Picture this… You’re standing on a corner, waiting for the light to change, when suddenly, the skin gets ripped off of your heel. You turn around and there stands a young mother, most likely late 20′s/early 30′s, with her massive pram and cooing baby. You react, as any normal person would, with a quick inhale of breath and an “ouch”. Suddenly, the mother becomes greatly offended. She looks at you like you are a walking piece of filth and practically accuses you of molesting her child. You are so taken aback, that you forget all about your bleeding heel and stand, mouth agape, staring after this incredibly righteous “maman”, wondering what on earth just happened. Is this reality? Apparently so.

Explanation: The mother is obviously worried that due to her lack of consideration for your heel, you will then, in a fit of pain, fall on her child. Because you aren’t wearing a Gucci black dress and the latest Jimmy Choo’s, she mistakes you for a hobo. She has never heard of Primark, so it’s not her fault. Go get a “plaster” and shut your face!

Another situation… You’re standing in the entryway of a shop in Islington. A mother with a pram the size of a starship attempts to fit inside the door. Instead of politely asking if you will move, she stares at you with a cross gaze and huffs and sighs until you move on to the next article of interest. She then complains to the shop owner that the shop isn’t big enough for her baby’s pram and that it needs to change in order to become more accommodating. You, smile, because, let’s face it, it’s funny and the woman asks if you have a problem. You laugh and the mother begins to cry. You then feel really bad, so you leave the shop.

Explanation: The mother is clearly sleep deprived and forgot to take her daily medication. The shop owner was an old school mate of hers who grew up to be much more successful than her, so she harbours great animosity, as well as a fear of small spaces. Her psychoanalyst told her to stand up for herself and be more demanding of what she wants, however, you have mistaken sassiness for being bitchiness, so it ALL YOUR FAULT.

Situation Three… You are shopping at One New Change near St. Paul’s. A mother, strolling a baby in a chariot passes by the glass-wear, hitting the edge of the table with the massive wheel. The pram might as well have spikes sticking out the sides because it’s like a scene from Ben Hur. Vases and glass sculptures go flying through the air, falling from the table like horses into the dust. The mother rolls her eyes and when the manager approaches, she exclaims, “glass-wear shouldn’t be kept there, it could fall on the baby.” The manager’s eyes light up like the eye of Sauron, but she keeps her cool and an employee begins to sweep up the damage.

Explanation: The customer is clearly wealthy, hence having a pram the size of a guest house. The pram signifies the woman’s wealth and size of her home… anyone with less money wouldn’t be able to fit the damn thing through the door. Her sense of entitlement is also on a grand scale in accordance to the laws of the English class system and her snobby attitude furthers the British stereotype “stiff-upper-lipped”. Get with the culture people!

The power of the pram, folks, the power of the pram. Go out and buy yours today. With it, you will finally possess an entirely blame-free existence where you can do anything you like, say anything you want, and not have to suffer the consequences. You can join the pram club, wear little tight jogging suits, and hang out with all the other trophy wives in your block on the Heath. You are so darn special. You have a baby! You are better than everyone else! So go out there and get that pram today! After all, it’s everyone else’s fault you forgot to take that birth control pill.

Yesterday, 9 June 2011, was the 141^st anniversary of the death of Charles Dickens, and in memorium and as a celebration of Dickens’ life, The Charles Dickens Fellowship presented Dickens Day, which I attended with much enthusiasm.   

I woke up late, which as of now seems to be quite the trendy thing to do, showered, dressed in red and cream, threw on the old cowgirl boots (as the London pavements of Chancery Lane are quite treacherous and to wear heels would be running the risk of fatality), and promptly left the flat, in hopes of a full day “Dorking It Out With Dickens,” as the title of the film would be so aptly called.

I took the overground train from Walthamstow Central to Liverpool street and then the Central line to Bank and I was nearly there!  Past the Royal Exchange, past Monument, past the giant Marks and Spencers, I began “wending my way towards Leadenhall Market,” popularly described in Dickens own Pickwick Papers.  It was here, beneath the covered streets in the shape of a cross, beneath the carved arches, the garishly painted columns and store fronts, beside the artists with their wares, peddling costume jewellery and linnen scarves, and amongst the savoury whiffs of cheese breads and biscuits and the sweet and sickening smells of treacle and trifle, it was here where the celebration began.

At first, I noticed several mature men and women wearing costumes of Dickensonian London.  Top hats, green coats with tails, pinafores, and bonnets, reds, purples, and blues.  Babies in rugby sweaters and tourists from everywhere milled about the centre of the market awaiting the entertainment that was to commence.  There was a stage, a small wooden plank of a stage, set up to provide elevation from the awaiting crowd.  Children from a performing arts school of some sort awkwardly danced about, bored, and waiting for their moment of musical bliss.  But first, a reading from Charles Dickens’ masterpiece, David Copperfield, by Dickens’ very own great-great grandson, Mr. Gerald Dickens!  And what a reading; orated from the small stage with gusto and power, from  this man, who actually does look very much like Dickens himself!  I was determined to introduce myself in hopes of getting my picture taken with him, which, in the end, I did.  The children’s choir was much better than I expected of a children’s choir, performing a medley of songs from Oliver! and A Tale of Two Cities: The Musical, etc.

Next stop!  The Dickens Museum!  Located at the home where Dickens wrote many of his early works such as Readings By Boz, The Pickwick Papers, and Dombey and Sons.  It is here, in the museum, where one of my very earliest memories of London resides.  In March of 2009, as I scoured the walls, reading every single bit of information pasted to the walls of this wonderful house, I was nearly locked in for the night!  If I hadn’t happened to have walked down the staircase when the last employee was locking up, I would have spent the night with the ghost of Dicken’s 17 year old sister-in-law, whom he idolized and who was the model for Little Nell in The Old Curiosity Shop.  To this day, I wish I had stayed upstairs, but today was not the time for conjuring up spirits from the past… or was it?

Lucinda Dickens Hawksley, Dickens’ great-great-great granddaughter, gave a short lecture on Augustus Dickens, Charles’ younger brother, entitled “The Life and Lies of Augustus Dickens.”  Augustus apparently shamed the Dickens family by leaving his blind wife and running away with his pregnant mistress to Chicago.  I had always wondered about that strange grave stone at Graceland Cemetery…  The lecture was fascinating and Lucinda, who is a Dickens historian, has had the great privilege of having first hand access to the entire Dickens collection of letters.  Her research on the topic was extremely thorough and her delivery of the information quite amusing as she was exceptionally charming and lovely. 

Next, the day continued on with a Dickensonian tour around Clerkenwell, where Dickens spent a great deal of his youth.  An old cynic by the name of Pete was the tour guide and I say that he is a cynic because of his opinion of Dickens’ sweet and innocent heroins as making a modern audience “gag.”  However, Pete was a marvellous tour guide and told storied of the author as we travelled.  We stopped off at the law office where Dickens worked as a clerk at only 16 years of age.  Then we walked through the park of Lincoln’s Inn fields, a popular duelling ground at one time, but for Dickens, a famous place of celebration and protest, where he spent a lot of time with friends doing public readings of his works.  The law offices of Lincoln’s Inn described in the opening paragraph of Bleak House, and Tooks Court street, also mentioned in the same novel, under the pseudonym of “Cooks Court” were also looked at along the way.

We concluded the tour in one of the oldest building in London, in a room called Prince Henry’s Room, dating to 1610.  The beautiful etched white ceiling with the golden crown as the centrepiece was absolutely magnificent and almost a bit much for such a small and simple room.  Here a baritone and a pianist sang and played for the delight of the society, songs from the time of Dickens. My favourite was “My Love Is Like a Red Red Rose,” which I remember singing as a child in youth chorus.  The baritone concluded his program with “Reviewing the Situation” from Oliver!, which was quite funny and a wonderful performance, although the singer was much too young and baby-faced to ever play Fagin.  At one point, he slipped on the overly waxed wooden flooring and nearly face-planted, but, like a trouper, carried on.

The closing of Dickens Day took place in Westminster Abbey, at the burial grounds of Britain’s greatest author.  Here, in Poets Corner, lies Mr. Dickens himself, under a slab of plain cement, flanked by the likes of Rudyard Kipling and Sheridan.  After a prayer lead by Canon White, Mr. Gerald Dickens spoke on behalf of all those who have a love for great literature and all those who have been brought together by the words of this great author.  It was truly beautiful and could not have been delivered any better.  He then laid a wreath on the grave and two young students, a boy and girl from Gad’s Hill School, laid the second wreath.  Everyone bowed their heads in prayer and the spirit of Charles Dickens smiled down upon us all in thanks.

As I flew over India, over Europe, and into Heathrow, I thought about my experience in Issan, and what I had learned there. I thought about the people I met, all of the temples visited, the water and the heat… and I thought about Vanessa and the work she is doing and the life she is making for herself. I became overwhelmed with it all, and I cried… Not tears of sadness or joy, but just tears of bodily freedom and knowing. The knowledge of another culture – another way of life.

Vanessa took me, one day, to a community of people who work and live in a landfill, spending their days sifting and sorting trash for a meagre living. It sounds sad and the smell was not roses, lemme tell ya. However, I was amazed at the way the little village had been able to provide for itself. A woman busily raked mud underneath a giant frame of a tin roof. She was going to lay tile on top of the floor when it was finished and then start on the walls. She was literally building herself a house with her own hands! And then it occurred to me that there was something so personal and so sacred about it all. Next to what would become her home, there were plants growing and a Jack fruit tree, with fruits about to pop off the branches. The fact that a culture of people can be so self-sufficient and so able to survive without begging on the streets, without the fear of starvation, and with a strong sense of community where the only fear is potential illness.

There was one site that boggled my mind… About eight months ago, a gigantic mall called Central Plaza opened up in the middle of Khon Kaen, complete with a huge number of Japanese, American, and European chain clothing stores, a Starbucks, Dairy Queen, and a massive cinema. Central Plaza has brought pink taxis to Khon Kaen, which will eventually put Took-took drivers out of business and the teenagers who take special Central Plaza buses to the mall dress up in short skirts and heels only to stride down its immense walk-ways and glide up and down the pristinely shining escalators. Back behind the mall, not even a parking lot’s width away, is a slum. Barefoot children and women selling iced tea sit in the shade, because the sun is now blocked by the gargantuan shadow of Central Plaza a.k.a. Western materialism. I laughed. How peculiar! And I snapped a photograph.

And then, there is Buddhism. I had the opportunity to stay for one night in a temple called Wat Mok, which is on the outskirts of the main city of Khon Kaen, near the small airport there. Recommended by an older gentleman by the name of P’Decha, Vanessa motorbiked me, backpack in hand, to the wat (temple) where I was met by the one and only English speaking Monk (Mak the Monk) and one of only two people I met in all of Issan who spoke English. Mak and a girl named Waew (pronounced “wow”) showed me to my cabin and after Vanessa left for the night, I joined them in meditation… The meditation done at every prayer service is one of touch and movement of the arms, done with eyes open… It’s almost impossible to describe, however, I can tell you now, I nearly fell asleep every time I attempted to do it. For example, I did, in fact, fall asleep at 4am, after a nearly sleepless night spent on a wooden slab, in the prayer position, during the early morning prayer… I think being a monk would be very trying for someone like me.

But… the fact of the matter is… I have learned something from Buddhism. Patience truly is a virtue… and I have Thailand to thank… Calm, calm, calm… And most of all… Thank you Vanessa – What a beautiful holiday xxx

The first night in Nong Khai, Vanessa, her boyfriend Em, and I sat on a wicker mat on top of a bridge.  Across the river, we could see Laos and the weather was absolutely perfect—74 degrees, no wind.  Shortly after we were seated and Em had spoken to the waiter at what is known as a “hot pot”, we were presented with a ceramic bowl filled with burning embers, on which was placed another ceramic bowl full of water, soon to boil over the flame.  Next, there came strips of cabbage and other greens and several small plates of raw cow parts.  I was suddenly ill, but convinced myself that what didn’t kill me could only make me stronger.  Em dumped all of these “things” into the bowl of now boiling water and after Vanessa poked the cabbage for a while attempting to cover the entire contents in water, Em placed a lid on the top to let it cook.  The result?  Very very interesting.  Besides the liver, which neither Vanessa or I will eat, the taste was a rather gamey result, although the dips and sauces provided were all lovely, especially the sweet one.  Em digested everyone’s liver for the evening and the meat of choice, according to Vanessa and I is apparently stomach lining (and that was according to Em)… hey, don’t knock it til you try it!

A favourite dish of mine so far, now back in Khon Kaen, has got to be kaewsawai-gai.  Huh?  Sorry, I’m learning Thai, so… This dish, put simply, consists of thin yellow noodles, cilantro, parsley, and a chicken drumstick, submerged in a red curry soup and garnished with crispy noodles.  It is quite spicy, but the soup is bursting with flavour and the chicken is so tender it simply falls from the bone.  Hungry yet?  I think yes.  And for those of you who are vegetarians, no worries, you can get it minus the drumstick and it’s still tremendous. 

Observation:  Thai Iced Tea is NOT an American concoction like England said.  It is beyond fantastic here and is quite popular.  The only reason it’s not in restaurants in London is because London is completely bereft of ice and could never appreciate it.  Thank you.

Oh, and I think I mentioned the little orange milks… Apparently they are called orange sour milks, although Em wasn’t sure if it was cow’s milk or rice milk… I think it may be rice milk because it’s so light… Anyway, the other day Em stocked the fridge with them and I awoke to dreamsicle ecstasy.  “Sep!” – - This means “Delicious” in Thai. 

“Gwai-teyow” and  “Tom-Yan” are both two different kinds of soups, but when they first meet the eye, it may not be easy to tell the difference… However, Tom-Yan is, in my opinion, the soup of choice.  Gwai-teyow is a noodle based soup with pieces of floating pork parts, basil, and cilantro, whereas Tom-Yan has chicken in it, onions, no noodles, and is quite spicy and good with white rice.

If it’s a snack you’re looking for, there are always rice sticks.  The technical name is Kao-chi, but basically, it looks like a corn dog – but it’s actually sticky rice on a Popsicle stick.  Yummylicious!   There are also lot of gelatine candies that make me slightly ill, but you can always find Oreos at the 7/11 if you’re done with the whole Thai thing.

Speaking of that, I ate some fantastic pizza tonight at the one and only Italian restaurant in Khon Kaen.  It’s a joint called Pomodores and the pizza is extra-cheesy and fantastic.  Vanessa had to get the motor-bike fixed so I ordered a coke and a pepperoni pizza with black olives… It was in front of me in no time, however, by the time Vanessa returned I had already devoured the entire thing… Guess I miss American food more than I thought…

Well, I only have a few more days here to ingest what I can of this country.  And right now, that will be water… It’s sweltering here.  Today it was in the 90’s!

 It’s about dinner time for those of you in London and breakfast for those of you in the States.  Eat up!  Enjoy!

So… After a nearly 30 hour span of being awake I arrived in Khon Kaen, Thailand.  I flew from Heathrow to Mumbai and then from there to Bangkok, where I took a taxi to the bus station and then, 6 hours later, showed up in Khon Kaen where I was escorted by Took Took (A motorcycle with a cart connected to it) to the Khon Kaen University Campus where Vanessa, my best friend, met me with her motorcycle/mo-ped and showed me and the Took Took driver how to get to her house…whew!

I arrived at Vanessa amazing marble tiled “flat” at 4am and she gave me a roll of sticky sweet rice to snack on and a tiny bottle of a sweet orange milk which tasted like a dreamsickle, before I crashed out into the oblivion that is sleep.

I woke up relatively early the next morning even though my eyes felt like they were going to fall out of my head.  Vanessa announced that we were going to go to Nong Khai, a smaller town on the North-East tip of Thailand (in the province of Issau).  So, I showered using the big basin and a bowl, which I used to dump water over my head and then, as we left the house, slipped my feet into a pair of brand new golden flip flops, which felt amazing having just come from dreary ol’ England.

Vanessa and I, along with her boyfriend Em (who is actually from Nong Khai) took a strange open air bus to the mega-bus station where we then proceeded to take two buses to Nong Khai, a three and a half hour journey by bus.

It was at this point that I became familiar with Thai candy.  Little sticky banana cubes, chocolate pokey sticks, and sweet milk wafers…yum!  And Em bought the two of us a bag of pork meatballs on a stick which was lovely, especially when dipped in a spicy clear sauce. 

The Thai landscape is very wide and flat with a lot of farmland…slightly reminiscent of my hometown in Illinois, but what differentiates it is the way in which houses and buildings are built and of course, the crop difference.  And there are motorcycle’s everywhere!  I think everyone in this country owns one.  Many more of these than cars even.

A wonderful observation:  Have not seen a single McDonalds or Starfucks!

When we arrived in Nong Khai, we sat outside the station and waited from Em’s brother, Ding, to bring around his motorbike so that we could go to the resort we would be staying at that night.  After an A&W Rootbeer (a rarity here), we flew down the wide highway, hot wind whipping through our hair.  Finally, the resort, the room, and ahhhhhh relaxation.  Nap time! 

Jet lag is a strange thing.  One minute I’m fully awake and ready to go and the next, my head is nodding and I can barely keep my eyes open.  But here in Nong Khai, atleast for the moment, I was done travelling for a while… Now, my holiday officially begins.

But now that the snow has melted and finals have all been turned in, I am all geared up for second quarter at Central.  And, in all honesty, what I thought was going to be a rough start to 2010, has actually turned out to be quite a fantastic beginning of what will be quite a fantastic year!

First day of playwriting class – Meeting at The Tate Modern!  Yay!  Nothing like venturing out past Swiss Cottage, strolling along the Thames, in perfect view of St. Paul’s Cathedral!  Ah bliss.  However, I do have to say, that at first, I did have my reservations regarding the Tate.  I have never considered myself a great fan of modern art.  The idea of spending my energy staring at white paintings is not my idea of a “transcendental experience.”  Neither is the idea of spending a million pounds to sponsor some completely banal installation piece, only understood by the artist, in an attempt to be “deep.”  So… as I made my way to the Tate, I held within me a tinge of scepticism, even though I was thrilled to be going on a field trip!

When we arrived, John, our playwriting professor handed each of us an envelope with instructions.  I opened my envelope, feeling very much like a secret agent on a mission (I later said this in answer to John’s question of why we thought he had put the instructions in an envelope, and everyone looked at me like a was a dork).  I was to pick a painting that shocked and inspired me… and then I was to answer the question, “what is the esoteric everyday?”  I was told not to give myself a migraine, but to sit and reflect on the painting for 45 minutes and write down anything that came to mind. 

As I wondered through the iron walled, highly “modern” Tate, I became conscious of the fact that nothing particularly offended me the way I thought it would… I mean, there were of course, things that didn’t strike my fancy, and there was a red painting that I wish I had painted first and sold to the Tate myself, but all in all, there were thing like I had never seen before that absolutely fascinated me.

The chosen painting – “Mountain Lake” by Salvador Dali.  Here were my notes…

Ghosts are, perhaps, more than dead spirits, and they can haunt someone long after they are gone.  Nature, often times, does nothing.  It is altered by man: bombs and flashes of light.  War turns day into night.  Life without communication can create mass destruction.

A lot of the time, we hold onto our hopes, long after we can be certain there will never be an outcome. We hold on out of the fear of losing ourselves: the same reason why we may still take the time and tender care to hang up the phone on its receiver even though the cord has been ripped from the wall.

There is a lake in the shape of a fish.  One would assume to find actual living fish within.  However, when one leans over to look and see, only their reflection stares back.  The water is completely still and one stands, reflecting in solitude.  Hunger.  No food.  There is a chance that perhaps there have been other humans here, but the stomach rumbles, and it seems highly probable it is all a mirage.

Flight would feel nice right about now.  The rocks on the sand create shadows too large for themselves, and the only warmth, if it is indeed warmth, is in the clouds.  But, there are no signals here… Not even the remnants of a phone jack…or even a building where there could have been a phone jack.  There is nothing but nature here, and a lonely old telephone, and light from some unseen fire burning beyond the cliffs somewhere.

The earth seems to have reverted back to its more basic form, and with the exception of human mirages, there are snails: Survivors of all massive disaster.  Ignorance is bliss.

We are not fond of skeletons.  It is why we don’t venture out towards the shoreline and why we stay put, afraid of the pending disaster.  Not even to go out and see the skeleton of an old of new ship being broken down or built up.  It is the simple image of the skeleton that scares us into conformity and monotony.  It is only when we are old, and have accepted our impending death, that we wish we had taken that holiday to the coast.  We are all going to die.  Nothing can stop time, except for God, and God is silent.  The sea is still.

Just when it seems as if the world has ceased to rotate, a slight breeze ripples the fish shaped lake.  Did the breeze move it or a person?  Is it a mirage?  Wishful thinking?  It’s hard to say.  The telephone is only an infuriating reminder of everything out of reach.  One could throw it in the lake, but it would be unbearable to watch all those memories sink away into nothingness.

It is useless to be completely cynical or completely ecstatic about life and being.  Extremes are often dangerous and misleading.  It is better to float in moderation and keep an open mind.  Decisions are better saved for the material world, but the imagination should always remain limitless.

I’m on a new quest… And I’m seeing life in a different way… but after all… that’s what art is all about… Art changes the way your brain thinks and alters your perception of the world.  Thanks John… Thanks for bringing me to the Tate.

The Welsh accent is highly amusing.  It’s very difficult to understand however, and I had to ask the bus driver about ten times how much he wanted me to pay for my fare.  Welsh is a funny looking language in itself… Everything is spelled with lots of “d’s” and “y’s”.  Cardiff, the capital of Wales, is called Caerdydd.  Very odd.  For a moment I thought I was stranded within The Lord of the Rings Trilogy because people here are all called Seren and other very mythic sounding names. 

Porthcawl, the city in which Chris was stationed, is a very beautiful little coastal town.  The Bed and Breakfast was located on the boardwalk and after Chris picked me up from Sommersets supermarket (where I nearly got arrested for loitering), we made our way there passing beside a kiddie carnival that looked like the set from a cheap B horror film.  Atlantic waves lapped up against the black shoreline and I could vaguely make out how high the tide was from the white froth resting in the sand.

The B&B itself was extremely cute and reminded me of the little taverns I have so often read about in Henry Fielding novels from the 18^th century.  Chris and I stayed in a top attic room with a small skylight; it was nearly a smaller version of his room back at his home in Swindon.  The poor boy was exhausted because of having to be on the bus to the film shoot every morning at 4:30am.  However, we had a nice meal with the stunt crew the first evening in a small Indian restaurant and later, as I walked in the sand on my way back to the B&B, my senses were filled with the freedom of being on my own in a foreign land, and I began to run, skipping over seaweed and trying to beat the tide before it could grab my boots and fill them with sticky salt water. 

Chris and I enjoyed a Sunday roast in the morning, for he had a day off, and I filled my tummy with chicken breast, new potatoes, cooked carrots, brussel sprouts, and parsnips covered in gravy.  I always thought parsnips were something out of Beatrix Potter rabbit story, but they actually do exist in real life and are quite delicious, if I may say so. 

We spent the rest of the evening watching movies and enjoying each other company.  I don’t see Chris nearly enough, although, I suppose that’s the penalty for being a working class student.  We fell asleep in each other’s arms and in the morning, at 4:00am, I bade farewell to my bearded darling and he went on his way to be made up in a grotesque long wig and dirty barbarian makeup.  At a less ungodly hour, I showered, dressed, and walked past the carnival, which, during the day smelled of roasted nuts, popcorn, and “American Doughnuts” as the sigh proudly advertised.  I wondered slowly through the streets of Porthcawl and window shopped, staring at all the little Welsh goods in all the little Welsh shops before buying a black winter coat, as I knew I would need one soon (although here, the weather was no colder than 65 degrees Fahrenheit): Prices in Porthcawl are so much cheaper than in London. 

Sadly, I said my goodbye’s to Les, the kindly owner of the B&B, and made my way to the bus stop to begin my journey home.  I’d like to come back here… For longer next time… and I like the easy nature of this little coastal town… It could feel like home, perhaps… But, for now, I am a Londoner and will leave the coast of Wales to the Welsh.

Classes run two, sometimes three, days a week, with an occasional fourth day depending on how motivated I happen to be feeling (one of our classes is not mandatory, only an auditing opportunity).  The first class of my week being Writers Group where half the class sits in the board room and discusses each other’s work to great depth.  Here, the bonding between fellow writers begins, and here, great ideas are born and nurtured into adulthood.  I had the opportunity last week to read a very beautiful monologue written by one of my comrades; a sorrowful and brilliant description of a girl’s torment after being raped.  I felt as if I had been given something… a gift: To be the first human being to read this dialogue out loud, right at its birth, right at its first glimmer of creation.  I am sure that even those who are not actors would agree that to be present during a session of Writers Group is a very exciting experience indeed. 

The next class of the day is Reviewing Performance, which occurs in the stuffiest room Central has to offer.  Not only that, but we must cram ourselves between the less than thrilled theatre studies students who genuinely seem to be angry at our presence in the class.  They roll their eyes and then with a flip of their heads, exude a sigh which says, “Ugh… Writers!”  I’d hate to think what they would do if we were acting students.  Reviewing Performance has been interesting on the whole, although sometimes I wonder if teaching a playwright how to be a critic is redundant simply because playwrights have no interest in the critic.  Once a show is reviewed, a playwright’s job has already happened and cannot and will not be changed simply because of what a critic has had to say.  I, personally, find most theatre critics, especially those in Chicago (of which I am most familiar), to be worthless and downright hilarious.  If a certain critic of a certain Chicago paper ever gave me a bad review, I would frame it and hang it over my toilet.

Thursdays at Central are by far my busiest days at the school.  First class of the day begins at ten and consists of Tony Fisher, our professor, talking to us in excited and slightly awkward tones about what it means to be a playwright.  I love this man and the way he thinks.  We both have common interests in metaphysical ideology and both love Martin Heidegger quotes (of which there are plenty).  Sometimes, I find myself snootily hobnobbing with Fisher about some obscure anecdote I know he will find amusing.  Fortunately I am well liked enough not to come off as a total twat to the rest of the class.  However, there is an occasional bout of suppressed laughter from a classmate as they shake their head and endearingly mutter, “That cheeky American.”  That’s right.  I am.

Course two of the day: The Playwright’s Toolkit.  This is virtually the same class as before, this time taught by John Donnelly, a West End playwright… Yes, that’s right.  Never have I met someone as open-minded and genuinely intent on creating a class of fantastic playwrights.  Here, we discuss plays and what it is that makes them work and what it is that makes them not work.  We are interpreters of theatre here and here we will deconstruct play after play and find the strengths and weaknesses of them all.  We have already been so fortunate to have met another playwright from the West End, Dennis Kelly, that John was kind enough to introduce to us, and I, being the “Cheeky American Blonde” that I am, anxiously await an email from Mr. Kelly, regarding tickets to his latest theatrical endeavour.

I am very happy with myself at this point in time.  I am certain that the year will bring about many opportunities and I am ready, with open arms, to accept them as they come.  Cheers to that!

I find it very fitting that on the very day my camera was suddenly, and all too quickly, swiped from my purse and carried off into the abysmal world of thieves and drug pushers, London was rated the pick-pocket capital of the world. 

I cannot express my anger at the absence of my camera enough, except to inform the reader that, whilst I may be an inauspicious looking little blonde in England, I can and do know how to fend for myself on a daily basis and if you know anything about me at all, I pride myself in my independence and my “bad-assery,” so in being robbed by a woman who flew in to the café with the speed of a lightning bolt and disappeared, camera in hand, with the ambiguity of a play by Carol Churchill, I was less than pleased.

And, as I thought about the event later on in the evening, as I sat, camera-less, on my bed, exhausted from my first day as a postgraduate student, I marveled at the sheer audacity and, perhaps, disparity a person must hold deep within them in order to be capable of such an audacious and blatant crime. 

Kilburn, not noted as being the safest area in the whole of London, is, according to a telephone operator at the Queensway police station, famous for its thievery.  It’s also a gun burrough, but that only reminds me of home.  However, most crime here is not dangerous, as knife (or gun) crime is only high in Kilburn if you happen to belong to a gang, and those gangs only tend to go after each other.  I was informed to keep my bag on my lap at all times, even in restaurants, and to never walk down dark passageways at night.  The later will be easy enough – I’ll try not to lurk around dimly lit alleys at midnight… But the former bit of advice is a bit more annoying.  From now on, my study periods shall, instead of acting as relaxing ways in which to learn and write (hitherto advancing my mental and physical abilities in writing), be spent as a guard: senses pricked, weapon in hand, ready to take on any dodgy looking wankers in the corner who could possibly be eyeing my laptop.

As far as the rest goes, I’m in the process of finding a new laptop carrying case, just in case, an old man decides to suddenly become technologically advanced and, hitting me on the head with his cane, hobbles off with my red cyber bag.  And I’m also in the process of practicing the evil eye in the mirror each morning.  If there is one quality I don’t possess, it is looking mean.  No matter how much “bad assery” exists in my soul, the fact of the matter is, I am 5’4’’, 7 st. 10 lbs., and blonde: An easy looking target for anyone without testicles. 

The lesson here?  I refuse to let it happen again.  This week I helped attribute to a London statistic and I intend for it to be the last one.  Thank you.

Sincerely and with much annoyance, Sarah

I bought a kettle for the first time the other day. Kettles: The single most important item in an English kitchen. They are featured in every store on every street corner and they are sold in mass quantities daily. Mine, being the least expensive kind possible, from Argos (a very strange store where you place an order at the front desk to have the item brought to you from the back storage area) cost me only 4 pounds and ninety-nine pence. It is shiny and white and electric powered. The stand sits on the countertop and plugs into the wall. After you fill it with water, you place it on its stand and merely switch on a button… Voila! The water boils in less than 30 seconds and then with a tea bag and sugar already placed within the cup, you pour the water slowly and stir up the contents with content. Of course, milk must be poured over the top of the tea or it’s not English enough, so do not make the mistake of forgetting the milk. Otherwise, shame on you.

I’ve become quite a fan of tea ever since I became a guest at Chris’ grandparents house… and here in Kilburn, I have become a connoisseur (or as much of one as I can be on a strict budget and only having just bought a kettle two days ago). The first box of tea bags was a simple 80 bag box of Sainsbury’s fair trade for a whopping 1 pound. But then, I brilliantly bought a box of slightly more expensive Camomile, Honey, and Vanilla tea which was followed by the ever more lavish Cherry and Cinnamon tea… I’m a dork, I know… But I’m trying to assimilate as much as I can without having to pull a Madonna. Don’t worry, I’m still proud to be an American, even though Chicago didn’t get the Olympics.

I much happier with my tea status than I am with my alcohol status… The problem with mixed drinks in the UK still hasn’t changed or gotten any better since I moved to London and I don’t suppose that it ever will. Vodka/cranberry’s are still dark red and pitchers of strange fruity concoctions arrive at the table only half full… and then makes you sick from the sugar without the slightest hint of a buzz. But, when in Rome… so if you can’t drink a pint, stick to tea. It won’t let you down