Cooped Up

I have now been at my parents' house for about a week and I think it's slowly driving me mad. I can't handle the city.

Ernest was perfectly lovely of course, meeting Mum and Granddad on Monday. He was absolutely charming to Mum, telling her she looked like she could be my sister and saying "oooh, Mrs Cardew, what a lovely home you have" and what not. He spent simply ages talking to Granddad, talking about Yorkshire and the things Granddad likes to talk about. I suppose Ernest simply sat there and listened, but he was so sweet about it, so incredibly patient.

But I cannot handle the city. I think it's perfectly horrid. So many people, as many as there are flowers in the country. Ernest took me out for a walk around the city - we went to see a show at the O2, 'The Love Punch' (Ernest's choice, not mine), after having spent the afternoon in Greenwich, at the observatory and the Royal Naval College. I took pictures.

I do quite love Greenwich, also because after Hyde Park it's one of the few green areas in London easily reached. Ernest had brought some crème eggs and other Easter-y things and we sat on the grass in the park and simply ate and talked, but even a day out couldn't shake my feeling of claustrophobia.

The city makes me perfectly unhappy, I find it utterly dreadful.

I mean, there is hardly any green space - you'd actually have to go to an actual park, or Greenwich, to see any real trees - and there are people everywhere. Everywhere is cramped, everyone's unfriendly and if you try to make small talk on the Tube they look at you with this vile look as though you've actually stepped in dog droppings.

I was shopping in Oxford Street the other day and I got stepped on by others not once or twice, but thrice.

I really can't wait to go back to Hertfordshire. I'm going on Monday.

Good Friday

So, we're once again having one of the major Christian holidays, this time of course to remember the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth, and on Sunday his resurrection.

I haven't, however, been to church in ages. I mean, I was brought up in the Church of England because my Mum and Dad wanted me to get into a good primary school, and I never did mind church, but I suppose I like church for all the wrong reasons - I love the rituals and atmosphere, but I suppose that's not actually the point of church.

I do still celebrate Good Friday and Easter of course, also because it's a family tradition.

So yes, I'm no longer in the country, I'm stuck in the city at my parents' house, nibbling on hot cross buns, everything looking sort of yellow and green and lavender, and Mum really rather obnoxiously grilling me on my last term. I do look forward to meeting up with some friends in the city over the next few days, but I do rather miss just being on my own, doing nothing but watch telly.

On the upside, we have cucumber sandwiches.

Grandfather will come visit too, all the way from Yorkshire. This, I don't mind. Grandfather grew up in a completely different time and place and I love listening to his stories of the past. When women wore hats and gloves and men always wore suits.

I should really try and get Ernest to wear suits more often. I'm sure he would look utterly dashing in them. A lovely overcast grey three-piece suit, a veritable Prince Charming.

Or dress him as the artist-poet type. Floppy brimmed hats and wide shirts and cravats, suffering, dying for his art, and I would come to rescue him, and I will be his Muse, and we shall live happily ever after.

He's promised to come by on Monday. I want to introduce him to Mum. He's in the city anyway, celebrating Easter with Jack I suppose.

I may organise a small egg hunt for him. He'll love that.

It's a shame really that Dad cannot join us for the weekend, but he's away for business. I suppose investment bankers can't celebrate Easter. I'll ring him over the weekend, though, to wish him happy Easter.

Summer (and beyond) plans

Bonne soirée, mes chéris!

Graduation is fast approaching - no, perhaps not graduation, but the end of my degree. So, technically graduation is approaching too.

And I am trying to make plans for what to do beyond.

Beyond the threshold of - it is rather scary, isn't it? The great beyond of finalising a degree? The vast emptiness of infinite possibility.

Anyway, I've thought long and hard about what to do next year. I could potentially go on and do another degree, but this is not something I am currently in the mood for.

Jack says I should try and find a job, but I'm not particularly in the mood for that either. I mean, imagine having to do the whole nine to five thing, stuck with people in a dreary grey office, people who are so boring because they've already been there for years and years. It's not for me. I mean, I do understand that for some it's of course a way of life, like in the sense that they haven't a choice, but I simply cannot see myself in such an environment.

I'd much rather spend some time doing something exciting. Seeing the great wonders, meeting brilliant people. That stuff.

Then yesterday it struck me.

You know how they used to do this sort of traveling of Europe before entry into society? A grand tour. Of course they don't do entries into society anymore, not really - although Daddy would've liked to see me do that, I think - and very few still do a Grand Tour.

But it strikes me as entirely romantic. Visiting all major European cities, seeing all the beautiful architecture and art, meeting wonderful people, eating brilliant food? In any sense it'd be a perfect alternative to all my other plans. Infinitely less boring than a job, more interesting than another degree, and certainly better than staying idle.

I may even convince Ernest to join me.

There's a lovely article from the New York Times from 2008 which sort of outlines what a Grand Tour is. Me, I'd just be interested in the art side of things - literature isn't really my thing, studying whatever language I'm studying at the time always bores me. But doesn't it sound romantic? Travelling from city to city, learning to appreciate what has been taught, sowing wild oats before grown-up life starts?

Of course the article only talks of young men but the feminist in me says that nowadays it should be perfectly acceptable for women too. Right?

I'd love to start in Paris, because I love Paris. Spend forever in the Louvre, nibbling on macarons, spending nights drinking fabulous French wines and eating baguettes and escargots and speaking French. I love France. Barcelona. And then Milan and Florence and Rome and Naples. Athens. Vienna. Prague. Berlin. Amsterdam.

Doesn't it sound wonderful?

I think it does.

And certainly I'm sure it should be possible.

I'm off to see whether Ernest would want to join.

Jack

I love Jack, I really do. He's my best friend. But sometimes he can be a right... pain.

No. If one has anything unpleasant to say, one should do so quite candidly.

I really wish that Jack was sometimes a little less obnoxious.

I'm sure he has my best interests at heart, I don't doubt that he has. But his continued insistence on me studying German - while really I do think that should be my own choice rather than his, and I do believe I have other things on my mind currently - and his infernal, continuous teasing over Ernest does rather get on my nerves.

Jack does seem to be suffering from a mild form of agricultural depression these days, in the sense that he seems rather fed up with living where we live. True, flora is as common here as people are in the city, and quite a number of people seem to be suffering from this sort of epidemic, being tired of the country, but that really isn't an excuse for how often he seems to be travelling to the city these days.

I hardly ever see him these days and when I do, he spends all his time discussing either work or whatever I've been up to in my time here.

He continuously tells me that I should stop 'obsessing' over Ernest, that Ernest is nothing but a scoundrel and definitely not suited for 'someone like' me and that I'd be sincerely disappointed if I ever found out who Ernest really was.

As if I didn't know my Ernest. And how could I not love a man whose name is Ernest? Doing so has always been a sort of girlish dream of mine, and I do think Jack should be more sympathetic to this.

On that note, I do have my suspicions why he seems to be in the city so often - but I shan't divulge my suspicions until they are more certain. Rumours do have a habit of ending up at me, so I'm confident I'll find some form of confirmation sooner rather than later.