Shopping on Oxford: A Religious Pilgrimage

You haven't shopped insane until you've tried Oxford Street's Primark at the opening of London fashion week.

We skipped the museum touring today. Pamela gave us the afternoon to see what of London we wanted to revisit after zipping past running from gallery to gallery. But we stayed in the cafeteria for lunch because Fish Fridays, and out first real English meal. Fish and Chips! Verdict: Shut up, English food is delicious.  

Primark? It's London's answer to how Walmart is done. Classed up to look like Topshop with bottom bin prices. And a lot of polyester. But they make six pound wooly fleece-lined leggings that feel like sitting on a cloud. So despite some idiotic decisions by slow walking people and their infuriating, tiny wheeling shopping baskets, it's a wonderland of cheap clothing and way too many humans for the sake of fire safety. Is this what Briton's feel like when they walk into Walmart? Doubtful.  

Take it from me. Go to the one near Tottenham, not near the Marble Arch. It's the difference between Target and K-Mart. 

We also went to Topshop. Much better playlist, much shorter lines, 10% student discount, and it's cheaper here than it is back home. Check the price tags. Should have gone back after the nightmare baking under the bulbs on queue at Primark to get everything I determined was too pricey to buy the first time around. But we already went back to H&M and the Tube was only going to get more crowded on the way home the longer we dallied. You haven't seen rush hour until you've stood on the platform watching three trains go buy without a chance of you getting anywhere near the doors. 

We're going out in a bit, praying the rain'll let up so I don't get my velvet soaking wet. And as it turns out, the process of dressing yourself for a night out in Shoreditch, is a really good way to figure out that all the clothes I want, I obviously left at home.

And, I mean, what am I supposed to do with my umbrella? Someone needs to invent a pocket sized one. Or a smartphone case that turns into an umbrella. My money would be all over that. All of this modern technology we've got going for us. And you techies think I need a fingerprint scanner on my iPhone? Hah. I need a really tiny umbrella so I can't lose it when I'm drunk. Or when I'm completely sober. Can't find my polka dotted one anywhere after all and last time I saw it, I was at Poundland. It's like money in the UK just gets up and walks away from you. 

Claire is fighting off a headache, that's why you've been graced with my rambling. I should be drafting my British Museum post, but that requires much more intellect and a lot of fancy talk about typography that we already determined I'm the only one who cares about.  

I've been here five days and I have yet to meet on my my flatmates. And by flat, I mean a hallway separated from a different hallway by a fire door. The kitchen is two fire and one regular doors away, and according to Claire, it's massive. I've yet to see anyone else's, so I can't comment. I'd include pictures of my room here, but I just threw all of my clothes on the floor like a sixth grade girl trying to dress for the first day of middle school, and I want you to all know that I am a grown ass adult, so I can't let you see me like that. 

The seltzer water isn't flavored here. And it's far more complicated to find parmesean than it should be. The tomato sauce from Sainsbury's, however, is better than I thought. Stop me if I've told you this already. I've told so many people so many different things, I just can't keep my head straight.

I cooked my second meal on the hob tonight in a silent giant kitchen devoid of flatmates. I suppose this means it's up to me to take out the trash. I'll let you in on a little secret. I'm not as much of an adult as I'd like you to think. I don't want to take out the trash. I'm afraid I'm going to mess it up. There's lots of scary proper signs all over the place. And the guards at the palace apparently don't take kindly to those who do things out of order. I just ate a giant bowl of pasta. Why am I so hungry? 

Ah, Claire's just sent word that she feels better. Yay! Catch you on the flipside, with photographs next time--of fantastic British Bluntness at the museum of all their plunderings: stay tuned.