One Out Of Three Ain't Bad.

To anybody I even vaguely know, it should come as no surprise if I tell you that right now, as we speak (/I type) I am procrastinating.  Even less of a surprise, the thing from which I am procrastinating is academic and comes in the form of a book.  I’m not sure why I am quite so incapable of reading prescribed course materials, as at all other times I am a self-confessed, unashamed and obsessively opinionated bookworm.  However, put the title on a reading list and hand it to me in a classroom and you’d think I was illiterate.  Having already tidied my room, scrubbed my kitchen cupboards and washed my hair today, and being without iPlayer etc for the foreseeable future (damn you Sweden, damn you), I am left with little distraction except to warble away on here for a while.  Lucky you, aye.In the past week (maybe I should just write Sundays off and call them blogging days, as that seems to be the way that this is going) one thing has changed, somewhat significantly, and that is that I am now officially enrolled in some classes at Göteborgs Universitet.  Perhaps also significant, and definitely hypocritical, after two weeks of moaning to anybody with ears about how god damn impossible it was to subscribe to any classes, I managed to miss my first two.  Oops.  The first was a very ambitious 10am Speculative Fiction (i.e. Sci Fi.  Uh huh.) class after a night out.  True to the general story of my life, I got drunk and slept through it (and, as Oscar asked me to clarify, yes I do mean overslept, not slept with the entire group, just in case you were wondering).  After this hiccup, I dragged myself to McDonald’s for a hangover cure and stumbled to my 1pm class.  After a bit of trouble locating the room, I arrived and sat there for a while thinking they were just engaging in pre-class chatter in Swedish.  However, when notes began to appear on the board in Swedish I established that no, this was the actual seminar in full swing and, more to the point, it was not the one I was meant to be in.  After a pretty awkward explanation on my part, I shuffled red-faced from the room, too late to find my actual class.  And another one bites the dust.I did eventually make a class though, at 6pm that evening (which, in case you were wondering, is absolutely, definitely, completely, 100% too late for a class to start).  It was also unfortunate that the required reading for this was Birthday Letters by Ted Hughes.  I can tell you, without a shadow of a doubt, that reading a book of poetry written by a man to his dead wife is not ever going to help a miserable hangover day.  I think I would have really enjoyed the collection too, had it not been for the circumstances, so I shall attempt a rereading at another point, preferably when I’m located in my bed, wearing my cat t shirt, with a gallon of tea and a vast supply of biscuits for company.  The class went fairly well but as it was a night class, the other people were all mature students, which made it a bit different.  Another negative was that when it finished at 8pm, a severe downpour had begun, and I was wearing sandals and a summer dress, which meant that the long tram journey home in the dark was even less enjoyable than it might have been otherwise. However, the rest of the reading list looks interesting and I am strangely excited to begin my proper classes with other people my age, equipped with a raincoat and not suffering from what my dad likes to refer to as ‘the wages of sin’ (i.e. a hangover).After returning home on Thursday evening to the welcoming arms of my duvet, and recovering with a Skype from Beth, enough pasta to feed the whole of China and ogling over Ed Westick in a re-watch of Chalet Girls, things looked up.  On Friday evening I reluctantly opened another bottle of wine and had a strangely fun evening of classic 90s music, singing into washing up brushes and developing a dangerous new dance that from here on in I shall simply name ‘The Rug Slide’.  Yesterday, we visited the Botanic Gardens and despite feeling that this was perhaps a daytrip better suited to my grandma, discovered they were actually very nice.  I especially enjoyed the table and chair with flowers planted into the seat and top and a cactus for a lightbulb.  When I have my own house, with its high ceilinged library and secret garden, I shall kindly let my dad (who by this point is of course going to have retired and be on hand to be my personal gardener at all times) attempt to recreate this for me.  Lucky him.Lastly, a quick note on the Swedish postal system.  As mentioned in my previous post, within just minutes of arriving at Kviberg, I somehow managed to break my laptop charger.  Luckily, somebody let me borrow their computer to order a replacement.  I arrived home one day last week to discover what I assumed was a missed post slip in my mail box.  I groaned outwardly, imagining that a UK style postal goose chase was to follow.  In fact, despite the fact that I didn’t understand a single word on the slip except a vaguely recognisable shop name, I had hopped on a tram, signed for and received my package and got a tram home again within the space of about twenty minutes.  This is particularly reassuring as in the next week or so I’m hoping to receive a parcel from home including a Kindle (Yes I caved, although that’s a story for another day.  Don’t judge me; I’m not proud of myself.) and my jewellery, which I am feeling naked without, and some boots from ASOS because I imagine my feet are going to be getting cold quite soon.  So yes, just another simple system that Britain has somehow managed to overcomplicate and completely cock up.  Well done England, well done.