First Contact

Log 1, Day 34

I’ve been in this alien city for five weeks. Five weeks tomorrow.

It’s 5:30 p.m. on a Friday and this meal is the first in three days that I haven’t eaten chips and oozing-with-cheese pub food.

I’ve given up converting Celsius into whether or not I should be layering up and just put every article of clothing on that I have.

I know what a bike bell means walking along Regents Canal.

I understand the pedestrian right-to-cross-whenever-the-fuck-I-want.

I just bought another pair of walking shoes to sacrifice to the holy London pavement.

My oyster card has become another appendage.

I feel a sweet sense of rebellion when I spell with “Z” instead “S”

I’ve been asked 1,408,654 times if I’m voting for Trump or Hillary.

I’m being brainwashed with IV-drip-Cadbury.

The natives are welcoming, but in perpetual motion, making it difficult to get an accurate photograph. The only thing that they are certain to stop for is beer at the pub.

Transmission out,

Katherine