Sunday, March 24, 2013

Loveable Bears at The George

"All supermarket beer should be astronomically overpriced.
That'll force people to drink beer at pubs as they ought, instead of at home in front of the telly.
That's my alcohol platform. 
I could win an election on that."
--Professor Keith

The thermometer is currently dancing around -5000 degrees below zero with a windchill of Absolute Zero.
There are three positives, in this field of negatives (literally negative temperatures)

1) It's Palm Sunday, yo.
One great thing about Palm Sunday/Holy Week thus far: I realized far too late what my Lenten resolution should have been, and am accordingly making it my Holy Week resolution, and it is (naturally): sleeping in my bed.
Anyone who has ever shared a room/house with me is painfully aware of the fact that 95% of the time, I opt to sleep on a couch or the floor instead of my perfectly comfortable, clean, cozy bed.
While this strange idiosyncratic habit is a fun little demonstration of my ability to adapt to any environment, it's also kind of annoying/of dubious courtesy.
I have made my bed, now I will lie in it.

Other great things about Palm Sunday include: heart-wrenchingly, shivers-up-the-spine-inducing beautiful music at Brompton Oratory, which made me miss Lit Choir Easter at school in the best way possible; and, for a split second, made me remember why I wanted to study abroad in the fall so long ago.

Each time the thurifur passed by, it was like a little breeze from heaven.
The incense not only smelled beautiful, it was a warm draft of air in the arctic Oratory.

2) There is a chocolate festival occurring literally (LITERALLY) a fifth of a mile from my doorstep.
I'm one hundred percent okay with this. I am so okay with this, it's not even funny.
Frozen and shivering, we ran across Hungerford bridge to find ourselves in the warm embrace of free samples of chocolate.
There were picture-perfect, colossal, gooey brownies, thick, clean-cut slabs of fudge, and delicate, perfectly-spherical truffles.


3) Despite the cold, the English Pub Culture is alive and well.
There are few things more endearing than a sweet little English pub.
Yesterday, as it the wintery clouds covered the Strand with snow, we were tucked into a snug little tavern by Waterloo Bridge. With plenty of greasy, salty chips sprinkled with malt vinegar, and large pints of creamy, caramel-colored beer, we gathered around a table, laughing our little hearts out.
A pub is one of the most coziest places in the world.
You hop in around four o'clock, and you stand at the bar, chatting, or your find a cozy little nook, and share secrets over a pint, or you stand at one of the tables, and talk about literature.
Pub culture is endearing and marvelous and full of warm smells, and simple music, and happy faces.
It's full of the smell of beer and hot cider, and steak and ale pies.
It's hearty, robust, and the absolute last word in comfortable.
And it is also utterly, positively charming.
(Almost as charming as a gchat convo with my mother, like I am currently having. Almost)


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