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."