Look at that, I actually did it. Writing creatively for three days in a row! How good. How lovely. How nice.
Continue readingLondon | Paunch
Author: Dan Hackett
London | Maoam
I am going to try and write a little bit every day. I’ve decided. I want to get more practice at writing things I enjoy, not solely corporate metallic pieces. So hello—here I go, doing a little daily diary.
Aside: I wonder if professional cow milkers keep journals. If they did they could call it a daily dairy diary.
Continue readingLondon | Idiot Bastard
London | Noob
I have moved. I am no longer living in France, though I miss it with all my heart and do earnestly hope to return and gain citizenship one day.
I am now located in London, and I have been here for eleven days.
Continue readingStrasbourg | Wisdom
I’m bald, I’m bruised and I’m swollen; I look like a kiwi left behind in a lunchbox in the ruins of Chernobyl.
Continue readingStrasbourg | Moron
I look like a toad. I look like a sack of flour that’s been hung from a butcher’s hook and thumped until it burst. I look like an unkempt ballbag, recoiling in the sunlight for the first time after a long winter bundled up inside a pair of long johns.
Continue readingStrasbourg | Cochon
It’s been five and a half months in Strasbourg. This blows my mind. Half a year here, and still life feels like a waiting room; waiting for my French to improve, waiting for solid friendships to form, waiting for our money to stop fluctuating quite so madly.
Continue readingStrasbourg | A Good Man of Snow
Strasbourg is quilted with snow. We were supposed to go hiking in the mountains yesterday, and we got up early to dress ourselves in layer upon layer of old ski gear. When we got to the train station, however, we found our train cancelled due to some trees having collapsed onto the tracks.
Continue readingStrasbourg | You Must Learn Speaking French
I’m acquiring a lot of physical possessions in France, which is scaring me a bit. On my desk I have a sepia French globe (a gift from Jeanne), a harmonica (a gift from me to myself; extremely ill-advised), and a strange glass ornament containing sand and water and bubbles, the three of which drip over one another to form little orange pyramids whenever I shake the thing, which is every thirty seconds because I have the attention span of a hummingbird.
Continue readingStrasbourg | Paul Oomplah
France’s version of the Job Centre is called Pôle Emploi. It’s pronounced ‘poll ump-LAH’, or something like that. It seems to change every time a French person says it. It certainly changes every time I say it.
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