thé à la menthe.
I like books that smell, highwaymen, lacy things, a nice cup of Earl Grey and my questionable music taste.
I lived in Russia for a year and several things happened:
www.onthedevilshorns.tumblr.com
Enough Olympic excitement for one day, I think.
Doesn’t London look bloody gorgeous tonight though!
Only a few more days til I’m down there for Olympic tennis.
Feeling all patriotic and fuzzy :)
BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! BRITAIN! SO MUCH BRITAIN!!!
At work all weekend. No interest in the royal family.
Still going to wear me hat :D
I love being British.
Crepuscular is a beautiful word. A January evening. Mine.
Bookshelf. Mine.
In the fields.
My warm, cosy revision fortress is under attack. Surrounded by Russian grammar books, dictionaries and literature, and armed with only a pen and a cup of Earl Grey with which to defend myself. My tangled brain turns steadily to mush as I go over the formation of the genitive plural for the 50th time, and try to make an intelligent, intelligible argument for avoiding the phenomenon of culture shock. Roll on Tuesday afternoon, when the looming beast of examinations will have finally been defeated, and I can leave for Britain, victorious, to enjoy 3 weeks of peace before I return once again to battle the Russian language and its many irregularities.
But you know, I love it really. I do.
Barbed wire. Mine.
“They always say something like, Gentlemen, to bed! For we leave at first light. Tomorrow we battle and we may lose our lives. But remember, death is but a moment. Cowardice is a lifetime of affliction. To bed, for we rise at daybreak! They always leave at daybreak. They never leave at, you know, 9:30. Gentlemen, to bed! For we leave at 9:30. Ish. Gentlemen, to bed, for we rise at…what time is the battle? Around 12 o’clock? 12 o’clock, on horseback? About 3 hours? So, we leave about 8? 8:30? Gentlemen, to bed! For we leave at 8:30, for 9. And we rise at…just after daybreak…7:30. Gentlemen, to bed! For we leave at 9:30 ON THE DOT. ON THE DOT. To bed! Tomorrow, we rise, we leave at 10-ish. But now, to bed. Unless, you are one of those people, like me, who finds it very hard to get off after he’s eaten cheese. In which case, stay awhile by the fire! Talk of battles past and old. And then, and only then sire, go thee to bed, and sleep well. Sleep the sleep of 1,000 martyrs. Sleep well, my brother. Sleep well, my brother. Sleep well, my sister. But please, do not sleep with my sister. Leave my sister out of it, alright? Leave my sister alone. Don’t touch her! Gentlemen, to bed! For at daybreak, we will breakfast. Sire, ‘tis a continental breakfast. It will only take 20 minutes max….”
The Edwardian houses of steep Muswell Hill, a suburban street in the north part of greater London, England. The background view is Canary Wharf; one of London’s major business districts. (image by wikimedia)
(via authenticfauxhemian)
