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".