A linguistic liturgy
Mon Dieu! Je suis totalment pooped. Just had the biggest dia estresante, like, ever. After my morning lectures on French literature and Spanish poetry I had lunch with my housemates Yuri and Fatima. It was absolutement hilarious, I bet the people around us didn’t even realise we were switching between Ukranian and Arabic. But I have to admit I did use an imperfect subjunctive in the wrong context at one point. I must go over those tonight – after my Chinese calligraphy classes.
So anyway, after lunch I had to go all the way to the LFA offices. I mean it’s like I spend all my time there. But I did have an uber schon convo with my Swiss-German Supervisor. Definitely planning that Europe tour to go through Altenberg. Can’t believe I’ve never been. Then again I only went to Frankfurt, Munich, Hanover, Jever, Pfungstadt and Plettenberg the last three times. I really love Petershagen.
Time for an après-midi aperitif methinks. Luckily I had packed my quinoa and Indian spice mix – actually what’s really lucky was that I knew the local dialect last time I was in Bengal so I managed to sweet-talk one of the locals into giving me their best selection.
Feeling stuffed, I decided to make that call to the UN I’d been putting off for ages. Since I did my internship they’ve emailed me trying to get me to broker some peace talks between two warring Eskimo tribes as apparently I’m the only neutral third party that knows both their languages and cultural idioms. Or something.
Chilled out in the evening with my Japanese anime collection. I was watching with Yuri though so I had to switch on the subtitles, but it was okay cause I entertained myself telling him how they were actually quite inaccurate given it was set post-twelfth century.
Now I’m going to bed – got to be up in time to catch the Finnish shipping forecasts! Schlaf schon darlings!
Old rivalries die hard
Another week, another story waiting to be blown wide open by the inquisitive campus journo. Puns, fun and a bigger office than the other campus newspaper; what’s not to love about campus media? A rollercoaster ride of stereotypes and dodgily replicated quotations from university officials. I love every minute of it.
Listening in on the section meetings of that other paper is a profitable pastime; we are the News International of campus, casually ripping off the BBC’s news stories and selling the gaudily repackaged contents as our own hard work. But clearly bright colours and a certain pizzazz mean more than well-researched stories and unbiased perspectives….just look at our awards wall!
Spell checking? Necessary? I don’t think so. Serious journalists simply don’t have time to dot every ‘i’ and cross every ‘t’; it’s a frankly unnecessary conformation to hoity-toity and unrealistic standards of journalism. Sensationalism sells; this focus on ‘factual correctness’ is tedious and sooo ‘I-did-an-internship-for-the-Guardian-after-my-gap-yah-trekking-across-South-America’.
Rather than an office strewn with Jack Wills gilets, falafel and self-importance, we tend towards a more down-to-earth approach. Now that the News of the World has folded, our career options have significantly decreased, but we live in hope that our strenuous efforts in the field of tabloid journalism will eventually be recognised and rewarded with the highest honour available. One day, they will shut us down too.
Aaah yoga. The feeling of the mat beneath my perfectly-turned-out lotus position, the deep breaths filling my body with inner calm and peace. I love it.
I pity the clearly inferior yoga newbies in their gym-perfect workout wear, desperately trying to grasp the fulfilment that only hemp sweatbands can achieve. Amateurs. Their idle chatter before the class begins fills me with anger; they do not, cannot, appreciate the beauty and poetry that their bodies are about to undergo.
No doubt next week they will be at cheerleading or zumba, and as far as I’m concerned that is where they belong. They probably don’t even eat granola. They wouldn’t know a handwoven headband if it did pose of a mountain in front of them. As I feel my chakras aligning, I realise that I am clearly superior to them since my intellect is as flexible as my spinal column.
The knowledge that constant bending is allegedly a form of exercise fills me with a smugness that only those with an insufferable sense of self-importance and a health-food induced social ostracism can achieve. Yoga is my life; it’s all I need. Leaving the yoga haven of James Hall, I feel within me a sense of completion, my spirituality has reached a pinnacle of elation from which I will float on high until next Wednesday.
You know, the word ‘yoga’ is actually derived from the Sanskrit word, ‘yuj’ meaning to join or unite, and yoga does exactly this – to unite one’s body, mind and soul with the express purpose of ultimately merging into the divine consciousness. And I’m uniting a quick fag, a triple-stacked burger and a hefty bout of pre-drinking, then hitting Ziggy’s with my divinely conscious, yoga-toned arse. Yoga definitely qualifies you for sports-club kudos, right?