One of the benefits, or curse depending on how you look at it, about studying English is that you end up reading quite wonky works. At the moment I’m reading “The life of Charlotte Brontë” by Elizabeth Gaskell.
Gaskell was a contemporary, and a dear friend, of Brontë and she wrote the book to defend the deceased writer from the charge of being ‘coarse’. It is actually quite good and fascinating because Gaskell has included a lot of letters. You could say that this is an autobiography written as much by Charlotte herself as by Gaskell.
It’s not a book to rush through, but some books are like that. You have to read pieces of it to absorb it, and when you find those kinds of books, you savour them. Some of the best books are the ones you have to stop and think; not because the book is so poorly written that you have to stop and decipher something, but because the book opens new thoughts that have to be finished before you continue.
Yeah, I’d say that this time studying English literature is a benefit because I can’t see how I would have read this book if I was left to my own choices.
Mark is away today, because he had to drive over something from the garage to Wiltshire. He’s going to stay the night over there, and then drive back home in time for school. So, I’m looking at a single dinner for me and the dogs tonight, but while I miss Mark, it also feels kind of nice.
I can putter about here with my own projects and not accommodate in anything, and not cook or bother about anything except reading the book, and think about how sweet Mark was earlier because he gave me a cheap necklace. It is some imitation stone that probably cost £5 in the junk shop, but it looks nice, and he bought it for me.
I like it when he buys things for me, because that means that he’s thinking about me when I’m not there, right? Yeah, I like that.
I talked to mum and she wanted me to come home for Christmas, particularly since I spent last year in England. I still have scars from that time, so maybe I should go just to avoid a repeat. I mean, if New Year’s have been jinxed forever.
But I think I want to stay here in England this year too. My parents are coming here on my birthday, so we can see each other than. It’s not like we’re not in contact, and while mum would probably pay air fare for us, it would still be a cost to go.
It’s hard to imagine that it’s a month and a half to Christmas. I’ve been here nearly a year and a half now. Where did time go? In July August in 2011 I moved into my auntie’s cellar, and then I met Mark, and then he moved in on the third date, and here we are.
Ha ha. Time flies. Next year we’re getting married. I think sometimes that this is not my life, that it’s a dream, and that I’ll wake up either back in Sweden, or in Auntie’s cellar. What if I’m in a coma, and have been for all this time? I’ll wake up and some dour nurse named Sue will stick a needle into my bottom. Sort of like Nurse Ratchett in ‘Cuckoos nest’.
Nurse Ratchett isn’t an entirely belaboured as a reference because for some reason I was sidetracked into reading the conservative reaction to the election, and apparently the Kenyan Communism won and the USA is now a hostage to the diktat of the UN and to European socialism that have Obama as a puppet to enslave the God-fearin’ folk of the US of A.
Okay, I exaggerate, but the reaction have ranged from bizarre to vitriolic. There was one tea-partier that really went off the deep-end. It is like politics porn, and the faces of the republicans are melting from the shock.
I’ve always suspected that politics is one big echo chamber, pretty much regardless of side, where you preach to the supporters. However the shock and surprise of the republicans is… surprising. Could they not see this coming? What is more worrying still is that I spent time reading all that crap. What does that say about me?
Now, I think… Is November really a good month for ice cream? There’s a tub in the freezer, and while Mark said I shouldn’t touch it, I could always pretend I didn’t hear that…