Once Upon a Junction

It's one o'clock in the morning and I'm about to turn the lights off,  as tomorrow, someone undetermined is likely to appear at my door at an undetermined hour.

These past days I've been very very busy, not busy-but-here-with-Lizzy, as it is usually the case. Luckily I love plannings and I kind of have plans b, c, d, and z, because Ithese past days I've had to use them all, changing from one to the next one moment to the next.

Summary: it's my last night in my London home, where, since Thursday, no one but me is living in, and where I wasn't supposed to be by now either, but well, plan c. Tomorrow I'll be moving to a little hotel near Victoria, in which I will stay until Wed, the day I fly back home. Woohoo.

I was going to tell you about my last bus ride on my 87, or my way back home through the Common, or how ridiculous I felt when I felt -ahem- a knot in my throat as I was paying at Tesco Express for the last time. You know, the sort of silly things that only someone who is already nostalgic, even before leaving a place they don't really, really, really want to leave -oh, saudades..- can think about on their last night.

Against all odds, I don't feel chatty, though. Not really. But I wanted to, I don't know, leave something written, somewhere, about it. You've already read what it says there, on the right, about the written word. So, there.

Good night.

The Basil Allegory

Current Mode Warning: Abnormally silly and a bit under the weather (aka leave now that you can. Seriously).

So, I feel quite...withered, today. I also feel somewhat guilty as well, beacuse I know I spend my hours doing god knows what and I never find time to come in here. So I've thought hey, why not spend this wonderful babysitting evening spreading the black wings of misery in here? Or something like that. (NOTE: the wing thing came out of nowhere; I wonder whether it's time for me to start writing thrillers, or for you to leave te blog right now and go to Manhattan or any other less withered place).

I'm watching Basil, who is right in front of me right now, keeping me company while I eat my third pizza in less than 24 hours. I've decided that I'm not taking a last picture of him (I also decided that it's a him). Apparently, with all the moving countries drama and all, Basil turned to be a collateral damage. I confess that it's not like I've been taking care of Basil or anything, basically because it was V.'s job, and also because I don't really believe in plants, nor pay much attention to them. I just ignore they are alive, I think. 

That's the reason why a couple of days ago, when I really took notice of Basil again after a while, I was a bit shocked.

As you already know, I'm terrible at taking care of plants, because neither I like them nor I understand them, but of course, the fact that I don't always acknowledge them doesn't make them less alive. Therefore, never had I imagined that one could feel actual loss when you see your little plant clearly dying and with no prospects of salvation. Funny how I didn't know that Basil had become my little plant. In a way.

It was a couple of days ago when I first realised. I was casually passing by the table when I noticed that although Basil's leaves and upper stems seemed to be healthy green, the lower parts were a bit brown. I kept on inspecting it, and it was then when I realised that Basil' roots were really brown and withered. I've never liked the colour brown. It's the worst colour of them all (except in jackets and boots, but that's another shallow story for another more shallow time).

I felt like I've been told bad news, I swear. This might not mean an awful lot to you people who don't really know me, but trust me that that's a huge first. In a very childlike attempt to do something, anything, for Basil, I ran to the tap and filled a glass with water. He drank it in one gulp. I assesed the situation and ran to the tap again for a second glass. He drank it all too. I was hesitant about a third one, so I just half refilled it.

I took a look at him again, and I realised that, no matter how many glasses of wated I filled, Basil had long passed the point of no return. 

I took Lizzy and my phone upstairs, and surprisingly started to cry.

Ok, maybe it wasn't all for Basil. Maybe it was because I have an exam and I'm slightly tense. Maybe it was because the taking of the exam means the end of my staying in London and, no matter how much I want to not-acknowledge the fact, or how much I want to see the situation from happier points of view, the truth is that my conscience is a bitch. And she knows that the truth is that I don't want to go back to Spain.
Maybe it was also because of the B.'s leaving a week earlier than they told me in the first place, rendering me homeless less than a week away from my leaving. Or about them leaving at all. Or about lots of other reasons that shouldn't be shared on an internet blog.

However, I know that in part, I was upset about Basil. Because we arrived in here almost at the same time, and we are kind of parting at the same time, too. Just my luck, the only plant I've ever cared for in my life ended up being a fan of allegories.

So now, before taking my gloomy mood upstairs to continue with grammar and damned phrasal verbs and collocations, I'm goingo to give Basil a couple of glasses of water. I will be doing the same until the day I leave my keys on the table and close the door. Don't care if I just have an plantless plantpot.

PS: And now please go and have a drink or something; your system is in dire need of balance after this entry. 

By Public Request: Why I Don't Like People. Episode #8392

Although I have little time to be overly friendly with the keyboard, I've enjoyed a lot reading the Drawing Room comments, so I'm going to tell you about this other time I also decided to hide my heritage on purpose, and for no other reason than to annoy fellow spaniards. This one took place around...two, maybe three years ago.

Victoria again, Underground this time. I spot the only open info desk -the station has works in progress everywhere-, and I walk unhurriedly towards the last person in the queue. Suddenly, when I'm already slowing down to stop behind said last person, two human beings, He and She, with little and quick steps, push me a bit and stop just right before me. I have to stop in my tracks to avoid collision, and the person behind me bumps into me as a result, too. I say my sorrys while He and She smirk, as if what they just did is not childish, but the ultimate proof of quick wit and cleverness. 

'Spanish', I sadly think. And not only because Spain seems very small and we all look familiar, but because well, the behaviour is sadly familiar too. At that very moment, He and She start to speak, Spanish of course. Apparently they believe themselves clever and quick-witted -just knew it- but they are not as clever with English and London Underground general functioning. 

They start to look around. They look at us, we look Spanish too; nice compatriots that will want to help them. The very moment I read relief in their eyes, I open my mouth and start speaking, English of course, with all the British accent I can master. They look at me again, thinking that maybe they weren't right, and mumbling something about asking someone else. Mierda, I think they say, too. Minutes later they leave the queue, and I regain my spot and my language. 

Moral: As a general rule, and especially if you find yourself standing on foreign ground, refrain from being an arse without having a good reason.

Why I Don't Like People. Episode #928374

 Current Mood Warning: incensed/ashamed/incensed

Victoria Station. Platform 10. Waiting for my train to arrive. A couple stands next to me, young man and woman, both dark haired and both carrying several shopping bags. Both laughing at something. Going against my instincts, that whisper to me that a) they are Spanish, and not the nicest pair exactly, and b) I should run the further the better, I stay where I am, which is where I can take the most convenient coach for my platform at the Junction.

Just then, I start to catch what they are laughing at. They're laughing at everything and everyone around.

"Look, look at that one. She really looks like a whore, in this cold weather and looking like that?!"

"And she'll be thinking she looks so hot..." *insert crude comment about virility -which I personally question- and lack of attractiveness*

"And what about that guy...he looks like someone kicked his nose...maybe someone did, going out in that hair. Is that a wig??" 

And more merry laughing.This went on for about five minutes more.

Uff, I think to myself. Because my instincts had also warned me that they were, most likely, mocking something / someone, although I was hoping I was wrong.

Suddenly, She finds me there. I don't look back, just keep staring at the rails, because I don't like them and because they are mocking for the sake of it. As many others, one might think. True, but these two pieces are Spanish and I am being tainted by association.

"That one is Spanish," She says, apparently not realising that that one, as in me, is within hearing distance (or not caring, to be honest).  He looks at me. 

"Looks like she could be, but she hasn't looked. If she were Spanish, she would have looked at us already." 

"Trust me when I say that that one is Spanish" *she makes a gesture with her hand to catch my attention* "Eh! Eh tú!"

With all the calmness and British accent that I can muster, I finally look at her, confused. "Pardon?"

"Nothing, nothing" she dismisses me in very bad English, not even looking at me, and turning to her companion once again, smirking.

"Nah, you were right. She's an English bitch."(Nah, tenías tú razón. Es una inglesa gilipollas.)

I keep on staring at the rails, put my earphones on, and try to ignore the fact that the train is approaching and they are standing really, really close to the edge.

Two Spanish Londoners in Windsor

Current Mood Warning: ancient 

Highlights of our visit to Windsor Castle: 


- Tombs. LOADS. Henry VIII and Jane Seymour, George VI and Queen Mother...
- St. George Chapel in general
- Catalina de Aragón's bible. Wow
- Pistols and swords of all kinds
- Amazing furniture and rooms and...
- Audioguide in Russian for Miss V. 
- Stamp on ticket that allows me to visit Windsor for free for a year. 

Not bad indeed. 


Not so bright parts of the trip: 


- Me wondering about the castle's whereabouts while surrounded by its towers. What can I say, it was too early for me to be a person. 
- Miss V. and I wandering from café to café, to end in a Costa...
- Loss of yet another item of clothing, one glove this time. 
- Pictures NOT allowed inside Castle. Killed me, but didn't want to risk eviction. 



Another lovely trip. I am sadly suspecting that this has been the last one. Only three more weekends left to go, and no money to go to Scotland -fail- Cambridge or Liverpool -I'm the shame of my Beatles-fan family. 


Have a nice Sunday, lovelies. 

Myths and Legends. Episode #1

Seeing as I had planned to come in here to whine about my plans getting ruined by the rain, I'm starting the Myths and Legends series, because I just remembered that a) I said I'd do it, and b)London has nothing to do, sometimes, with what they say.

The first one being very obvious:

Myth #1.  IT'S ALWAYS RAINY IN LONDON, AND THE SUN OUT IS A RARE OCCURRENCE.

Myths and legends usually have a tiny microgram of truth running through their words, and in this case is plain to see that this one has it. But.

London weather changes at lightspeed. In Cádiz, when rain it's forecast, it's RAIN what you get, and you know that the next day, and possibly the next after next, you won't be able to leave home just walking with an umbrella, because it's just not possible. Not here. In here, when rain is forecast, you go and look at the skies and said sky is blue. "The don't get one right", you think, uniformed, about the Weather Forecast.

However, if you happen to look up again ten minutes later, they sky is dark grey and it's deluging. It doesn't matter, though, because then minutes more and you'll have blue sky again. Madness, I'm telling you. 

On the other hand, London rain it's nothing like ours. Anyone who knows me in real life knows of my ancestral hate towards rain. Rain turns me into a very unpleasant creature. Or used to,because, and I'm so pleased, I have managed to finally ignore the rain, meaning that I plan going to places without caring whether it will rain or not. Because most of the time in here, it's drizzle, and I can do drizzle with my little rainhat, or just the raincoat hoody.

Regarding the sun, it's not exactly true either that there's no sun in here. Ok, it's not andalusian sun, far from it, but I do see the sun almost daily. Less bright, yes, which is a win for me, being slightly photophobic/astigmatic person.

PLUS, dry cold weather, which means no allergy, less layers and fantastic hair. Yes, underlined. Win win. 

Therefore: 

Myth #1: FALSE 

 

Quick and Hasty Entry Because I Don't Really Feel Like NaNoing

 Current Mood: slightly lazy distracted

So I've decided that I could come in here and be keyboard-friendly and mentally organise stuff, while telling you in passing what's going on (crucial info for mankind's continuity as you will see).

• I need to catch up with my NaNo; we're on day 3 and already behind.
• Share my Halloween party photos. 
• Share my last Jane Austen's House photos. 
• My nose is completely blocked and I'm currently making such a Medicines Mix that I will probably end up running to the nearest Walk In Centre (which is in Parsons Green, so a good run) sporting twelve different types of allergic reactions, two of them still unnamed. 
• Haven't done English homework. I always do, so I hope this is one of the times that Will, my teacher, asks for it and forgets about me.
• Today a friend of M.'s -the father- has come to stay overnight and I'm having a bit of a challenge trying to a) look decent and not like the refugee I always look like at home and b) unimpressed by his gentlemanism and well, his stares. If I looked like, say, Monica Belluci, I'd probably be naturally unimpressed. But I'm clearly not Monica, not by a long shot, so it's sort of strange (especially when, again, I'm sporting my refugee look).
• Ollie just threw up on me, again, but it doesn't matter because the whole stuff was dropped on top of an already existing base of previus fluids. 
• THE WHOLE BOX OF FIENDISH FANCIES IS GONE. I need my fill. I'll try and post a picture of them, although I think you might guess just by the name. 

I'm off to my freezed attic again -I had to turn the heating off because my nose was feeling specially not ok today. I'm bleeding almost constantly lately.

Let's see if I can do something of use.