The Slick and the Dead
I finally opened up a bank account today. Aunt Nancy and I were both forceful but polite, and it finally worked. We did complain (not whine, lodge a complaint) about the rude and unhelpful "service" we got at another branch the day before, where the woman kept saying she could see us, then said no, we needed an appointment, even though they said they didn't take appointments, and she kept saying she could make us one, "no problem." I told her bluntly, "yes, it is a problem." Aunt Nancy said "you'd think you would want to have his business." I was a little embarassed but I liked the whole being firm thing, since I normally bend like a cooked noodle, so when they asked if we wanted to come back, I said "no, we're going to go to another branch" and we walked out. Aunt Nancy said later she was proud of me.
Afterwards Aunt Nancy and I went to an Arab bakery and got amazing chocolate muffins with a hard chocolate glaze, which I took on a walk to Old Brompton Cemetery. There are so many headstones there I can't imagine how all the coffins fit. Most of them are illegible now, like the slick, now wordless memorials on the floor of Westminster Abbey's little sister chapel, St. Margaret's, which is a real shame. The oldest ones I could make out were from the mid-nineteenth century, which to an Early Modernist like me is no more than yesterday. Still, while I was unimpressed by pre-nineteenth century engraving, I was very happy to sit on a bench among the dead, reading a book, and sharing a bit of my muffin with one of the exceedingly forward squirrels, who climbed onto my bench to cohabit with me for a while and appreciate being alive.
My book, Sophie's World, is one I bought to read for Mr. Herold's European History class. It is a suspense novel about the history of philosophy, in which the characters realize halfway through that they are characters in a book and therefore have no ability to control their own actions, and launch a plan to escape the slavery of the author. I never finished it in high school, so I'm starting over. Throughout the book one must put it down and meditate on ideas of science, consciousness, fate, religion, life, death, etc (i.e. philosophy) so I decided to put it down and take a few double decker buses home from the cemetery, not the Tube, to save 40 pence but more to take an innocuous sight-seeing trip. I picked two bus routes I've never taken before, and drove through Chelsea (beautiful, expensive houses and shops), Victoria (busy train depot and theatre district), right past Westminster Abbey (where I went to evensong two weeks ago and appreciated not only a rare, flawless choir and amazing acoustics) and Parliament, and Waterloo, quickly becoming my favorite underrated station. Then the second bus took me down the Strand, where I go to school, then Fleet Street, up to Holborn and Barbican and on to Harringay, where I live. The journey took around two hours but seeing London at dusk, then sundown, was beautiful and I realized I should explore like that more often.
Afterwards Aunt Nancy and I went to an Arab bakery and got amazing chocolate muffins with a hard chocolate glaze, which I took on a walk to Old Brompton Cemetery. There are so many headstones there I can't imagine how all the coffins fit. Most of them are illegible now, like the slick, now wordless memorials on the floor of Westminster Abbey's little sister chapel, St. Margaret's, which is a real shame. The oldest ones I could make out were from the mid-nineteenth century, which to an Early Modernist like me is no more than yesterday. Still, while I was unimpressed by pre-nineteenth century engraving, I was very happy to sit on a bench among the dead, reading a book, and sharing a bit of my muffin with one of the exceedingly forward squirrels, who climbed onto my bench to cohabit with me for a while and appreciate being alive.
My book, Sophie's World, is one I bought to read for Mr. Herold's European History class. It is a suspense novel about the history of philosophy, in which the characters realize halfway through that they are characters in a book and therefore have no ability to control their own actions, and launch a plan to escape the slavery of the author. I never finished it in high school, so I'm starting over. Throughout the book one must put it down and meditate on ideas of science, consciousness, fate, religion, life, death, etc (i.e. philosophy) so I decided to put it down and take a few double decker buses home from the cemetery, not the Tube, to save 40 pence but more to take an innocuous sight-seeing trip. I picked two bus routes I've never taken before, and drove through Chelsea (beautiful, expensive houses and shops), Victoria (busy train depot and theatre district), right past Westminster Abbey (where I went to evensong two weeks ago and appreciated not only a rare, flawless choir and amazing acoustics) and Parliament, and Waterloo, quickly becoming my favorite underrated station. Then the second bus took me down the Strand, where I go to school, then Fleet Street, up to Holborn and Barbican and on to Harringay, where I live. The journey took around two hours but seeing London at dusk, then sundown, was beautiful and I realized I should explore like that more often.