Mancurians
Julia, to answer your question, that’s what people from Manchester are called.
It is so grey today. I wish I could take a picture of the view from this 5th floor window of the social anthropology lounge in the Roscoe Building here on Brunswick Street. (Doesn’t everything sound so quaint? Well it’s not. Everything is dirty and wet and shoddy and full of 18-yr-olds in furry boots and short skirts. Not cute in the least.)
My veil of optimism (or tolerance) has begun to fade away. I’ll go home in exactly two months but it still feels like forever. I’m obsessed by the suggestions of what I might be missing right now at home: freelance video opportunities, professional networking, bike riding, hamburgers, George. But I know I’m here for a reason and it’s a good one and I’ve only got another 7.5 months to go with 7 weeks of vacation in between. “If we can get through these two terms,” Katie said yesterday, “we can get through anything. Any other situation, even a terrible job and crappy apartment when we return home, even that will feel excellent compared to this.”
She’s right, and I have to keep that in mind. Our moral support group is like my IV. That, and my supercool housemates, and my daily package of McVittie’s Digestives, a fabu graham cookie they sell here with dark chocolate on top.
More later. It’s cheese-and-avocado-sandwich time.