A letter to Thornhaugh Street, Russell Square
I just addressed a letter that, once posted, will travel farther than I have in the last 3 years. By the same lack of togetherness that caused me to be administratively withdrawn from an online community college class (Seriously. I know, I know. Who am I?), I never sent in my official decline letter for my master’s *programme* at the University of London. My admissions offer first came in February last year; I duly applied for a deferment, it was granted, they sent me a new acceptance letter in October. I received something a few weeks ago about living in London and quickly dismissed it as a glitch in their system. But yesterday, when I got an earnest e-mail from someone asking me if I had questions about moving to London or my programme, my stomach did a flip-flop. So tonight, I went routing through my files for my October acceptance packet. And sure enough, I never sent back the letter.
This means, of course, I have to sign it and mail it immediately. In my e-mail to the earnest, friendly British women, I said I’d send it straightaway by post.
(When communicating with British people over e-mail, which I do about twice a year, I like to pretend that I too am British).
I stood with a pen in my hand looking at the letter without doing anything. I uncapped the pen, and signed it, slowly, and then dated it. Then I had to address the envelope. After I finished the so-English postal code (WC1H OXG), I wrote United Kingdom underneath. I wrote my address in the corner, and it just looked so plain. And it honestly, physically hurt in my chest.
Of course this is all complete bollocks— that I feel this way about a letter. But sending this letter, printed on A4 paper, means I am really and truly saying goodbye to this opportunity to go to back to England. And that makes me cry, like the sod I am.
This means, of course, I have to sign it and mail it immediately. In my e-mail to the earnest, friendly British women, I said I’d send it straightaway by post.
(When communicating with British people over e-mail, which I do about twice a year, I like to pretend that I too am British).
I stood with a pen in my hand looking at the letter without doing anything. I uncapped the pen, and signed it, slowly, and then dated it. Then I had to address the envelope. After I finished the so-English postal code (WC1H OXG), I wrote United Kingdom underneath. I wrote my address in the corner, and it just looked so plain. And it honestly, physically hurt in my chest.
Of course this is all complete bollocks— that I feel this way about a letter. But sending this letter, printed on A4 paper, means I am really and truly saying goodbye to this opportunity to go to back to England. And that makes me cry, like the sod I am.
Comments
Please try and catch the Daily Show with Colin Firth, he's so British. And hot, which makes the penis talk more palpable.