Victory, ish

I just realised I never heard anything from Warwick, and in a spirit of idle curiosity I called up to see what had happened. And apparently the English department recommended me for a place almost a month ago, and they were unhappy, but not exactly surprised, that the admissions people hadn't let me know yet. "They're having problems down there," they said. "We've definitely lost you, haven't we." "Yeah, sorry," I said.

Now I feel sort of bad for them, not specifically for missing out on me in my dubious glory, but because I imagine this happens to them a lot. Or maybe not; I would've called ages ago if Warwick had been a big priority.

I had a good touristy day in London yesterday - I occasionally have to remind myself that I am in London and it is an exciting metropolis, because otherwise I just sink into the embrace of Borders and the latest Louise Bagshawe novel or something. Instead I had lunch on Southbank, then hung around Foyles for about two hours reading a collection of gothic short stories by Elizabeth Gaskell that I hadn't realised existed, The Idler, the legendarily awesome personals section of the London Review of Books, and "The Ice Palace" by Tarjei Vesaas. Which last is terrifying even in translation and on a warm, sunny day.

Finally I bought a very cheap copy of Wuthering Heights and headed to Trafalgar Square, where I was photographed by tourists who possibly thought I was a genuine London person. ("We're bona fide! We're not from London!") Wandered about the National Gallery for a bit and was delighted by Alison Watt's Phantom paintings, then went to Covent Garden for ice cream (others had had the same idea and there was only one flavour left, so I had chocolate and chocolate).

After which I went to take the tube and through inattention ended up on the Covent Garden Station Staircase to the Underworld. This is a 191-step winding staircase that according to a sign at the bottom is only supposed to be used in emergencies; I didn't realise this until I'd been heading down for a good few minutes and couldn't hear either the street above or the trains below. The Underground is creepy enough as it is, and there's nothing like a winding staircase to make distances seem interminable. I emerged to find myself in a perfectly normal tube station rather than actually in Hades, and took myself to Oxford Circus, where I sank into the embrace of Borders and the latest Louise Bagshawe novel.