Back in the Burg

Oui, c'est vrai. After a day of travelling, I'm back in Oxford.

Note the difference:
Homestar loaded in a fraction of a second, not the 3 minutes it takes at home on our 56k modem.

That's right: broadband. There's more: eMac. Cower, mortals. ;-)

Difference 2: Typing here is a process of the merest caress, whereas at home it's more like those fairground games where you have to bash a mole on the head with a mallet. (I fear I'm revealing my country roots, here).

I realise I'm probably conveying the impression of someone obsessed by computers. This isn't true. The reason I go on and on about them is the same reason I used a lot of colons in the post so far. I'm tired, and a little sweaty. I set off from home at 11.30 this moring, and it's now dark. Also, I'm carrying quite a lot of weight and did the half-hour walk from Oxford train station to my college on foot. I'm mostly carrying books, papers and lead. I've got that traditional look of rucksack on back and second lighter bag slung around my neck...
..not now, obviously.

So yes, I'm back in Mansfield College. And I have to say, it feels good. Although I was born and raised in the country, I begin to think that I'm not really suited to it. There's a fog of depression over Okehampton, the town nearest to my home. I'd say about 15% of people who finished GCSE in my year now have children, and that, in my opinion, is scary and wrong. Technically speaking, my mother was pregnant with me by the time she was my age. She was born in the same place I was. That said, I don't want you to go away with the impression I don't like my family. Quite the inverse, but I feel much more... in tune with my surroundings here. (I'm thinking of a word, it's Rastafarian and is pronounced like "I-re". That's going to annoy me for hours.) Perhaps it's the fact that if I wake up in the middle of the night and feel the desire to read the collected works of Thomas Moore, that can be done. This psuedo-Ireness (mental note: build vocabulary) can be typified by the way that I stepped off the train, walked past the now familiar ziggurat Said Business school, and a flock of Geese flew in formation, barely at roof level, honking in the twilight.

I worry that in a way I'm blogging to avoid going back to my house. I have terrbile fears that I'll round the corner and see a pale glow behind the upstairs windows, before I realise the terrible truth: the house is completely full of cream. Or we've been burgled, or something. On the other hand, it'll be nice to put some food on, sit down and put on some music.

Song in my head: "There's no home for you here" by The White Stripes

Though I'd really like to be listening to internet radio now, but I don't want to rummage in my bag to find my earphones. Ah, live life to the max, I'll do it. Don't go away.

...

That's right, I'm now listening to Zeilsteen radio, coutesy of iTunes. Find them in Alt/Modern Rock. There is almost no announcing, and what is there is in Dutch. Winner all round.

Ah. I was sitting here merrily, with earphones in, and what sounds like Staind coming out of the computer speakers. The guy checking his emails over there was quite polite about it though, and didn't say a word until I sheepishly plugged my earphones in the right port and said "Sorry about that". The situation is now under control. Oh cool, Belle and Sebastian.