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I have nails!!
I realise that for most of you, this is a seemingly banal announcement, but those of me who know me well will know just how much of an achievement this actually is.
Since acquiring nails, I've become somewhat obsessed with painting them and buying cheap nail varnish, but such is my inability to sit still and leave things alone that it only takes a day or two to pick it all off again.
But yeah, I wanted to share my achievement with you, because I am a six-year-old. Look Mummy! Look what I did! You get the idea.
I promise to be more exciting soon. My fellow Welshies and I are invading Toronto this weekend, so I'll have pictures and such to show you next week.
But for now, here's a video of Stephen Fry being wonderfully hilarious:
:)
It's such a nauseatingly North American word, don't you think? Never in Britain would you hear someone talk about a midterm. Especially not when you're an English student. It's generally accepted that students choose English so that they can write waffly essays, and don't ever have to actually memorise anything for exam purposes. And yet here I am in Canada with pages and pages of dates and names and other such things to revise. Yes, revise. I am not studying. I am revising. Deal with it, Canadians.
So, while I'm sure most of you will be spending the evening of St. Valentine's Day enjoying the company of your loved one or miserably sobbing in front of the tv while you watch The Notebook and consume copious amounts of wine and ice cream, I have a hot date at 6pm with a 3-hour exam. It's nice to know that this February 14th I get to despair at my romantic loneliness while desperately trying to remember who wrote the score to Casablanca. Oh well, at least on Wednesday I can go to Loblaws and buy stacks of reduced price chocolate.,
Now, Canada, I need to have a word with you. We've had our fashion differences in the past, but this is getting ridiculous. I can live with the rucksacks and the excessive amount of Roots and Abercromie tshirts. I can forgive the propensity to wear trackies all the time. I might even be able to overlook the excessively baggy trousers (which, by the way, was apparently a trend created by prisoners to indicate that they were up for a bit of backdoor fun, if you know what I mean). I can deal with all of these things, but this I cannot tolerate I've noticed that some of your residents think that it's ok to walk around wearing big, thick, thermal winter socks and these:
This is a nasty habit which cannot be allowed to continue. I've seen this look with jeans several times, and even once with leggings. I'm afraid that I cannot condone this sort of behaviour. I don't care how comfortable they may be, or that they're easy to slip on when you're just popping to the caf. You look like dickheads. Stop it. Now.
P.S. You're still not off the hook about the whole leggings as trousers thing. They're just not. End of. Full stop.
As an exchange student, I find myself constantly plagued with the question, "Where are you from?" It's a perfectly reasonable question, really. If I were a Canadian who suddenly found him/herself in the presence of someone who, to quote Nicole, "sounds like Harry Potter", I'd be interested. However, as a Brit who isn't from London (shocking, I know), I find myself faced with the dilemma of exaclty how specific to be. Thankfully, Canadians are neither stupid nor ignorant (I'm looking at you, America) and are generally familiar with the concept of Wales. Or they're too polite to say otherwise. This does give me a certain level of confidence to safely say, "Oh I'm from Wales," and if they look particularly thick, I'll stick "in the UK" on the end, just to be on the safe side. This is all fine and well for introductions, but as I find myself getting to know people, there are always those annoying few who insist on asking, "So where exactly in Britain are you from?" We both know that this conversation is only going to end in a hapless grin, awkward giggle and shrug of the shoulders from both parties, but we've reached the point where I'm obliged to respond: "Just outside a city in South Wales called Newport." Now, when I tell people in Exeter that I'm from Newport, I'm usually greeted with a look that screams "I'm so sorry" and a flippant remark about how they once had a train change at Newport. I defy you to find a person in Britain who hasn't been to Newport train station. Here, however, the word Newport means absolutely nothing, so after this rather lengthy and unnecessary introduction, let me give you Canadians a taste of exactly what kind of classy, sophisticated and cultured town Newport really is:
