In downtown Oxford, this land of crumpets and organic food and spooky churchyards and libraries, like some film version of England with no poor people in it. I wonder if there's some sort of contractual obligation to keep this place all Merchant Ivory for the benefit of the foriegn students paying 20 grand a year to be here in tuition alone. No wonder Rodelinda's been able to live in the UK for seven years and still like it, even down to stupid, stupid institutions like the House of Lords; I keep expecting someone called Algernon to poke his head through the window and ask if I'd like to play some tennis, and I definitely don't expect a teenager who thinks he's got bugs under his skin to poke his head through the window and then steal my laptop.
I'm not complaining. And I'm also. Not. Working. And feeling humanity starting to ooze back up to my brain . . . starting to be nice to people again. Give me time. I'll retire next September and then I'll start being a fantastically awesome person again, I promise.
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