An Alarming State of Affairs

I'm not entirely certain what's brought it on, but I have recently found myself afflicted with the most rank case of Anglophilia. It's somewhat similar to the "Cold War American Statesman" kick I got wrapped up in back in December, but the blame for that lies pretty squarely on The West Wing and my desire to read all those hefty tomes which the President is always opening and closing thoughtfully on that show. This too has manifested itself in weighty biographies: today I ventured to the Carolina to pick up Andrew Roberts' masterful work on Lord Salisbury, which will be followed by Blake's biography of Disraeli, Philip Guedalla's classic analysis of Palmerston, Wendy Hinde on Castlereagh, and H.C.G.'s Gladstone. I'm two hundred pages into the book on Salisbury and loving every minute of it. (Apparently, his daughters were known in Whig circles as "the Salisbury plains"! Oh ho ho!) In all aspects of my life, I find myself wanting to inhabit a world of pasty people who have excellent television reception and who scurry about under dismal gray skies, complaining about housing prices. Do you understand what I'm saying here? I want to know where "Woking" is.

I am greatly concerned about the Arsenal match.

I can think of no plainer terms in which to phrase this. I am already in favor of tea. I spell words like "democratisation" properly. I have been known to watch adverts on the telly in my flat. The off-key, clipped siren song of my at-least-one-sixteenth motherland is calling to me, urging my return to that rain-addled island from which my forebears were probably cast on pain of death. I can only assume this is the penalty for not knowing where "Woking" is.

Anyway. The guy at the library knew me ("So you're Trevor") because apparently I request and return such volume of unusual literature that they actually have a special shelf set aside just for me. This pleased me to no end--perhaps soon I will simply carry my brain around attached via a chain to a handle and will use it to bludgeon simpletons into submission.

Didn't see Sanna this week, since she had to learn every muscle and bone in the entire human body for a test. I start my two new classes Wednesday, which is likely to cut into my reading time (I always think of my grandfather's plagiarism of Mark Twain: "Never let your schooling interfere with your education") and I am down to a lonely half-bottle of Hennessey, so ideally a trip to Latvia is in the making.

What I'm Reading
Andrew Roberts, Salisbury: Victorian Titan
Robin Neillands, The Dervish Wars: Gordon & Kitchener in the Sudan