People Of The Bus

Never has coming back from Brighton taken as long as it did the other day. It was rush hour and it was the clammiest bus ride, and by the time we reached my dear destination all the bus windows were fogged up by the breath of the people that were too many to fit in the bus at any rate. It was no double-decker but a normal one. I was sitting next to a young man, who was listening to music and reading a paperback at the same time. I've never seen the point of doing that, because you (or at least I) end up missing both — what you've just read and what you've just heard. And I can't read on the move anyway for it makes me feel sick. I'm a bit bitter because of that. Perhaps his only goal was looking cool. Which he pulled off quite well. There was an old lady eating a chocolate bar. One piece, after a couple of minutes another one. A man in his mid-thirties playing a game on his iPhone and by the way he sucked. And then his phone rang and he failed to answer and he had to call back. Fail. At least three people checking what's going on on Facebook. People coughing. People breathing. People fogging up the glass and some people wiping off the fog trying to figure out when would be the right time to hit the stop button. But Brighton itself was really nice, the weather was really nice, I was out wearing only my denim jacket. I mean not ONLY, I was wearing other things too to cover up other body parts. Don't picture me wearing just a denim jacket, please. I know, it's too late now. But I need that kind of days to cheer me up, to make me feel alive and kickin'. To make me want to absorb every last thing there is to be absorbed. The see and the sun and the streets. The Englishness? Especially the sun.

We have more staff now, three French students. For now they seem alright. However, now that I've said that they might turn out to be a nightmare. There are two things about French people that never fail to amaze me. Number one: no matter how pathetic, childish or hopeless a man is, or even if he is a complete twat, he is without an exception wearing cologne. Number two (and this is the last time I'll ask, putain de merde): is every fourth man seriously called Thomas? Yes, we've got another one. Last night I asked two of them how old they are, and after telling me they're 17 and 19 the 19-year-old smiled widely and said, clearly being very proud of his English skills: "I'm a big gay!"OK, everybody knows he meant guy but the French accent came badly on the way this time.

Right, I was wondering why it was getting a bit chilly in here cause it's been boiling hot in my room the last few days, but I found a logical explanation: my window was open. I'm such a Sherlock. It's less than four weeks now, folks, and I'm feeling fifty-fifty. I'm going to the town now. To study. I'm not posting music this time because I have huge trouble deciding what to post. Nothing seems to be spot on. Laterz!