Reading Week!
Which should more accurately be called Freaking Out About Essays And Other Projects While Everyone Else You Know Goes On Holiday Week.
Surprisingly, the thing that I am worried about the most isn't my essays (each worth at least 40% of their respective classes) or NaNoWriMo (which I started about five days later than I should have but have managed to scrape together 10,000 words for anyway) but the fact that I am supposed to be off-book for Arcadia by Sunday.
I'm enjoying the play, but my god. Up til now my experiences of amateur student directors had been extremely positive.
The person running Arcadia seems mostly to have cast on the basis of Who Sounds the Poshest, and most rehearsals turn into giant gossip sessions about people I barely know. (Apart from that one rehearsal which turned into an extended conversation about Star Trek and Tamora Pierce, which was much more enjoyable without being any more useful.)
It's interesting, the number of American friends I have who are completely enamored by the posh boys here. Occasionally our flat is overrun by tall rugby players wearing tweed and wellington boots and smoking pipes. I swear I saw one with a monocle once.
It has its advantages, though; for example, American Housemate informed me that her Bonfire Night ended with an epic battle between the Tory Society and LeftSoc over an effigy of David Cameron which culminated with a wrestling match on someone's car in front of our house.
Surprisingly, the thing that I am worried about the most isn't my essays (each worth at least 40% of their respective classes) or NaNoWriMo (which I started about five days later than I should have but have managed to scrape together 10,000 words for anyway) but the fact that I am supposed to be off-book for Arcadia by Sunday.
I'm enjoying the play, but my god. Up til now my experiences of amateur student directors had been extremely positive.
The person running Arcadia seems mostly to have cast on the basis of Who Sounds the Poshest, and most rehearsals turn into giant gossip sessions about people I barely know. (Apart from that one rehearsal which turned into an extended conversation about Star Trek and Tamora Pierce, which was much more enjoyable without being any more useful.)
It's interesting, the number of American friends I have who are completely enamored by the posh boys here. Occasionally our flat is overrun by tall rugby players wearing tweed and wellington boots and smoking pipes. I swear I saw one with a monocle once.
It has its advantages, though; for example, American Housemate informed me that her Bonfire Night ended with an epic battle between the Tory Society and LeftSoc over an effigy of David Cameron which culminated with a wrestling match on someone's car in front of our house.