Today, I had my midterm for that philosophy class I alternately love and loathe.
Apparently, staples haven't been invented yet, so we were each handed this red stringie-thingie to hold our papers together.
And then I went to watch some football.
Although Aston Villa was recently relegated after an absolutely crap season, it was still very clear that they had, not so long ago, been in the Premier League. In other words, the U's had their nice British fannies handed to them on a platter three-nil.
Of course, I hadn't decided to go because I thought it would be a good game. I don't follow professional football; I just play. Watching all the dramatics on the field can tend to a farce.
But it was fun sitting in the crowd and listening to all these really blokey blokes shout obscenities around their drinks and meat pies (dear God, so many meat pies).
At the half, I went with Sir Andy to stand in the terrace where all the crazy people stand (you've got to be a few fries short of a Happy Meal if you pay actual money to stand for two hours in the prime location for the advent of Ball Meets Face). We (luckily?) found a spot right on the bottom level so I wouldn't have to peer around rather pissed (American translation: drunk) six-foot-tall blokey blokes rhythmically chanting "YOU DON' KNOW WOT YOH DOIN'!" at the refs for every penalty the U's were denied.
Clearly, Abbey Stadium is on the rather less posh side of Reality Checkpoint.
It was all good fun. Very good fun.
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