A City in Allegro

Just managed to apply for an NYT audition. I have a feeling that filling out the application was far more stressful than the audition could ever be. (Currently thinking Rosaline's speech to the dead Juliet from After Juliet as my monologue. Any opinions, o internets?)

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Went to the Science Museum in London yesterday. The museum is cool, but the city is better. I love London; it's a city that moves in allegro, and it's difficult to stay in andante, even when it's necessary.

There's one particular corridor in the King's Cross Underground station that always makes me think, 'Right now, I'm under London.' Its walls are grey and curved, so it feels like being inside a giant pipe. I think I am doomed to always be a tourist.

We took the Tube from King's Cross to South Kensington. I cultivated the art of standing unsupported, with the unfortunate victim being one poor man whose brown shoes I stepped on heavily. A man at the other end of the carriage was reading a Romanian newspaper; a curly-haired girl in a formal party dress searched through her handbag, and a bleach-blonde, makeup-caked woman somewhere in her late twenties was coming back from shopping.

Many writers far more skilful than I have covered the museum itself. I dare only add the footnote that we ate linguine for lunch in a café where the only light source was the glowing tabletops. The waitress was Polish, the dissatisfied man next to us was ethnically Chinese but had an English accent, and the woman on the other side of us was a terrible mother. The glass saltshaker glowed. It was most satisfactory.

We used the museums subway from and to South Kensington. There was a man with an electric violin playing Baroque pieces who had a sign on the inside of his open violin case which read 'No Smiling: maximum penalty £200.'

I smiled anyway.

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Might start posting this summer's Extremely Overdue Posts soon. Might not.

Bonus question: can anyone guess why the location of the summer school is an extra motivator for me to get into the NYT? ;)

Letters to the World

Dear Summer Holiday,

why didn't you listen to me? I told you to slow down! I told you! And now you're threatening me with impending school? That's rich, coming from something that can't even listen to simple instructions.

Yours irritably,
Me.

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Dear BBC,

Really? Splitting the next series of Doctor Who in half? More than a year's wait for Sherlock?

Have mercy on the poor addicts!

Yours with withdrawal symptoms,
Me.

P.S: Or at least give us copious makeouts to compensate for the wait.

(CC: Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss)

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Dear Spider,

I accept your right to be on my bedroom wall. That's fine. As long as you stay in one place.

In the hopes of waking up without a spider on my face,
Me.

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Dear Wireless Router,

Stop screwing around. Some of us actually want to use the internet.

Yours exasperatedly,
Me.

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Dear Science Coursework,

please be magically finished with no human intervention next time I look at you.

Yours in vain hope,
Me.

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Dear Money,

Where are you? I'm sorry for calling you the root of all evil. Please come home, I need your help!

Yours contritely,
Me.

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