Reverse the Jelly Baby of the Neutron Flow

I interrupt my whinging and Bulgarian ethnic slurs to bring you news of this out-of-this-world experience: The Doctor Who Experience, to be exact. Also, seeing Dr Faustus at the historic Globe Theatre last night, which would otherwise be unrelated.

Originally, I learned about it when I was in Cardiff and saw a sign on an area map that there was a Doctor Who tourist trap near the Torchwood set/Millenium Centre. When Karen and I were in the area, we couldn’t find it. The signs were there, but the exhibition itself was not. When we got back to the hostel, I learned that it had been dismantled and moved as of April 1st. Crushing disappointment.

Yesterday, since I decided to spend the next 3-4 days left in London (more on this later, too) I needed to figure out something to do beyond sitting on the couch and watching shit BBC3 TV. I got the bright idea to check what was on in The Globe, and then I got distracted by reading about some article explaining how H&M can get away with stealing so many prints from, like, Anna Sui or Diane von Furstenberg, which actually doesn’t interest me in the least. While on this page, it was hard not to notice a blinking advertisement that said “CAN YOU FLY A TARDIS?” The rest is history… It was showing at the Olympia 2 in Kensington. I booked a “Silver Package Adult Ticket” for 12pm on Friday where I get a tour and a whole bunch of fun stuff included (lanyard, signed certificate, poster, book, etc.) WEE.

 I left here at 10:30am because I was so nervous about getting there on time. (It was fine. St Johns to Cannon Street, District Line to Kensington (although I got off at the wrong Kensington and had to hoof it from there.)) I knew I was in the right spot when I saw a TARDIS lurching out of the side of the Olympia like some weird crash site. The guys in the reception area knew immediately that I was there for the exhibition (because nothing else was going on) and I even went into an elevator with, like, a real bellboy/elevator man.
There’s a mini walkthrough with the sets from the Hungry Earth/Cold Blood episodes. I took a picture of two frightened schoolgirls in exchange for them taking a picture of me with a Silurian. The old gentleman who was the main chaperone was hilarious and we ended up bonding over the Weeping Angels. That sounds weird. You know what else is weird? Hearing ten-year old children yelling “I WANT TO SEE THE WEEPING ANGELS. AND DALEKS! EXTERMINATE, EXTERMINATE, SEEK AND DESTROOOOYYYYYY.” It gave my heart like a deep cardiac plunge of joy to hear this stuff. To make it even better, I was the only ticketholder for 12pm who wasn’t a member of this large school group, so I pretended I was with them for over half an hour. As a result, I got to touch some stuff and linger longer in some areas. After a while, they figured out I wasn’t with them. Still.

We watched this pre-simulation video from Matt Smith about the crack in the Universe, which ROTATED ON THE SCREEN and the screen split vertically to let you walk into the Starship UK set. Whilst we don our “radiation goggles,” Matt Smith comes on the screen again and explains the dilemma he’s in as THE TARDIS MATERIALIZES IN FRONT OF US. I mean, it was hidden behind a gauzy screen but I was standing next to a Smiler the whole time and wanted to get the hell out of there. Thus, we walked through the TARDIS policebox doors and into one of the actual sets of the interior with an actual TARDIS console that beeped and booped and had a moving floor to simulate flight/disaster. The mock-dilemma escalates in mock-emergency because we were under a Dalek invasion, so we literally ran into the next room, me feeling as excited and young as these shrieking ten year-olds. In the next room, though, I was standing near a wall where an animatronic Dalek just came out and pointed at me to scan our brains. You watch the TV show and wonder how something that looks like an overturned bin with knobs on it could possibly destroy the whole of the Universe, but when this Dalek pointed its little plunger-and-whisk combo at me, I almost shit my pants. Of course the Doctor saves the day, and then the staff realized I wasn’t with the school group, so I had to go my own way onto the last of the exhibit.

Here, there were really valuable pieces from the entirety of Doctor Who, including the ENTIRE Doctor wardrobe with models, dating back to 1963. I almost reached out to touch Tom Baker’s scarf and David Tennant’s trench coat. Almost. I didn’t want to get kicked out. An American guy took a picture of me with a Matt Smith wax figure and I took a picture of him with the row of Daleks. His iPhone had a TARDIS screen on it, to give you an idea of the fandom surging around the memorabilia in this room. Some kids were playing in the shell of a Dalek and I was taking MySpace-like pictures of myself with the gasmask little boy a la ARE YOU MY MUMMY. There were models of Slitheen, Judoon, Oods, some other things I’ve never even watched yet.

The gift shop was unreal. As I later told Liz, I nearly bought lifesize cardboard cutouts of the TARDIS or a Weeping Angel, but checked myself. 1) I can’t fit them in my suitcase and 2) if we ever had an apartment together, a Weeping Angel is the last thing you want to see in the dark when it’s 4am and you wake up really needing a pee. So I bought some Dalek expandable towels and a Cyberman mask for myself instead of blowing dozens of pounds on DVD sets, comics, books, Adipose stress-relief dolls, reproduction Sonic Screwdrivers, or Dalek bubble bath.
It was truly amazing. Despite my utter devotion, though, I felt weird walking around Kensington by myself, clutching a big white bag that said DOCTOR WHO EXHIBITION on the side. I walked into a Sainsbury’s and bought chicken breasts and avocados just to have one of the orange Saino’s bags to cover my purchases. Dumb.

This all brings me strangely roundabout to the Globe last night, where I finally saw my first stage production of Dr Faustus instead of having to read it or– Lucifer forbid– read it out loud in a class of freshmen. I had the utmost pleasure in seeing the role of Mephistopheles acted by none other than Dr Who’s companion Rory, Arthur Darvill (“in real life.”) It’s like the role was written for him. Imagine Darvill as Roman Centurion Rory in his grief and rage as he shoots Amy, and that was EXACTLY how Mephistopheles was portrayed. Darvill went the route of utter remorse and frankly looked like some brooding Conor Oberst of the Underworld with the arms folded, leaning against a pillar and trudging to do Faustus’ biddings. It was hilarious, but it was also really powerful to watch this guy who played the most wishy-washy whipped Dr Who companion become a screaming demon in a doublet and enormous shoes.
Faustus was quite good without being too obnoxious, although I think he giggled a bit too much. Robin was also really good. I didn’t think his character was all that funny in the text, but the actor definitely clowns very well.
Darvill looked up into my balcony and I thought I’d faint from the tortured look on his face.
The spectacles of the play were amazing, with these dragons carcasses and furred demons on stilts. To my complete delight, the last spectacle consisted of the entire cast manipulating these bloody dead bodies being tortured in hell, and Mephistopheles and Faustus were playing rock renditions of the song ON THE LUTE.

I was sitting next to three Californians in the middle gallery, second row. The guy only started talking to me after I’d had a moderately-priced-but-still-revolting-Budweiser (or maybe I talked to him first because of that.) He said they run their own outdoor theatre company in California, yet he couldn’t remember the name to The Two Gentlemen of Verona after he described the plot to me. I told him about The Two Gentlemen of Lebowski but he stared at me blankly for a bit until the bell rang for the end of intermission. He couldn’t understand what I was doing there and where I was from, whether Central Jersey, North Jersey and did I permanently move to England? I think he was a bit slow in that Californian way.
Also, there were two high school-aged tour groups there, one from China and one from Italy.
The leader of the Italian tour group sat next to me during my solitary beer and tried to soothe her charges. “Gianna, do you like the play so far?” And this girl Gianna, whatever, stereotypical Italian name said, “Yes, but my English is not good enough. I do not understand everything.” The teacher lady just shrugged and, I guess, comforted her with “Neither do I. I don’t understand a lot of it because it’s not really English.”
I was like, OF ALL REMARKS TO MAKE WHILE SITTING NEXT TO ME. Let it flow over me and yell in my head “WTF, WHY ARE YOU–, ARE YOU–, HUHHHHHH.” At least they have the sense to try and enjoy it rather than to, like, talk on the phone or clip their toenails the whole time. Which I saw others do. Talk on the phone, I mean.

Overall, I’m pleased with the collective £60 I spent on a most excellent 24 hours of enlightening endeavors.



Woke up 2 hours early for no particular reason. Did laundry, read the newspaper, ate breakfast. I was going to say that “I made myself an English breakfast this morning,” but it’d be sort of untrue. Tea and eggs and toast and mushrooms. Mostly mushrooms.
Another thing to miss: going to market.
Yesterday, Chris and I went to Lewisham Shopping Centre for bric-a-brac and what-have-you, and we stopped to buy some veg. Having been craving mushrooms, I bought a bowl (because these things come in bowls.)
We stood at the table for a long time, deliberating over which bowl to choose while ruddy people shouted Cockney garbage at each other.  The woman poured the bowl of mushrooms into a plastic bag and asked me for 1 pound. ONE QUID for nearly TWO KILOS of Portobello mushrooms. Holy crap. I can’t even cook that much at one time, much less eat all of it.
I should’ve bought tomatoes as well.

 Dylan Thomas sort of said Wales was the chosen land, but England could be included too. Aaand everyone knows it. “New York is great but London is the greatest city in the world” said someone raised in Gloucester.
People are less judgemental than in France, anyway, which is probably more beautiful, if we’re to judge by aesthetics. London is comprised of so many foreignors that no one really knows we’re you’re from until you open your mouth.

I don’t think it’s all that mad that Under Milk Wood just springs up unbidden in my mind. Sitting on the 453 at dawn, the back of my mind said “The principality of the sky lightens now” like he’s narrating my life from the grave. Cool, right?
As I sit in my room with my snowglobe and blow bubbles–>
I’ve made my choice and am left to regret my decision.

Last night, I watched 101 Dalmatians. The movie is so much better now that I can recognise places in the movie. I mean, yes it’s Disney and yes it’s animated, but they included famous places and tossed about slang like it’s no big deal/like it wasn’t written for 6-year old kids.
Right off the bat: Regent’s Park, St Paul’s Cathedral, Camden Town, etc.
Between the lines: the 2 criminals are watching a TV show called “What’s My Crime?” It looks A LOT like Question Time, although I doubt Question Time existed in the 60s when the film was animated. That’s something I’ll have to research. [edit: No, Question Time was introduced in 1979.] But when they break into the house, the criminals make up some bull about a new Act issued by Parliament in order to get inside. They yell about how no one cares about Parliament and Scotland Yard is useless. Durf.

There were times when I actually laughed out loud just from watching. I guess this all went over my head when I was still more interested in the daily adventures of Barney.

1) Tonight is the last Taco Tuesday for our group. After Christmas, we’re going to reconvene at Andy’s house (if it’s okay with Marc and Celia) to have a Taco Navidad. Gam will be in Wisconsin or something, so we’re going to set her up a place and Skype her.
2) Tomorrow is the CEA Christmas dinner and then Othello with our Shakes. class. I’m really excited about Othello, because I’ve never seen it, and because Lenny Henry (a British COMEDIAN) is acting Othello. He was half-trained at RADA, I think, so this will either be really interesting or really bad.
3) Thursday is the Christmas dinner, for which I’m either going to make pumpkin spice bread or kiflis/kolaches. Whatever I don’t make for this will be made for the following morning.
4) Friday is the Shakes. class Christmas party and viewing of our films. (Ours is completed, and runs about 16 minutes long. It was supposed to be 3 minutes long, but it’s just SO FUNNY.)
5) The weekend is up for grabs, but people start leaving. Not only am I going to be the last person to leave out of our group, but also out of our flat. I was the first one to arrive back in September. Think about that one.

On Being Realistic

Emily Carroll will be in Heathrow airport in 8 hours, so I think I’m going to pick her up. Not only is that a terribly nice and friendly thing to do, but it’ll also give me a feel for how long it’ll take me to get there when I need to do it by myself… in 25 days.

Taking the tube to Heathrow is going to suck, no mistake about it. I should look into taking a train from one of the main stations, but I also need to consider how I’m going to be hauling a backpack and two suitcases (one of them old, unruly, and wheel-less from the 1970’s.) Definitely not the suitcase I would’ve brought, had I realized its wheel-lessness in time.
I might buy a new one from Jubilee Market Hall, if it’s okay with you, Mom. I know it was yours, so maybe you’re sentimentally attached to it.

For my personal reference:
Trip #1: train to London Bridge, Northern to King’s Cross, Piccadilly to Heathrow.
Trip #2: train to London Bridge, Northern to Monument, District to Acton Town, Piccadilly to Heathrow.
Trip #3: train to Charing Cross, Northern to Leicester, Piccadilly to Heathrow


Killer decisions: I’m not going to Barcelona with the rest of the gang in 2 weeks. I’m not sure if the entire “gang” is even going or that they can rightfully afford it. That’s fine. I keep telling myself that this isn’t the only time in my life that I’ll travel Europe, so if I say it out loud, it must be true to myself.
Poop on you, if you don’t believe me. This is where I one-up you and comfort myself: I’m a business major. Someone who will have a job, nyah nyah. But on a serious note, all that needs to be done is put money away every paycheck. Boom, that’s it. It’s what I’d been doing all summer at JCPenney and I made enough there to be able to come here for 3 months even without my loan refund money.

While it’s going to kill me that they’ll come back from Barcelona spouting about how they had such a good time and the weather was great, sabuh-da, I don’t want to “do” Barcelona in only a day and a half. Instead, I’ll be seeing Twelfth Night and going to Stratford with my Shakespeare class.
Such is my serious hysterical devotion to this class.

Yesterday, after our typical 3-hour chat, we reconvened at 2pm to take a walk to Christopher Marlowe’s grave in Deptford. We took turns libating and left quality chocolate after having a quiet sort of (hilarious) ceremony.
After that, we hop-scotched over to this bizarre statue on an English midget covered in flies next to a very tall Russian man with a tiny head. (Peter the Great)

After a snack-like dinner at The Gipsy Moth in Greenwich, Dyanna and I decided that now would be the greatest time to see New Moon. No one else wanted to come… I wonder why?

As we should’ve guessed, the 6pm showing was sold out. This nice lady put our names on the top of a waiting list (how embarrassing) and we had another snacky dinner at the tapas restaurant attached to the picturehouse. Great tapas. Fantastic.
At 6:10, we got okay seats and settled down. The movie that ensued was so awful that I gave up writing a review in my head about 15 minutes in. I literally could not think of words to describe how I felt about it. The cinematography was awe-inspiringly bad.
However, gauging the audience’s reactions was pure joy. The gasps and cries would follow our chortling reactions by an entire second, which I found odd . . . As if the teeny-boppers had no idea what was coming next. Aside from drooling all over their copies of Stephenie Meyer’s bull and reading it like a bible, the movie is formulaic. Get a clue.

Five noteworthy things I concede to:
1) The soundtrack was really good when it wasn’t Muse
2) Greatest ending scene. Shitty predictable dialogue and it went to credits.
3) I was entertained, but there was something sordid about it
4) The actor for Jacob got seriously ripped.
5) For stemming from books with strong messages against pre-marital sex, the director took a bit of liberty with the whole let’s-make-out/let’s-not-make-out/but-let’s-share-a-bed/walk-outside-naked-in-the-sun thing.

When I was standing off the queue for the toilet, these British girls were like “Well, she [Kristen Stewart] has no personality, I don’t like her. . . aaaand she’s a bitch.” Imagine this in an English accent and you can understand why I was close to having mirthful tears rolling down my face.
And not that I have reason to defend Kristen Stewart, but I’m 90% sure both of them were high the entire filming of the movie.

I’d like to see it again with Liz. I’d probably pee my pants.


Now that I’ve been to Paris, I find watching Ratatouille again a complete joy.
I quote it all the time as it is (“A little saffron would MAKE THIS.” / “So let’s DO THIS THING!!!” / “One can get too familiar with vegetables, you know!”)
I actually said this out loud in France:
“Ah.. Symphony of crackle. Only great breads sound this way.”

Things I’ve noticed:
Gusteau’s restaurant is set in the city centre.
Linguini’s studio flat is awfully close to the Eiffel Tower for someone who needs a job so badly. I thought it might’v’e been Montmartre at first, but no. Too close.
When Linguini goes to kill Remy in the beginning of the movie, he takes him to this sidewalk part of the Seine by Notre Dame that I stood over for 15 minutes.
There are a crapload of cafes to the north of Notre Dame that circle around a fountain, which might be the one where Gusteau’s is.

Skinner, the “evil” chef, is actually Ian Holm. (Bilbo Baggins)
Colette is Janeane Garofalo.
Ratatouille came with my order of pave saumon on our second or third night in Paris. I liked it. It was quite tasty. This is what it looked like:

I also really love the song from Ratatouille. It’s called “Le Festin”, and is performed by Camille. Today is a day for chanson.

The chances

More on the weird things I keep seeing that remind me of home:

I was in the library toilet reading the bathroom graffiti and someone wrote a Joyce Kilmer poem into the stall door. Scrawling “a poem as beautiful as a tree…” etc onto the door wasn’t enough, they had to physically etch it into the wood. Examine how weird this is: there are three stalls in that toilet, and three toilets in that library, and how many toilets in the other student buildings in the vicinity.
I chose that one.

People who went to Joyce Kilmer School wouldn’t even be able to recognise a Joyce Kilmer poem, but I chose that toilet and that graffiti chose me. Weird.
Sort of like how I saw some William Carlos Williams on the tube.

I missed the Seamus Heaney/Beowulf event yesterday, even though I found out Joe would’ve been willing to go with me. Sue me. He won’t die yet. I refuse to allow it.
Joe couldn’t have possibly gone anyway, because he was busy seeing THE WORST PRODUCTION of Annie, Get Your Gun EVER. Ever.

The nightlife isn’t the only thing I’m going to be severely missing when I come back to the States. What about our favorite store, Iceland? Where else can you get a day’s worth of food for 1 quid? Two ham & pineapple pizzas; a box of sage & onion turkey breast; two liters of assorted juice; a dozen eggs; a tub of ice cream; kilo bags of chips. All of these things are 1 quid. Gonna miss the Iceland pizzas.

Another thing I will sincerely miss is the quality of the cinema.
(Here comes my movie review, on top of my first British cinema experience.)
I hopped on the bus to Greenwich and promptly realized I didn’t know where I was going. Luckily, some intuition led me to the right stop for the Greenwich Picturehouse. It’s brilliant.
The ground floor had a tapas bar/full-blown restaurant, as well as a cafe bar-cum-box office. I paid 5,50 for a concession ticket… Not too outrageous, but those are Monday prices. The first floor had a nice bar, but I didn’t go into it.
The theatre I went into for Imaginarium was a good size, but it was assigned seating. The seats were incredibly comfortable, red plush, reclining. Some German couple had to sit directly next to me because it was assigned. They said they would move once the movie started, but they never did. To make it worse, she started laying all over him and looked like she was ready for a nap. I was trapped between them and a “veddy-veddy-British-don’tchoo-know” family, otherwise I wouldn’t moved too.

In America, you have 10-15 minutes of really horrible coming attractions. In Britain, you have liquor/auto ads. All of them were either for Tanqueray gin or for Volkswagen+Volkswagen sponsorships.
HOWEVER and oddly enough, Volkswagen sponsored a little short documentary on “Dudeism”. That is to say, it was all about The Big Lebowski. I was trying not to interrupt the European ambience by yelling “EIGHT YEAR OLDS, DUDE.” Thankfully I did not.
Okay, I’ll get on with it. The Imaginarium of Dr Parnassus.

I think the negative reviewers haven’t taken several things into account. Chiefly, Heath Ledger died halfway during post-production, so they had to go back and salvage it by adding THREE new characters and a semi-alternative ending. Well done, I say.
Additionally, the critics have CLEARLY never seen a Terry Gilliam movie before. It’s very colorful or it’s very monochromatic. It’s what I imagine hard drugs to be like. Sometimes there are plotholes, but it never really matters. It’s sort of like the saying “It’s not about whether you win or lose, it’s about playing the game.” As much as I despise that, quod scripsi, scripsi.
I had low expectations for Lily Cole, because she’s seen as some public object rather than a human being, from time to time. The acting really was quite good. And you know what? I liked the ending. I went into the theatre knowing what would happen, but my friends who saw it the day before me complained that the movie needed to be two hours longer: one hour for more exposition and one for more denouement. Keep it simple, I say. The whole movie’s manipulated with a wonky Christopher Plummer-induced deus ex machina without being cheap.
Can I talk about Tom Waits? I think I should. He is SO GOOD at playing these sorts of characters. (I’m thinking of his own foil in Wristcutters, obviously.) I couldn’t imagine a better devil. When he danced a tango with Lily Cole, I thought I was going to lose my mind.
One important fact: When we initially walked into the theatre and the screen was black, the establishment was blaring Tom Waits’ carnival music. WHAT A GOOD IDEA, OKAY. The British woman was like “What IS this?!”

Our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up.
We’re just a million little gods causing rainstorms,
Turning every good thing to rust.

I’m so scared for this trip, which starts in three days. I’m not even concerned for my own safety as much as I’m worried about how I’m going to fit everything in my backpack. Whatever I’m going to bring. Three countries–or four, if you include the fact that we’ll be driving through Belgium– and eleven days.
Have to bring my good camera and the charger.
Have to bring my registration papers for my Ramapo courses.
Everything else is up for debate.
I know I made fun of it for months, but I’m glad I have my money belt.

old toast

French onion soup was totally what I wanted today.
I’m getting fat; I should just eat soup for a week.

Oy. Since I’m done with classes for the day, I think I’m going to head over to the Greenwich Picturehouse to finally see The Imaginarium of Dr Parnassus. It came out a week and a half ago and I have yet to see it, although the people I hang out with have seen it without me. Not their fault, just weird, since I talk about it every time we’re on the tube.

Imaginarium doesn’t come out at home until… Christmas? But it’s directed by Terry Gilliam, so I expect some serious wonders a la Brazil. (“Hi there. I’d like to talk to you about ducts.”)
I love Lily Cole. As much as one can love someone who sits around and looks striking, if not pretty. Her eyes are bonkers, but I wouldn’t mind being her one bit.
lily cole

And did I mention I LOVE when Tom Waits acts? Yes, he’s doing the heaven-or-hell thing again.
Also, Heath Ledger died halfways through the production, so this is me paying my final tributes with my 6 quid. He’s not the reason I’m going though.
Heck, I’m excited just to see the picturehouse. Apparently it’s assigned seating with fully-reclining chairs, a cafe-bar, and a Euro-centric tapas bar. Nutso. Good thing I’m going by myself- I reek of onions.

BTW at a Sainsbury’s in Brixton last night, I saw “roasted ham and mustard” flavoured crisps.

I’ll let you know what I think on all of this later.

But I only got a ha’penny!

So tired.
We took a trip to ASDA yesterday, which is the English branch of Walmart. (Hate mass consumption and production if you will, but there’d be no supply without the demand.) ASDA is pretty brilliant; you really can buy anything there, but we stuck to sweaters. I got a fantastic acrylic capelet for 8 quid.

Today we took the bus to Peckham High St to go to Primark. Nothing too interesting, other than my hot pink shoes (picture to follow…)

Tonight is a spot of resting, and then perhaps all migrating over to the New Cross Inn for tonight’s band. We missed last night’s open mic because of Taco Tuesday.

I was seriously contemplating learning Joni Mitchell’s “A Case of You” or making Andy learn it on his mini-travel guitar, so I’d sing it at the open mic. That’s something I’ve never done before. AND I’d be reppin’ North America. Hey-o.
I felt bad about belting it in my room when I remembered that the girl next door is deathly ill. As are we all. I’m in the process of drinking a litre of orange juice.
Every American is just dripping with illness and people like to cough on me on the bus as if I’m a sick magnet.

Both yesterday and today, Daria and I had English Breakfast at the Goldsmiths Cafe. Talk about binge eating… we go half a day without food and then eat as much of the all-day breakfast as you can. It usually consists of a combination of : egg(s), chips (fries), hash browns, sausage, bubble, bacon, tomatoes, beans, mushrooms, toast, tea/coffee. All served on a plate that’s roughly the size of my backpack, with bowls of condiments.
Examine one labelled example:

I finally figured out what “bubble and squeak” is: fried leftover potatoes with vegetables, like cabbage. I’ve heard it mentioned in Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk Wood, when Willy Nilly Postman and his wife eat bubble and squeak for breakfast. Examine:
Total, the traditional English breakfast + a cup of white coffee comes to 5 quid. So that’s like a meal at IHOP.
It was weird because the guy remembered us, and commented on how we were earlier yesterday. It’s okay because their coffee is delicious. (Coffee-starved.) I just realized it’s probably Turkish because I thought I saw him strain it. Like either a French press or a Samovar. I like to pretend it’s a samovar because that’s far more exotic, and the guy is some type of Middle Eastern.

Anyway, the true highlights of today— besides pink shoes– are these:
1) Went to the Goldsmiths Uni library, where you can rent movies for free. It’s got a bizarre collection and an even weirder system for organizing them, but I picked up Slaughterhouse-Five and Woyzeck, because I haven’t seen either of them. That’s right… I own the Herzog/Kinski box set and Woyzeck is the only one I can’t bring myself to watch, so I’ll do it here.

2) A woman rushed up to me in Primark while I was looking at sweaters, she turned to face me, and screamed. It was either a “Hey, do you remember me!!!” scream or a “OH MY GOD, YOU’RE THAT FAMOUS GIRL ____” type scream. Either way, when I turned to face her fully, I just said “NO.”  I don’t know why I said ‘no’ at her, but it was probably the right answer. Without any note of apology or admittance, she abruptly walked away. This has been bothering me all day. WTF WAS THAT.

3) Everyone’s been talking about this guy in a blue jumpsuit who spends all day with a bucket of water and a broom, washing the same spot repeatedly. I saw him yesterday before we went to ASDA and I assumed he was a civil servant cleaning up a spot of vomit from the night before. I thought that was nice of him. However, I came back five hours later and he was still there. In the same spot. Today, I went to Primark at noon, and the man was still there scrubbing at 4:30pm, when I talked to him. Apparently he’s some kind of performance artist as well as being a student here. I tried googling him/all combinations of “New Cross broom guy performance art space art”, but I can’t find anything. He is a new phenomenon. I’ll talk to him more tomorrow if he’s still there.