poor misunderstood £.

"British Pound Plunges Further," etc, read all the headlines. Much as I weep for the fate of the British Empire should the pound sterling drop below the Euro, I do sort of wish I could pay for stuff now.

Speaking of which, I have to find somewhere to live. This is proving stressful, as I live rather far away and am not relishing the idea of committing to an apartment sight unseen.

So, you know, if you happen to have a flat in Oxford you're not using and all...

work and other monotonies.

I work at Artrageous Potter in Peachtree City, which is down by the Wal-Mart. It's one of those make-and-paint-your-own-pottery studios, and I like my job--even if my manager is a little intense sometimes!--and I'm grateful for it. I also work as a tutor, which is kind of stressful (lots of driving. children. math. you get the picture), but I get paid well.

All of this sort of just feels like waiting around, though. Once I made my decisions about what I'm doing next year I sort of hoped that it would just fast-forward to there. It feels strange having three months and nothing of real significance to fill them with. It's frustrating to know your next step but simultaneously be unable to take it.

That being said, lots of Bean Game and shooting the moon and Waffle House will be happening. Are already happening. So I can't complain too much. I'll miss Waffle House...even though I'll have Posh Nosh next year. (:

location, location, location

That pink Google Maps balloon is me. That's where I'll be next year. Note the thrilling proximity to the Eagle and Child pub, famously home to C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and the rest of the Inklings. Turn right at the end of St. Giles and the Ashmolean is about two minutes away. The Bodleian is only a little further, just off this map. Sheldonian Theatre, Radcliffe Camera, Covered Market, Pitt Rivers Museum, all within ten minutes' walk.


Can I get an amen?

letters that change your life

Once upon a time, I decided to go to graduate school.

Obviously a terrible idea -- do you know the kind of medieval (excuse me: mediæval) style torture that English grad students go through? Do you even want to guess at the job placement rate after graduation? Can you even imagine the exquisite torture of sharing your hopes and dreams with a stranger or new acquaintance to see a familiar wrinkling of the nose, to hear an unspoken "...but why?" in his apparent appreciation of the academic institution?

Well, so I'm doing it anyway. I applied to nine graduate schools, from Penn to North Carolina State. As of mid-March, I'd gotten into two out of seven--the two worst, at that. I was actually getting excited for UGA, though: "I can always get out of this state later, once I've graduated." I told myself. "It will be less scary this way."

I urge you, reader, to imagine the surprise of a no-more-than-averagely-successful grad school hopeful upon receiving an envelope from Oxford University, greatest university in the world. This letter contains not the one sad thin piece of paper starting the body of its letter with the word "unfortunately." Rather, the envelope is fat, thick with the promise inherent in lots of words. Dear Miss Smith, this letter begins, I am delighted to inform you...

...and, well, you can guess the rest. Two-and-some months later, another letter told me I was in Regent's Park College, located on Pusey Street in the heart of the city, to study my nine-month M.St. degree. I hadn't dared to hope that Corbin would be willing to come with me, but he is--provided that he can find a job--and so we set off in September for England. I will dedicate another post, I am sure, to waxing philosophical about what this new step means for me, but for now I'm SO EXTREMELY EXCITED to be moving to Oxford with Corbin. God waited until the very moment when I resigned myself (not unhappily) to getting my degree at UGA before he gave me something so much better, and I hope that I can prove to Oxford that they made the right decision.