Rockin' the Suburbs.
I've been meaning to write this post for about a week, but as has been discussed previously, I am very bad at blogging things in a timely fashion; in fact I'm not particularly gifted at doing anything in a timely fashion. I have, however, been spending an inordinate amount of time in the library reading French novels I should have read months ago, so I shall exploit that as my excuse and ask you all to indulge me in my tardiness as I return to the heady days of the weeks just past:
I think that, in my world, at least, it is officially summer. Sure, I have two [now one] weeks of exams and revision left, and today, at least it's overcast and chilly [still true], but it FEELS like summer. I may have a million things I should be doing, and lots more things I should be learning, but everything just feels so light and spontaneous that I find it difficult to care. This is going to be my first British summer. As such, I'm sure I'm over-romanticizing everything - indeed, Charlotte wonders why I've elected to stay in rainy, muggy Edinburgh when I could be in sunny America - but, I have this irrational belief that the sun's magical rays will candy-coat each summer day in red and white stripes; everyone will be attired in a Barbour jacket to combat the crisp breeze that rolls across the lush green grass as he sips a refreshing glass of Pimm's, idly watching the pages of his book rustle in the wind, or maybe watching some of his friends playing croquet. There will probably also be some lighthearted polo playing and fox hunting (the fact that fox hunting is now illegal is obviously irrelevant). This may be a rather Catherine Morland-esque attitude for me to adopt, but I think that life as a character in a Jane Austen novel would only augment my ridiculous fantasies.
So far as my stereotypical, fantastical British summer goes, however, I am not doing badly. Two weeks ago yesterday, for example, Charlie and I were studying in the library. I was listlessly flicking through pages of a textbook, staring wistfully out of the windows at the Friday afternoon sun shining onto the Meadows when Steph showed up looking mischevious. Once she had lured us out to the Meadows (which, admittedly, didn't take much effort), she revealed that her Chloé bag was concealing a nice, cold bottle of wine.
The trees were raining rose pedals, and fit boys were running around playing soccer. Several hours, two trips to the off-license, and three bottles of wine later, the three of us were rather drunk, quite relaxed, and very much delighted.
We ended up drinking Jaegerbombs and £13 bottles of champagne until the early hours of the morning in Medina, our local Arabic club. Somehow, Charlotte and I ended up wearing these hats:
M
One week on, we were dog-sitting for Steph's parents out in the 'suburbs' of Edinburgh, so to speak, and we had another afternoon whose spirit matched that of the one spent drinking wine on the meadows, then dancing long into the night. We took their 1960s red Morris Minor convertible out for a joyride through all the best bits of Edinburgh.
The attention you get when riding around in this car is amazing. We were stopped outside our flat so that I could run up and grab a hairdryer, iPod speakers, and my macbook plug (rushing down to the car with this combination of items made it look as if I had fleeced my own apartment indescriminitely for anything that had a plug attached to the end of it), and when I came back down, Steph and Charlotte were being chatted up by two guys dressed as cavemen who were trying to convince my flat mates to take them for a ride. Later, we had a chat with two guys in a vintage mini cooper while stopped at a traffic light. Several miles down the road, while waiting in traffic, a hippie offered Steph £10,000 to sell him her car, which she rightfully refused because there is little more satisfying than driving around this fantastic city in such a fantastic car. It was our intention to pick up the things from our flat, and then go back to Steph's house to study, but once we had the iPod speakers on, blasting our favourite songs (this car is from a pre-built-in radio era), we couldn't possibly consent to go in. So, we drove by the beach so that we could smell the sea, and then we drove through the park that winds around Arthur's Seat, and we drove through the center of town, up and down Princes' and George Streets, putting smiles on people's faces, while singing at the top of our lungs.
If all my summer goes as these days have gone, it need not be a Jane Austen novel to be a very delightful summer indeed.
I think that, in my world, at least, it is officially summer. Sure, I have two [now one] weeks of exams and revision left, and today, at least it's overcast and chilly [still true], but it FEELS like summer. I may have a million things I should be doing, and lots more things I should be learning, but everything just feels so light and spontaneous that I find it difficult to care. This is going to be my first British summer. As such, I'm sure I'm over-romanticizing everything - indeed, Charlotte wonders why I've elected to stay in rainy, muggy Edinburgh when I could be in sunny America - but, I have this irrational belief that the sun's magical rays will candy-coat each summer day in red and white stripes; everyone will be attired in a Barbour jacket to combat the crisp breeze that rolls across the lush green grass as he sips a refreshing glass of Pimm's, idly watching the pages of his book rustle in the wind, or maybe watching some of his friends playing croquet. There will probably also be some lighthearted polo playing and fox hunting (the fact that fox hunting is now illegal is obviously irrelevant). This may be a rather Catherine Morland-esque attitude for me to adopt, but I think that life as a character in a Jane Austen novel would only augment my ridiculous fantasies.
So far as my stereotypical, fantastical British summer goes, however, I am not doing badly. Two weeks ago yesterday, for example, Charlie and I were studying in the library. I was listlessly flicking through pages of a textbook, staring wistfully out of the windows at the Friday afternoon sun shining onto the Meadows when Steph showed up looking mischevious. Once she had lured us out to the Meadows (which, admittedly, didn't take much effort), she revealed that her Chloé bag was concealing a nice, cold bottle of wine.
The trees were raining rose pedals, and fit boys were running around playing soccer. Several hours, two trips to the off-license, and three bottles of wine later, the three of us were rather drunk, quite relaxed, and very much delighted.
We ended up drinking Jaegerbombs and £13 bottles of champagne until the early hours of the morning in Medina, our local Arabic club. Somehow, Charlotte and I ended up wearing these hats:
M
One week on, we were dog-sitting for Steph's parents out in the 'suburbs' of Edinburgh, so to speak, and we had another afternoon whose spirit matched that of the one spent drinking wine on the meadows, then dancing long into the night. We took their 1960s red Morris Minor convertible out for a joyride through all the best bits of Edinburgh.
The attention you get when riding around in this car is amazing. We were stopped outside our flat so that I could run up and grab a hairdryer, iPod speakers, and my macbook plug (rushing down to the car with this combination of items made it look as if I had fleeced my own apartment indescriminitely for anything that had a plug attached to the end of it), and when I came back down, Steph and Charlotte were being chatted up by two guys dressed as cavemen who were trying to convince my flat mates to take them for a ride. Later, we had a chat with two guys in a vintage mini cooper while stopped at a traffic light. Several miles down the road, while waiting in traffic, a hippie offered Steph £10,000 to sell him her car, which she rightfully refused because there is little more satisfying than driving around this fantastic city in such a fantastic car. It was our intention to pick up the things from our flat, and then go back to Steph's house to study, but once we had the iPod speakers on, blasting our favourite songs (this car is from a pre-built-in radio era), we couldn't possibly consent to go in. So, we drove by the beach so that we could smell the sea, and then we drove through the park that winds around Arthur's Seat, and we drove through the center of town, up and down Princes' and George Streets, putting smiles on people's faces, while singing at the top of our lungs.
If all my summer goes as these days have gone, it need not be a Jane Austen novel to be a very delightful summer indeed.