Waterless at Waterloo

Since this past Friday night, i have been living in a quasi-third world country. A country on better days known as Mawdley House. Mawdley House, land of no water.

It all started with the hot water. That's what went first. Tap as dry as the Sahara desert. I took a shower out of a kitchen pot with boiled water. Then, it all went. I'd say it went down the drain, but it didn't go down the drain because there was nothing coming out of the taps to go down the drain. Today, Tuesday, we still have no water. At least they have someone working on it today unlike they did on Sunday. The workers said it will be fixed today, but the world is starting to sound like a broken record, because I could have sworn people said that to me on Saturday, Sunday and Monday. I'm becoming a familiar face the the internet cafe across the street where I go to brush my teeth in the mornings.

So, it's been a long period of silence. I have an excuse. I've been writing. A lot. Writing volumes and volumes of phrases, strung together like the twinkling Christmas lights strung like garland on every street. But if I haven't written here, what am I writing? I'll give you some excerpts. try and guess:

- Yarrr. I've rambled many a' time past this 'ere cathedral. It's in the area of my maiden vessel. At first sight, I was so agog that I had to remove me eye patch to get a better view. YAAARRR. I scratched me head with me hooked hand in wonder. Beautiful as the sea after a raging storm. Yarrr.

I never entered ye here treasure trove until recently. But one day, when my peg leg was feeling sturdy, I walked into the cathedral. And by Blackbeard's beard if this here church wasn't as lovely as pillaging a boat full of gleaming booty. YAR! YAR! 'Tis a mighty fine cathedral. Gothic she be, but of a warm light. Gothic cathedrals be usually cold and ominous, foreboding as a red sky in morning, but this here cathedral felt cozy as the little bunk I share with my parrot Polly.

Polly wanted to take the wall behind the altar for our vessel. It's all covered in beautiful statues like lichen covers an old ship. It's more than a sight for sore eyes. It's a sight to warm this broken seaman's heart.

Ye should take your shipmates thar. Maybe ye should claim it as booty for your captain. It be mighty fine place. You should go see it for yar self.

Orrrr....
- My roommate chose to go to Tiger Tiger to have a dance-y celebration of her birthday. Now, I must say, because here, writing reviews, I can say whatever I want to say, that I love baking cookies. I also may say that I was not so excited by the idea of going to Tiger Tiger. I'm not really a fan of the Soho/Piccadilly nightlife. As much as I love seeing really drunk girls stumbling around in skirts that must come from the movie "Honey I shrunk your Wardrobe," fending of sleazy men and rose sellers and dealing with long lines and high prices, this are is just not really my cup of tea

I was, therefore, surprised to find Tiger Tiger to be an alright kind of place, kind of like spaghetti bolognese. My first once-over of the digs left the following assessment: black walls, big booths, an upper floor that looks like it came out of some sexy 70's disco film. Hm. Ok. The crowd was well dressed, maybe not dressed to the nines, but not dressed to the ninnies or 'trying to be a nine but come out as a because I must have forgot the other of my clothes at home.'
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Now if that second one didn't give it away, I'll tell you. I've been writing a guide to communicating with musquashes. To top it off, I get paid. Paid damn well, but I have a 35 per week review quota, so I have little time for other writing. But what a great job. I tell ya, getting paid to write - It's like having free reign of a Belgian chocolate store, delight in its purest form.

Other news:
We had our fine auction December 4th at the auction house. I got to phone bid. "I have a 500 pound bid against you. Would you like to bid? Or, would like just like to give me the money? Or, perhaps you should just go build the world's largest tree house." The top item was a pure gold pagoda-shaped headdress. Guess how much it went for? If I was buying it, it went for not only my arm and my leg, but also my bellybutton. If you were the person who bought it, it went for 12,000 pounds. Oh consumerism.

Sunday I went on a mission to find the prime meridian. I put on my safari suit, grabbed me machete and pith helmet and set out through the wild jungles of the London transportation system and streets. After a grueling trek, I stumbled to the top of the hill where I stood on zero latitude and stomped like a baboon on the international date line.

I've also had visitors in and out like trains in a station. Here, there, gone. It's been lovely seeing so many familiar faces around. Today, my family gets in. Tess and I will be headed up to Scotland for New Years to participate in the bacchanal of Hogmanay. We've managed to snag a place to stay with couchsurfing.

Well, it's nearly 1 pm which means its time to go eat my lunch out of a kitchen pot. Why? Because we have no more clean dishes and we've been through the tupperware, lids, containers and all. We've even eaten off each other's unshowered stomach's, the floor, and the back of our pet ostrich. Nothing is clean anymmore. Keep your fingers crossed that our faucets turn into Victoria Falls tonight.... Here's to hoping.

Hannah