Silken Laumann anyone?

This week marked the first official week at school, which is noteworthy considering I have been in England nearly a month and on campus for over two weeks. But with all the preparation, anticipation and last-ditch effort grasps at so-called freedom, classes arrived just as uneventfully and as stalwartly as they ever do. Mine being the exception: the first lecture was cancelled and the other two got off the ground with barely a sniff at the idea of homework...blessed are my lucky stars.

My friend, on the other hand, was greeted with the news that his program was aiming to stuff three years worth of material between the very few months between September and July. And the content presented in one class was described as being so far beyond what anyone was capable of even taking notes on, the only alternative being taking in the comedy of the situation.

Blessed are my lucky stars, or did I already say that?

Repititiously or not, I do say it with complete sincerity for there will come a time when my stars will fire and fizzle and burn out in a depressing state of affairs, and school will again be the bane of my existence.

Meanwhile, I will figure out my own problem what with having to choose between rowing and soccer. Unfortunately, there isn't enough time for both, as well as writing for the newspaper and putting a worthy effort into classes.

I've been to one soccer practice and to a swim test for the rowing team. The weigh in:

Soccer practice --an old favourite. I will always love kicking a ball around and it isn't only because I look impressive in knee-high socks and Adidas shorts (sidenote to Adidas: yes, I will consider a modelling contract--but only because I believe in the company's product). Soccer seems like an obvious choice, but England isn't about doing what I normally do. Are not I supposed to return a changed person?

Rowing --so far I've only been to the social and a swim test, which consisted of jumping into a pool fully clothed to swim one length and back. Hardly a test.

Are you sure this accurately simulates flipping over an eight-man rowboat into an icy river that will drag me beneath the surface and extinguish my flame of life?
Wouldn't you like to see me swim beneath the surface? Tread water? Hold my breath?
Not even blow bubbles?

Guess not. But apparently I'm qualified.

In the spirit of this whole experience--experience being England, I think I am leaning towards the unknown--the wild blue yonder. Or the muddy Irwell River; it will work too.

I'm also banking on the fact that football, to fall in line with nation, is an obsession with the British and so I should be able to find someone to kick a ball around with if the passion strikes me. The professional footballers live just a drive away apparently--they would certainly be game for a friendly kick-around in the street before supper. Or does that only happen in the World Cup advertisements?

So Row, row, row your boat,
Gently down the stream.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
Life is but a dream.