I Need a Pint

The ancients were more creative with their crop circles.

At least one.

I have spent my week dealing with Accounting, Department of Education, Banks, Flatmates, and an obscene amount of reading on a bit of complicated international law that no one can agree on called non-refoulement. I’ve been ass (arse is probably more appropriate) deep in House of Lords decisions since Monday. Today, my brain decided it was enough. I’m done with law for the evening, I’ll restart again bright an early tomorrow morning.

In order to keep my blood pressure down, I’m not going into the first three on that list, though it’s (mostly) sorted out, especially if I’m willing to let a few things just go.

View of East Sussex from the top of the Longman Hill

Flatmates… well. This morning I went into the kitchen. All the windows were open and the heat was on 5 (the highest). The sink was clogged with food and I had to report it to get it taken care of.1The garbage bag that had been out all day the day before was still out – it’s the first week someone else besides me has been designated to do the garbage and it’s not going well. There was grease all over the counter from their cooking the night before and one of my cokes was missing. I feel like I’m a bloody parent, and that is not something I signed up for. I’m day dreaming about a studio. Or at the very least, a flat with fellow adults that clean up after themselves.

This horse was like, "Bitch, get outta my field." He quite literally chased us out of his fenced in little patch of earth that the official trail went through..

And I get, intellectually, that there’s a lot going on culturally and language and age wise. That, even though all that stuff has been discussed before, it might not have been absorbed through the language barrier. But oh geez that doesn’t make it any less irritating.

On happier notes, I interviewed for a volunteer position this morning. I start next week providing administrative/web support for one of the local organizations that supports refugees and asylum seekers in the Brighton community.
I went on a lovely walk with the Walking Society last weekend, to The Long Man of Wilmington, pictures of which I intend to scatter throughout this entry. The walk was mostly through fields, to a crazy man on a hill. Rather, in a hill. Very mysterious. The hill was the most intense part of the walk, but the whole thing took about five hours so I suppose time wise it might count as a small hike. We detoured into THE MOST ADORABLE village ever, Alfriston, where I poked around a lovely bookstore that might be worth the 2 mile walk from the train station to revisit.  (I spent too much time in the bookstore, I didn’t get a chance to check out the Pub that dated from the 1350s.)
Owned by transplanted Americans, I might add. We’ve even taken over the English countryside. I thought they were American from their accent, but that’s kind of a rude thing to wave about (HEY! YOU SPEAK FUNNY! WHERE YOU FROM?!).

I have had one person try to fake an American accent on me. Wow, it’s really rather offensive. If anyone has ever thought to fake a British accent for a British person who is not your friend in the States: don’t. You’ll get it wrong and it sounds ridiculous. I really wanted to tell that drunk ass to go entertain himself. (That’s a polite reinterpretation of my sentiments.)

So.  I’m doing well.  But it’s time for that pint I mentioned.

1 Me, when I’m reporting the sink to maintenance: “Sorry about that. My flatmates don’t seem to understand about using the food catcher.” Him: “Are they Asian?” Me: “… yes.” Him: “Gee, how’d I know?”

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