Chicago to London

Friday afternoon I met my friend Robyn at the Manchester Picadilly train station. She was in town to see the musical Chicago with me, playing at the city's Opera House Theatre on Quay Steet. The movie version of Chicago happens to be one of my top five favourites, and so I jumped at the chance to see the story live.

Even despite soaring expectations, I was not disappointed. Of course the production had been formatted to fit live theatre, but the effect was essentially the same. Skimpy costumes, a storyline of sex, murder, fame and deceit, a live band and feather flumes and sequins --it was all there. There was also a healthy dose of corny comedy, something that is more subltle--if not nonexistent, in the movie production.

Most of the actors managed satisfactory 1930s American accents, but I am sure the two Canadians in the audience were the only ones who noticed any differently. And unfortuantely for the girl playing Thelma Kelly, Catherine Zeta-Jones absolutely owns the role in the movie production, making anyone else's portrayal of the ousted stage-baby killer pale in comparison. Otherwise, it was well done and well worth getting a taste of something extending beyond the student life culture.

It is 7:30 a.m. and I have logged a very light three hours of sleep--but I am heading to London by coach this morning for three days.

I hope everyone is well!

Think of me when...

Last night, in my prison cell and awaiting the welcome light of dawn, I found myself surfing the web: couscous recipes, Canadian news, travel sites, British news ...back to Canadian news, Canadian sports and then...

And then I found myself there.

I really cannot pretend I don't know what brought me there. I suppose the eventual onslaught of homesickness is bound to hit me eventually--particularly because I have survived thus far unscathed.

But there I was, basking in the familiar and always cheeky banter of none other than ...

Don Cherry.

Yes. Hockey Night in Canada and Coach's Corner.

It was the theme song that first hit me, triggering a similar nostalgia I experienced so many weeks ago when a wayard flock of Canadian geese triumphed their awkward cry above Castle Irwell.

Coach's Corner--a piece of Canadian culture so integral to my sense of home, identity and personal comfort that even its simple trumpet instrumental was a near catalyst for a fallen tear, streaming down my cheek.

A near catalyst. I did not cry. At least that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
Right. So, instead, I watched as a goofy smirk of comfort spread across my face.

What could be more Canadian than odd couple, tag-team Ron MacLean and Don Cherry?

Memories washed over me of countless nights where the Hockey Night in Canada theme song flooded the house as dinner simmered on the stove:

...homework in front of the tv while the third period winded down

...shouts and roars of excitement, disgust and "ahhhhh, you bum!"

...the suspense of the instant replay, one from every angle imaginable and everyone in the living room on the edge of their seats, heads cocked sideways and eyes squinting for the best vantage point

...entire dinner tables cleared out as the family stampeded into the living room because there was a goal ("He shoots, he scorrrrres!!!"), an unbelievable save, an enormous hit or simply because the play-by-play commentator raised the intensity of his voice just so...

And my favourite: the first intermission and Don Cherry's almost infallible ability to hold my attention for a handful of minutes that have become the hours in my lifetime dedicated to Hockey Night in Canada. I remembered it all; and then there it was:

Homesickness that hit me square in the nose, just about as abruptly and obnoxiously as Don Cherry's tie clashes with his jacket.

But it was wonderful. And so, I watched; and Don did not disappoint:

He cut Ron off.
He got fired up --"I really have to control myself here...but it's gutless, gutless!!"
He interrupted Ron.
He raised his voice ...he yelled.
He cut Ron off again.
He praised.
He denounced
He preached -- "If you're gonna talk the talk, you gotta walk the walk!"
He rushed to fit everything into his segment --"Hurry up! We gotta go quick...we got all this stuff and we gotta go quick!"
And he called Ron "sweetheart," repeatedly.

It was glorious, and the thought of all the Coach's Corner segments I have been missing was suddenly very troubling for me--in that moment, in my prison cell.

I think I dreamed of obnoxious plaid patterns and high-collars that night. There was the sound of trumpet instrumentals as well, and hockey clips (dizzying dekes, spectacular saves and flying fists) flashed in and out of my consciousness. And I slept soundly, or about as soundly as a Canadian girl can so far from the comforts of Hockey Night in Canada.

So for those of you who will find yourself in front of a tv watching the game: when the first period comes to a close, and when you hear that infamous instrumental--I hope you will think of me.

The Day After the Attack of the Pink

Last night I abstained from the typical Friday night activities --and damn, it feels good that the Pav did not get a hold of three of my pounds for once...

However, it seems by not painting the town red I caught myself a nice case of pink...eye, that is.

Pinkeye, or for you ER-junkies, conjunctivitis.

• an inflammation of the conjunctiva (the outermost layer of the eye and the inner surface of the eyelids). Causes redness, itching, swelling and oozing.

Lovely.

There are three common varieties of conjunctivitis, viral, allergic and bacterial. I will go ahead and state the obvious: I have obviously fallen victim to some form of bacteria. Who would have imagined, living so cozily in this little den of infestation of mine.

Student accomodation is not for the faint of heart--or immune system. It is a battle everyday. If you want to emerge somewhat unscathed and considerably healthy: suck back the OJ, invest in some multi-vitamins and cross your fingers. And even then, it is an uphill battle.

Considering that most students incorporate frequent binge-drinking escapades, late nights and inadequate (if not downright bizzare) eating habits into university life, it is a wonder more of us do not fall victim to some sort of Deplorable Conditions mortality rate.

Nevertheless, the student, particularly one living away from home, is a hearty creature. Termites come to mind:

• Both are "economically important as pests that can cause serious structural damage to buildings"
• Both "typically inhabit dark nests and tunnels"
• Both are social species, living in colonies that exemplify "decentralized, self-organized systems using swarm intelligence to exploit food sources and environments" otherwise unavailable or undesirable to the individual

...so that explains the bar phenomenon?

• Oh, and both student and termite colonies typically contain "nymphs, workers, soldiers, and reproductive individuals of both sexes, sometimes containing several egg-laying queens"

...freshers, P.I.M.Ps and floozies.

Or am I thinking of cockroaches...

• Both are generally scavengers
• Both are mainly nocturnal and will run away when exposed to light
• And both are perhaps among the hardiest species on the planet, capable of living for a month without food and remaining alive headless for up to a week.

(Okay, the last one applies only to cockroaches because I know plenty of students that have managed their entire university career despite a "headless" state of one kind or another.)

• Students and cockroaches have the ability to slow their own heart rate--students accomplish such a feat with excessive alcohol consumption--I do not know the cockroach's secret.
• Researchers have found a balance between cooperation and competition in group decision-making behavior
  example-- girls travel in packs to washrooms,
  and the ubiquitous phrase, "I'll have another if you do"

• Both depicted as vile and resilient pests in popular culture
• And both are popularly suggested to "inherit the earth" after the destruction of humanity in a nuclear war.

Well....at least it sounds like I will survive Pinkeye.

______________________________________

Helpful hints for ridding yourself of a cockroach/student infestation:

1. keep all food stored away in sealed containers
2. use garbage cans with a tight lid
3. frequently clean kitchen and regularly vacuum
4. seal off any entry points, such as holes around baseboards, pipes, doors, and windows with some steel wool and some cement or putty (Or, change the locks).

This & That & Some Pictures

I am currently boycotting Friday night, for no other real reason other than marching into Manchester city centre did not appeal to me and the Pav may have finally lost its luster.

It had any in the first place?
Okay, not really. But you have to try everything once, right?

No, not really. It never seems a logical line of reasoning to me, especially not when used as the supporting argument for why I should drink "just one drink:"

Oh, come on. How will you know until you've tried?

The same way I know I never care to become a heroine addict or a Seventh Day Adventist.

Not that I am comparing alcohol to heroine or a strict religious line. But it explains--however unduly--that, sometimes, experience is not necessary to gain knowledge. Sometimes we just know.

That is what they say about love, right?

You will just know.

And...

If I knew then what I know now, I never would have.... They say that too, right?

And, Oprah's favourite:

What is it that you know for sure?

I know that the muzzle of each lion is like a fingerprint--no pattern of whiskers is ever duplicated.
I do not know what good that fact will ever do me, aside from filling blog space.

I know that the current fashion obsession--no, infatuation, in the UK is tights.
I do not know if I can resist it much longer.
However much I know I will regret buying a pair of tights at some point in the near future, the influence is too strong. They are everywhere: on trendsetters--those girls that manage the look without looking retro-- and on everyone else too, unfortunately.

Regarding such a future: when I do blog about buying tights--it will be with all due shame, even if I deny it at the time. Trust me.

I recently covered the Agecroft Small Boats Rowing Event for the newspaper. Inbetween races, my photographer, James Lester, and I spent our down time with the swans. This picture doesn't depict it well, but the swans in the UK are very socialized. They seem almost indignant when you don't have anything to feed them--and yes, for all you non-believers--swans have teeth.

Timed-trials at the Salford Quays. Rowers raced over three kilometres in single sculls, two-man, four-main and eight-man boats.

Walks, Talks & Dances Like An American

Our second day in Dublin left Robyn and I to check out the National Museum of Ireland and wander more of the city's streets. By late afternoon, we were understandably dragging. And the previous day's sunny skies had turned to grey, drizzling rain and only helping along our growing fatigue.

We did not have a place to stay for that night because our flight was leaving at 6:30am the next morning. Being self-described adventurous, more importantly on a budget and disinclined to search out an open hostel, we decided to find something to occupy our attention late into the evening--or slum it for a few hours at the airport. Fortunately, the luck of the Irish smiled in our favour and the latter was how we spent the remainder of our time in Dublin.

The Porterhouse: a pub that was warm, dry and serving food. Paradise. It was the eve of Thanksgiving for us, and knowing we would not have eachother, let alone family, to celebrate the next day's Canadian holiday, we decided to celebrate at the Porterhouse. Turkey dinner became pizza and homemade pumpkin pie was replaced with a brownie and ice cream.

A live set, the Glen Baker Band, was playing what turned out to be covers of numerous popular North American hits: everything from Jack Johnson to Neil Diamond. Their energy was a welcome contribution to the Porterhouse atmosphere, and the exhausted morale of myself and Robyn. The dance floor was busy most of the night, occupied primarily by a certain group of people.

My first impression of this handful of individuals that walked into the Porterhouse was that they were different. And when I notice that something is different over here, it usually means I am noticing something that is actually very familiar to me--example being, the squawk of Canadian geese.

This group was different: the guys were wearing ball caps and outfitted in jeans and t-shirts. And the girls were loud. In fact, the whole group was loud. I noticed their overall demeanour was more agressive than I have typically experienced in the UK, as well as Ireland.

I turned to Robyn to point them out, saying "I don't think they're Irish--they're too obnoxious."

This group continuted to grab my attention for different reasons: camera flashes, yelling at eachother, yelling at the band, throwing things, dropping things...and then there it was:

Hollister emblazoned down a shirt sleeve.
South Beach across the front of another.
And the New England Patriot's logo branding the cap of a visor, worn backwards.
Of course. It was all beginning to make sense.

They were American.

They had struck me as different--or familiar-- since the moment they walked into the Porterhouse. And their antics throughout the night, including one liquored American girl staggering into the men's washroom and their terrible dance displays of dance. How undeniably, embarassingly, familiarly American.

One Irish patron even approached our table and said to Tom, a Dubliner we had met the night before and who had joined us at the Porterhouse:

"How many Americans can you pick out of the crowd?"
And so they did spend the next five minutes picking Americans out of the crowd--bringing to mind the phrase: Like shooting fish in a barrel.

Robyn and I helped be demonstrating some obvious Americanisms, a convenient example being the way they danced because it is so similar to the way Canadians dance. I have not felt the red crush of embarassment so strongly as I did that night: watching the spastically goofy dance moves of fellow North Americans.

Yeah, they do that.
And that too.
ooh ...yeah, that one is popular..unfortunately.

At one point I stood up to impersonate a popular North American dance move. It is predominantly a move executed by the guys, and was immortalized in the pop-culture motion picture blockbuster of the late 90s, "Night at the Roxbury":

1. while standing, raise your arms above your head
2. with a bend in the knees, gyrate hips in back and forth motion
3. and at all times, remain irritably close to the person you will be molesting with this move

For anyone still needing clarification: see Ryan Kurzac at the Thirsty Dog.

Not two minutes after I had demonstrated what is possibly the epitome of corn-dog dance moves that typify the dance floors of North America, there it was.

Bombarding through the crowd on the dance floor was Joe America. In his backwards ball cap, brand name t-shirt and Timbaland boots, he landed nearly on top of poor, unsuspecting Dancing Girl and proceeded his own self-perfected version of the Roxbury Rumba.

Oh, wait. She must be American because as the assualt continued she broke into peels of laughter, slowly collapsing under the weight of her All-American boytoy. Unfortunately, sometimes we develop acceptance for those things we cannot change--like the forever hopelessly cheesy dance moves performed night after night on dance floors across North America.

Irish Lads & Irish Jigs

It did not take long for me to notice that the British culture, at least the younger crowd, is considerably more laidback than its Canadian counterpart. The two are very similar, but one difference that never fails to strike me is the sub-culture of bar life in the UK.

A British friend of mine recently admitted that "yes, we do know how to do the pub scene." And it is true. Life within a pub, a bar, a club--and undeniably on a dance floor--is much more animated here than in Canada. I will be the first to admit that I do not have an impressive reputation for partying; however, I have enough experience to make the observation.

And Dublin--being so nearby England--did not fail to impress.

It stikes me almost as a revelation would; in the beginning, it was awe and an almost pleasantly incredulous gape:

Boys ....dance???

But now, with several nights out under my belt and two being among the Irish my reaction is like an affirmation--as though if I did not confirm it, all the boys might sit down and proceed with their too cool for you facade:

Boys ...dance. Yes, they do. Boys can dance!

And the Irish boys love to dance: it mostly consists of a lot of hopping, at least it is anything but the terrible array of dance moves that litter most North American dance floors.

The trio of Irish boys that treated us out the first night in Dublin even danced without us. They did not appear ready to sit out a song just because two Canadian girls were calling 'er quits. And I dare say they outnumbered girls on the dance floor as well.

Guys outnumbering girls on a dance floor: you will see that in a Canadian bar when hell freezes over--or when the DJ plays Tenacious D, whichever comes first.

So we left them dancing. They actually found us later, wandering the streets of Dublin--lost--much to their amusement. But the night was proof that the Irish are fun.

The next night: proof that if it looks like an American, walks like an American and dances like an American--it will be an American.

When Darkness Falls on Dublin

The most impressive thing about Dublin is its nighttime atmosphere. This is not to say that Dublin is not a welcome place during the day; but once the evening crowd takes over the streets, the city seems alive with activity that does not usually transcend sunset hours.

The hub of the city's nightlife is Temple Bar, an area of Dublin on the south bank of the River Liffey. What makes Temple so intriguing for tourists (aside from the fact that it has been completely developed to attract them), is that the area has preserved its medieval street pattern. Narrow cobbled streets lined with endless numbers of restaurants, pubs, clubs, shops, hotels , hotels and even street performers make Temple a veritable amusement park of life, especially at night. Ireland has enjoyed a considerable economic boom over the past ten years, consequently much of the city has been modernized; but Temple retains a feeling of old Irish charm, which makes wandering its streets worthwhile.

My pictures haven't been developed, but this is Temple Bar. The picture isn't an accurate representation of the area at night: the streets and sidewalks are thick with people and all the buildings are adorned with lights--so bright it seems to be dusk instead of the middle of the night. The picture does, however, do justice to the size of the area, as well as the cobbled streets.

The area really is charming, but the catch being: you will be hardpressed to meet any Irish people at Temple Bar. The streets are literally crawling with tourists. We were asked for directions more often than we asked for them ourselves. And this is how the goal of our Dublin weekend was set in stone: meet the Irish.

Fortunately with a little Canadian charm, I doubt our goal was really that far out of reach.

Robyn and I ran into three of what I think were the only Irish people at Temple, and on the outskirts of it at that. They were Simon, Will and ...I will say Fetz because it was something peculiar that escapes me now. They promised to show us where the "real Irish" people go, a spiffy-looking joint by the name of Howl at the Moon. I say spiffy looking because we never did get inside. Yours truly was turned away by the doorman for being under twenty-three.

Twenty-three!?

Yes, I had that very same reaction. The drinking age in Ireland is eighteen. However, a couple theories have developed as to why I never did make it past Howl at the Moon's velvet ropes:

1. the bouncer was a jerk (the immediate assumption)
2. I wasn't convincingly "authentic Irish" (in fact, I am unmistakingly Canadian at times)
3. (my favourite theory): fake IDs are prevelant in Ireland and it is more difficult for a 16-year old to appear twenty-three than it is for her to appear to be twenty-one

This theory was thanks to another Irish lad we met the next night--it is a great theory (bonus points for creativity), but I do not believe it for a second--it is a good example of Irish charm.

And my personal theory:

4. I was dressed like a tourist who could only bring one ten-pound carry-on bag on the flight and had been walking the streets of Dublin for twelve hours

Whatever the reason, I was shamefully denied entry. Adding insult to injury, I discovered all of my companions were over the age of twenty-five. So there I was, on the wrong side of the rope looking in, hatching plans to return to Dublin wearing my A-game and getting revenge on shallow, judgemental Irish Bouncer. Because I wil be honest--we all know the truth likes in theory number four.

Fortunately though, neither Robyn nor my newfound Irish mates decided to leave me in my poor, rejected juvenile state to the streets. We regrouped, hailed a cab and found a much less posh (but equally as Irish) part of the city to spend the night: the Palace (take my word for it, the name was ironic).

To be continued...
Irish Lads, Irish Jigs and Irish Women.

When Irish Eyes Are Smiling

So it is about time I documented my trip to Dublin because the invitations for return visits have already come about. It is tempting to visit the Irish again for two reasons: now we personally know a couple Irish lads willing to extend their hospitality our way; and secondly, the Irish accent is really just that charming.

Robyn and I flew into Dublin around 9:30am on a Saturday morning without a place to stay or any definite plans for the weekend. We were putting our faith in "something coming through" and good ol' Irish luck. From the airport we took a double-decker bus into the city centre, O'Connell Street, and literally just wandered down the first street we came to. It happened to be Talbot Street, which also happened to be where we stumbled across The Pillar Bed & Breakfast.

The buildings in Dublin do not have the same architectural detail that they do in Manchester--for the most part. Of course, the city has some amazing displays of architecture, namely the National Museum of Ireland and the Irish parliament building. However, much of the city centre's buildings are not highrises and do not have a lot of fancy architectural detail on the building faces. The effect is much like the scene of an old Western film, a long road flanked by flat-faced buildings rising up either side of it.

So The Pillar was literally a pillar of a building with a doorway. Later in the day, we walked right by it once or twice once we had checked in because it was so inconspicuous. However, we did stumble upon it about ten minutes after stepping off the bus and decided--being homeless and all--that we should check it out. Inside we found what turned out to be an opportunity we could not pass up.

A young guy named Washington, of all things, welcomed us. The Pillar had two rooms vacant and promised us no luck anywhere else. We were willing to take Washington on his word because everything was booked hostel-wise. Being a bed & breakfast, we got more than we had expected from any hostel: one (entirely clean) room with a bunk bed outfitted with a blanket and pillow that put my already shameful Castle Irwell provisions to further shame. The deal also included breakfast in bed, delivered at whichever time we chose.

Once we had a place to stay for the evening, Robyn and I set off for a meal. We ended up at a small breakfast diner that obviously catered to locals more than anyone else. I think we both regretted the breakfast as soon as it was placed in front of us, but it was certainly our hunger and the spirit of a traditional Irish breakfast that drove us there in the first place.

We got two sausages, two pieces of bacon, two pieces of toast, one egg, black and white pudding and a cup of coffee. A cup of coffee in the UK is literally one cup--no refills, and often the cup is 3/4 full. Our one egg was cooked sunny-side-up and apparently we did not have a choice. And black and white pudding sounded deliciously appetizing on the menu, but turns out to be two miniature pucks of sausage-pancakes. We still do not know what they are. But one was a brownish colour and the other was most definitely black.

The rest of our first day in Dublin was spent wandering streets and browsing stores. The area of the city we were in is greatly developed for tourists, and so is particularly accssible to those travelling by foot. Much of the city of Dublin is like this--the main streets are packed with people.

The day was especially sunny, with blue and cloudless skies helping along my impression of Dublin quite well. But the city at night is what really tipped the scales in good favour for me.
More to come...

An anecdote:
I was telling my South African friend a story today that involved mentioning The Great One. In case the obvious needs to be stated: #99.
Anyway, I noticed a blank look from the South African when I mentioned Canada's golden boy, so I asked:

You do know who Wayne Gretzky is, right?

"Uhhh," a vacant glance comes my way, "... he's .... he's an ice hockey player ...right?" said Shaun, his tone drowning in uncertainty.

________________________________

Culture shock factor: Wayne Gretzky does not cause people around the globe to drop to their knees and pray "I'm not worthies" to the Great One. I never knew.

Off to Dublin

Everything About the Pav Is Cheesy, Including Its Patrons

This weekend brought a trip to Dublin, Ireland with my Canadian friend, Robyn. Robyn and I met in the journalism program at TRU last year, and Robyn took a job as an aupair in England after graduating last spring.

We live a few hours apart in England, she in a small town near Lincoln and myself in Manchester. For Brits, it is an ungodly distance apart--three hours in Canadian terms. And both being true-blue Canadians, we don't consider the distance much more than a short drive. It has been a running joke between the two of us to listen to non-Canadians discuss distances.

On Friday night, my South African friend, Shaun, was expecting his friend Joe to visit Manchester for a wedding the next day. Joe is living in Southampton, which is a three and a half hour trip by car, maybe four with traffic. When we asked Shaun what time Joe would be arriving in Manchester to join the party, his reply was typical of most Brits and generally all Europeans:

ohhhh, I don't know. Not tonight that's for sure.

If he even makes it here at all.

Journeys exceeding one hour are almost unimaginable for those not acclimitized to the expansive True North landscape. When I tell people I'm from Canada, I usually use Vancouver as a reference point of where I am actually from. Although, when I refer to my city as being "near" Vancouver, people assume I mean within the means of a municipal transit system. When they find out I can't walk to the city, let alone live nearly four hours away, they are appalled.

I thought you said you lived NEAR Vancouver!?

And it is understandable. In four hours you can drive from one end of this country to the other. In less time than that, you can drive from East to West. And if you put in a serious day of driving--ten to twelve hours by Canadian standards--you would find yourself well into France or driving off the end of Scotland.

Robyn & Me At the Pav - Pre-trip Party

However, Robyn and I exemplified Canadian travellers (particularly from small-town Canada) on Friday morning while trying to rendez-vous in Manchester. Our plans are embarassingly sparse in hindsight, but at the time knowing Robyn arrived in Manchester at the Picadilly Gardens around 9 o'clock seemed more than enough information.

So I arrived at the Picadilly Gardens around 9 o'clock Friday morning to find Robyn. I soon realized that finding Robyn in a block stretching some 100 square metres in a city that boasts a density of nearly four thousand people every single square kilometre...might be a problem. Not surprisingly, the morning turned into a few hours of Where's Waldo-esque wandering (I am without a cellphone in England, and times like this prove just how wrong I was about spending four months "disconnected"). By 2:30pm, Robyn and I were reunited, looking forward to the weekend's trip, and swearing up and down that the morning's display of mediocre communication would never be repeated.

Needless to say, Joe never did make it to Manchester that night. I suppose he dropped off somewhere between hour two and hour three.

And Robyn and I were off to Dublin the next morning...after all--it is only an hour's plane ride away.

Robyn, Shaun & Me - plenty of fun without Joe.

Get it together like your big brother, Bob

In a testament to the ghetto-ness of my neighbourhood, my house mate Hattie was mugged today on her way home from class. Hattie was walking down Wallness Lane, a road on campus that I also walk to and from university every day. It was 3:30 pm as Hattie came across two young men, she guesses, between 17 and 20-years-old. She describes them as chavs, what I would liken to the Canadian equivelent of skids. One of these punks--a most suitable word--approached Hattie on the sidewalk, asking her for the time. As she glanced down at the cell phone she was carrying in her hand, he grabbed for it.

What ensued really amounts to something that sounds like an awkward exchange between first graders. He held a tree branch, or a stick of some description, in one hand and told Hattie that she had better not force him to use it against her. Hattie eventually let go of her phone as he grabbed for the bag she had slung over her shoulder, and the two muggers took off running down the street.

Hattie said the entire incident lasted no more than a minute. She describes it calmly, and laughs when repeating the painfully unimaginative and immature threat of her mugger:

Don't make me use this.

Use what? Your twig? I won't let this digress into a diatribe about boys and their only too obvious inferiority complexes--but the temptation is there.

Of course, the situation was fortunately minor. The end result was better than other alternatives. And we are all just thankful that Hattie is safe.

But niceties aside. They don't operate with any decency, so why accord any to them--even indirectly--by being thankful that they were only amateurs?

What's most aggravating about this story is that hundreds of students walk along Wallness Lane every day. Had the situation gone on another ten seconds, I'm assured of the fact that someone would have come along the road-on foot, by car or riding a bike.

The amateur nature in which the whole thing was carried out makes the fact that useless members of society like these boys are making perfectly safe situations unsafe for thousands of students. People like these boys affect my personal safety, yes; but more frustrating for me is how people like these boys affect my personal independence, freedom and quality of life.

What is unfair about the situation is a moot point, but I'll make it anyway: How unfair and disappointing is the situation that has a paying university student preparing for a future of contributing to society giving up personal posessions to other members of society with no thought for the future, except perhaps, who to inconvenience next?

And it really is only an inconvenience. Replacing a cell phone will only inconvenience Hattie by measures of time, and possibly a small monetary value--such rationalizations our muggers today use in their defence, I'm sure. But the pettiness of the crime doesn't make it any less infuriating.

Anyone who engages in petty crimes--be it theft, vandalism or abuse--are nearly as despicable as the most violent, deranged mastermind criminals of society. If only for the sole purpose that their crimes do not require any thought; their crimes are not driven by complex or psychologically entangled motives; their crimes are without purpose, and truly even without personal gain. This is in no way a defence of serious crimes. But petty thieves: young, bored, ignorant and disrespectful criminals are wholly unworthy of any sympathy, any understanding and any reprieve for their "inconvenient" actions.

Appropriately, George Thoroughgood said it as splainly as Hattie's muggers deserve: get a haircut and get a real job.