Another Sunday

It's the middle of another quiet Sunday here. I'm at my desk, looking out to the greenery of the trees outside, set against a nice blue sky on a cool and still autumn afternoon. Scattered chatter around. Other than that, one hears just the rustling of the leaves. I think this is how the weeks are shaping out. Lessons on weekdays, relaxing on Saturdays and then a sobering-up on Sundays. I've noticed, among those I've spoken with, that they've mostly reserved Sunday for schoolwork. Makes perfect sense. For me, I think I've got hundreds of pages to plough through today. Boring, verbose, turgid academic writing. What are the authors trying to prove? Can't complex ideas be expressed with simple and straight-forward language?

Yesterday was pretty good, however. Found a cheap barbershop in Chinatown, which was curiously named Marx. So I guess I got a Marxist haircut? Anyway, a giant bangers and mash meal at the White Lion pub at Covent Garden followed. And later in the evening, a gathering in a flat at the Finsbury Park area with the new mates whom I've been hanging out with over the past two weeks. Lots of alcohol around, though no one passed out...