Friday the 13th

"There's no place like London," sings the title character early on in Sondheim's Sweeney Todd, and for years I've referred to it as my favorite city in the world (despite the obvious ridiculousness of such characterisations).

Living so close this year has only increased my fondness for her. So after my International Dispute Settlement tutorial this morning, I'll be cruising in on the Oxford Tube once again, likely for one of the last true Friday afternoon/evenings of carefree, random exuberance and exploits, followed by a hungover Saturday of Shakespeare (King Henry Parts I and II) at the National Theatre.

"They are not long, the days of wine and roses..." I say, to justify taking yet another day off from responsibility toward the looming exams, forgetting for a moment the absurd amounts of money invested in tuition... and also to take a few days off from addictively tracking the nuances of the political scenes at home and abroad (which is now which? -ed.) in favour of the sunshine of Hyde Park, Happy Hour with William Blake, and inspiration from Kerouac, who claimed his work:

"...comprises one vast book like Proust's Remembrances of Things Past except that my remembrances are written on the run instead of afterwards in a sick bed."

On the run indeed. There's a quote for this Friday the 13th, an evening of strange and eery possibilities. You know it.