"A Beginning", continued

And today is another one of those bright days in the South-West, on which no one seems to bother about coats or shawls... how are things in Europe?

Which reminds me of another beautiful day, a long time ago; to be precise: Saturday September 24th. The memory of the precise order of this day's events is already fading, and these events now seem to be compressed into two or three 'scenes' that extent in time over several hours, together making up the entire day (you should all read Proust! He is much better at explaining these kinds of things).

First, there was the roadstrip from Dover to Exeter, on the left side of the road this time. My father did surprisingly well, even under the stress-enhancing circumstance of me screaming "links blijven, rechts kijken!" at every roundabout. In between roundabouts we listened to some Christina Branco, to some Police (I think I already mentioned that), and I read a bit in my just-received Michelin Guide of the West and in a book, written by someone called Archer, that I hope will comfortably support me in the ideas I already had acquired in the course of my life (how very bourgois): The End of Gay and the Death of Heterosexuality. But more about that (much) later.

I've already been comparing aspects of England to France, to the Netherlands, to Germany; but England's system of signposting is Belgian (for people with too much time on their hands: check out Chris's signpost fansite: http://www.cbrd.co.uk). I don't mean the road quality is Belgian, or the road classification and numbering, because they're not. I'm talking about how they send you in the exact opposite direction of the one you would like to take. And there's nothing you can do about it, even if you do know which way you should be going. In a city centre, I can see the use of having a one-way street system, but at the entrance from Stonehenge Parking to the A-303? What happened is, we wanted to stop for a rest anyway, and we passed Stonehenge, so we thought we might get out on the side of the road, have a sandwich and enjoy the view. But we were conducted straight to a this-is-where-we-rid-you-bloody-tourists-of-your-money-parking lot. So I told the guard we just wanted to turn, and we turned. There was no driving on, though: we had no choice but to turn left, heading back for Dover. Finally, at another (or rather the same we had already come across) roundabout we were able to make a full circle.

In the end we did have a half-hour delay, but at least we are able to say we have seen Stonehange three times (and my father four).
(The whole thing isn't such a big deal, really. )

My first impression of Exeter was quite positive: I immediately felt at home, driving through those rows of Victorian and Edwardian workers' houses. As a matter of fact, I haven't gone back to those wonderful quarters of the city yet, but I hope I will, on one of my city walks.

I skip the bit about searching for the right address to be paid, the right place to pay at, the right person to pay to and the right machine and card to pay with. The porter on duty (my favourite, though some of the others are quite nice as well) was very kind, but still cannot pronounce my name. Come to think of it: a porter is the one (or, one...?) thing we lack at UC. Here at Exeter they are a kind of Steve-persons (U Vossianen welbekend), fulfilling a very important role in maintaining unity, loyalty and order.

My house was a bit of a shock, even as I had prepared for something approaching the worst. Then this must have been the worst. At least: that's the impresson it made on me that first night. Strangely, and fortunately, enough, that feeling has largely disappeared. No doubt because of the changes I have made, and the familiarity I have acquired. But at that moment it looked like a prison. Small, rusty, dusty, dripping tap, decomposing window sills, crumbling waterpipes, filthy kitchen, only one shower, door with missing hinges, deconstructed bedside-drawers, no light over the desk (which is too small by the way): you name it. I have discovered the awful truth: UCU is a palace. Knoop dat maar in je oren. Minor But: not a single day has passed here on which I haven't dined exquisitely on home-made food: I grant you that one.

I will now show you a picture, just as a tiny indication of what my entire room looked like on my arrival (but by now this is about the only spot that hasn't shed its horror). Indeed: everything not white (but red or blue or brown) on the picture is either rust or fungus (or carpet).

Much moving about of furniture and poster tack action has been going on since then, and now I'm quite happy in my room, and even starting to be a bit happy in my unit. About which more later.

To round it off with something utterly unrelated: those worrying about my hairlength need not worry any longer. With some craft it can even be tied into a pony-tail again! But for how long? This might reassure you: hairdressers in England are terribly expensive.

Second unrelated point: I've decided not to change the name of this journal into "journal", because even though entries are entered pretty much every day, I don't want to raise expectations I might not be able to fulfill in the future (though I may have been doing that already) .

O, and by the way: "runner beans" really are snijbonen, and much too expensive here. Sperziebonen I haven't been able to find: just some snobby haricots verts.