cast of Twilight inexplicably pictured on it.

Also, our tour guide did NOT delineate when she was telling us historical facts and when she was telling us folkloric Czech myths. "This is where the statue of Stalin was until it was joyfully torn down after the fall of the Communism" was exactly the same as "This is the statue of the frog spirits who can marry women of the town, and once the woman is marriage to them, she can breathe also underwater." (That is a real informational tidbit she told us. The Czechs are a complex and storied people.)

... And then we went with my Dad to a black light theatre show with some minor barely-legal nudity and a great deal of lesbian sensuality.

THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS

Today, in "things I did instead of my readings for tomorrow," we have Home Haircut. Now, normally I cut my own bangs and it's no big D. A cooler-than-me friend initially gave me a straight across fringe one summer at Cambridge and since then I've felt pretty okay about giving them a trim, or letting them grow super long to cover it up when I can't afford to dye my eyebrows (it's fun to be albino). But when I cut them it's usually, just, like, straight across. Following a line.

And then today, for no reason, I did this:

 

You brought this on yourself, self.

LIFE, sometimes, you know?

"Well of course the lovely thing about the house is that each marchioness has such a different taste, and that is really reflected in the Great Hall. Most of the decorative touches in there aren't original, they've been Jacobethan-ized by past dowagers. ...More tea?"

THIS REALLY HAPPENED TO ME.

I spent the day with the other research interns at Hatfield House, a manor home in Hertfordshire originally built in 1611. It's closed to the public in the winter but we went on a Special Geek Mission to check out the Jacobean tapestries. (This is my life now, deal with it everyone.) It was nerd heaven- the library there literally looks like the one from the part in Beauty and the Beast where he just gives her the library as a present. BEST PRESENT EVER. NICE ONE, THE BEAST.

It was also the most British day of my life.

I think I'm going to kill someone.

In Gnomeo and Juliet one of the characters talks to SHAKESPEARE'S GHOST in the form of a statue, and together they decide that the lovers dying in the end is not a good story. OH GOOD.

Royally Screwed

The English like to refer to pervy weirdos as "sexual perverts", as if there were some other kind of pervert running around that wasn't into sex whatsoever, but was reaaaaally into watching people grocery shop or exposing their musical tastes to unsuspecting fellow passengers on the subway. Regardless, I don't think you have to be a complete seeeeexu-al peeeerveeeeehrt to find these ROYAL WEDDING-THEMED CONDOMS hilarious/intriguing/brilliant. They come in a "timeless souvenir heirlooms box", which is good because you for sure want to display these prominently in your home. They mostly refer to the condoms as LOVE SHEATHS which is just tooooo much for me to handle or even really consider, but the company assures me that "England boasts some of the best lovemaking in the world," so at least there's that.

wherefore art thou work ethic

Sometimes I worry that I don't try hard enough with anything that is actually important. Case in point: I try preeeeeetty hard to make it clear that I know selfies are embarrassing, but also something medium necessary to convey certain instances in my life that I'd like to tell the internet about. I do not try pretty hard to find the appropriate readings for each week. Or to say things in class that make sense. My initials are M.E.H.... My NAME ITSELF expresses ambivalence. Doomed! I had hoped that entering an MA program would have magically flicked the 'on' switch on my work-ethic-o-meter, and the 'off' on my bullshit-all-the-time-capacitor. Not the case. And so we get situations like my class notes from a little while ago:

Please note the valiant effort made at the top with the date and course-title. I was SO close. Also, this was at least moderately productive as an exercise in that it made me 100% aware that a future career as an artist is not something I can aspire to...

Two households, both a huge indignity...

 ...No.

Puns and Shakespeare are two of my favourite things (puns IN Shakespeare, natch, drive me wiiiiild), so theoretically I should LOVE the upcoming film Gnomeo and Juliet. And yet, it offends me deeply. I think this is a bulletpoint situation... wherein I picture the points as actual bullets shattering the piece of crap porcelain lawn figurines they are using to bastardize one of the greatest love stories of our time.

In that spirit, I give you a list of reasons this movie is an abomination:

gettin' blitzed

I've done all the available readings for this week, I've gone for a run (?!?!), I've bought ridiculous amounts of produce, and have been back in London for over a week. I've done some minor ukulele playing, even. And yet, my suitcase remains unpacked. Well, it's been opened, the ukulele retrieved, and the clothes sort of strewn about everywhere as if I was an Important Person and spies had rummaged through my personal effects looking for secret documents and hoping to Send A Message. There is nothing left to do now except unpack it, probably.

Careless Whiskers

Monica 22:14:
I had the WEIRDEST sleeping hours today.
Like, asleep from 4 am last night to 7:30 this morning, then wide awake til 11:00, back to sleep til 2:00. Then awake til 4:00, and napped til 5:00.

Melissa 22:14:
What even is that?

Monica 22:16:
Basically those are a cat's sleeping hours. Which helps me achieve my goal of being more cat-like in everyday life, but also more or less ensured that I did nothing today.
Cats don't have jobs for a reason.

Melissa 22:18:
Mmmm this is true.
Wouldn't life be great if you were a cat??
SO GREAT.

Running Wild

Sometimes you feel great about the Master's Programme (the extra 'm' and 'e' mean it's a big deal) you are in, and sometimes you are in class while the director of a theatre company asks you to stand "relaxed, with your feet shoulder width apart, but your hips slightly backwards, like you're holding a penny between your bum cheeks, and with your chest out, and stomach inwards as though someone's putting a needle through it. Calmly." Sure.

In other news, I brought a ukulele back to London with me, basically 100% because of this:

Someone hook me up with some butt fringe and we are in business.

The Girl Kant Help It

I think there is so much comedy about airplanes because flying is actually kind of terrifying and horrible if you think about it, and laughter is a good way of dealing with things that are difficult or scary (she said, exposing a world of neuroses to the internet). But really, about once every flight that I take, I have a moment where I realize that I have NO idea how what is happening is happening. I could just google how planes work, but I suspect technically getting it would be of little help towards actually knowing what the eff is going on. I know it is something to do with wings and wind and maybe something called aerials or vectors, but realistically I am about as clueless as the 1800sy people who were around when planes first became a thing.

"Well, Marple, I'm getting into this big metal bird, and with some luck and help from the sweet lord who is for sure real and governs all of our movements, eventually I will be back in the warm, colonial arms of mother europe. God save the King, right?" - Me, basically.

Marple = incredibly common 19th century name, obviously.

Other things that I don't know how they work and which you could tell me were magic and I would proooobably just be alright with it: