Hobbiton

Well, it has... Been a while, huh?

In fairness, things have been Happening. Unfortunately, writing isn't my full-time profession, as you may have gathered (if you want to change that, force my books onto your friends, family, colleagues, partners, enemies, local book stores!) - the result is that I can't afford to spend as much time as I'd like not just writing, but on all the accessories.

So what was it this time? Partially, just life stuff. Sylvestus. Pretty art. And then, moving into our new university house!

I am the tallest member of our new house, and I am 5'4". Consequently, our house has already been christened within our Biological Sciences community as Hobbiton (or The Hobbit Hole). It's nice, significantly nicer than the student village was last year (though that wasn't difficult), but moving in has been an understandable hassle. Next week I'm on a five-day field study in Pembrokeshire, and then two weeks after that we start lectures - with three pieces of coursework due already. Oh, and the week we start back I'm going to be getting three baby rats moving in with me.

To stick to my Sylvestus release date, October is going to be busy working on it. The deadlines are looming in life and writing, and on top of that managing this website is becoming an ominous shadow over all of that. It's important, but it may have to take a backseat while I focus on living, studying, and publishing.

In keeping with my normal nature, Hobbiton is a suitably characterful place. It's an incredibly good house for the money, and by student standards, but it ah... Possesses some individualities.

So far we have discovered:

• My bedroom doesn't have a window. It has a sliding patio door which has been chained shut. It opens about three inches. I am not on the ground floor;
• A small roof directly below my sliding patio door which, presumably, is why it does not open all the way as it does not appear to be a very stable roof. However, many students before me have been, it seems, creating a tradition of adorning it with things which they can throw out of the three inch gap it opens by;
• A garage door at the end of our back garden, which is locked shut by a massive chain and a fist-sized padlock we don't have a key for. Upon inspection from the top floor, it is apparent that it does not lead to a garage, but rather to the alleyway at the back of the house;
• The light directly outside my bedroom, which is on the second of four floors, is controlled by switches on the bottom and top floors;
• A hook akin to that which may be found beside someone's front door with a hanging basket attached, on the ceiling just out of reach of the top floor balcony which looks over the floors below;
• Just beyond this, what appears to be a door set into the wall. A metre from the balcony, several metres above the floor below. It has a sign on it telling us not to try and climb into it. It's a very good job I don't drink any more, because drunk-me would definitely try;
• A small concrete step in one corner of the kitchen, entirely pointless but apparently for the purpose of causing a great deal of tripping, toe-stubbing, and swearing;
• We won't get broadband installed for another week, but one can pick up the university campus WiFi - but only from one corner of my bedroom (this is where I am currently typing). The campus is a twenty minute walk away. Sometimes it's strong enough to watch Netflix with only occasional buffering. The network is only accessible from this one place in our house, except one time when I picked it up for about ten seconds in the kitchen;
• The only mirror in my bedroom is wedged behind the desk. RIP mirror selfies;
• All of the lightbulbs had been removed from the bedrooms and hallways when we moved in, but we did find several boxes of them in a desk drawer;
• The downstairs toilet has a glass door.

As I say, it has character, if nothing else. Frankly, I would expect nothing less.

Last year, I lived in a quite different place. The student village was the cheapest campus accommodation - and it was quite clear why. It had been under order of demolition for at least five years, and while we lived there they actually demolished part of it, which resulted in frequent losses of water, WiFi, electricity, buses, and launderette facilities (we lost at least one a week. It was a roulette of living standards. We got a £20 refund at the end of the year, though, for our troubles).

Aside from the general phenomenal awfulness, however, it did have one thing going for it besides being cheaper than just about any student accommodation in the country: its name.

Because this is Wales, it had a Welsh name. Actually, student in Welsh is my least favourite Welsh word of all:

Myfyrwyr.

I know the English were horrible colonists and tried to wipe out the Welsh language and it's a glorious piece of heritage we must preserve and it sounds beautiful when spoken, etc., but.

Myfyrwyr.

It doesn't even have a vowel.

I have a problem with Welsh which isn't Welsh's fault, but rather mine for being a genuine idiot. Like, I'm intelligent but I'm not... Clever. In Wales, all signs are written in English and Welsh. In north Wales, the Welsh goes first; in south Wales, the Welsh goes second. When I first moved to south Wales, I encountered a very unique problem: I keep forgetting I can't read Welsh.

Automatically, I just look at a sign and try to... You know... Read it.

Except that I can't read half of it.

But my brain doesn't register that it's Welsh and therefore I can't read it. I just see something that I can read the first half of and not the second, and think I've had a stroke.

Of course, I then go back to England and encounter the opposite problem: when I've been in Wales for a few months I learn to skip over the Welsh. The result is that I only read every second line of every poster or road sign - meaning that in English I just miss half of what it's trying to say.

I've asked around, and apparently most people aren't this stupid.

It's just me.

 

The student village's name was pronounced Hen-druh-voy-lun. But how was Hen-druh-voy-lun spelt?

I'm glad you didn't ask.

In my first year in Swansea, I counted four ways that it was spelt. I managed to collect photos of three of them, although I don't doubt there were more.

To me, this was absolutely hilarious. What's better than living in a place no-one knows how to spell?

Hendrefoilan

Hendrefoelan

Hendrefoilian

At least you can't spell Hobbiton wrong very easily.