It is t-minus 48 hours until I hop a plane and skip across the pond. Preparation has lost its excitement; two bulky bags sit in my living room, SCO emblazoned along the side in stocky black lettering. They stare at me, sullenly, taunting me -- you know you have forgotten something. Even if I did forget something, I couldn't fit it in my bag. The fabric is taut, filled with all the books I need for my studies at the university -- 22 pounds worth according to the digital bathroom scale I used to verify my bag was under the airline regulations.
At t-minus 24 hours, conditions will remain the same. Waiting is torturous. Tomorrow, I'll write down a wish list of things I want to do while I'm there. I don't really need the list, but being the obsessive organizer that I am, the squishy malleable form of the list I've created in my head is just unacceptable for such a serious departure. Of course, I know that any list I make will go out the window once I get there, but idle hands need something to do.
I've read 14 books for the course already, all but one of the novels -- a total of around 2500 pages. Most of the texts will be quite interesting to study, though several of them proved stouter than I expected, inducing a turkey-dinner-like slumber in the heat of the afternoon: a testament to the greatness of their prose, I'm sure.
'til tomorrow. (400 more pages left in the last book).
Scottish word/slang of the day
- blootered -- "Could ye tell me where you was?" "Na, I couldnay tell ye, I was blootered so fierce I canay even tell ya the day 'tis."
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