The Werefox.

Lately in London it's become surprisingly warm. I know, who knew. Everyone back home is probably thinking how pleasant an English summer is since it can't possibly reach 104F in the blazing sun. But you're wrong, my friends. You are definitely taking your air conditioning for granted. It may not get as hot here, but stuff yourself into your cupboard sized room of your 3rd floor flat on a warm day and you'll probably start growing moss from your limbs like I have.

So what do we do about this predicament? Open the windows, just like we do back home sometimes. But there's something missing here... window screens. So in the day time I can expect a little bumble bee or two ["wasp wearing a stripey jumper" - heard that in an English film recently and can't get over it] and at night, moths, but that's not so bad. I'm not such a prissy gal. It's annoying, yes, but worse things happen than the occasional insect visitors.

Seriously, MUCH worse things. Last weekend I met my classmate Megan in Camden for a pitcher of Pimms & lemonade on a Friday afternoon. Delish. So we're chatting and Megan's like Omg, did you hear about those foxes and the baby twins? And I'm like, What?

So she goes on to tell me about that day's headline about a family whose babies were mauled in the night by a pair of foxes who got in through the open window. WHAT?!?!

I should explain that foxes are the equivalent of raccoons in Arkansas: they are the pests who get in your garbage and tear up your gardens, and you can get a pest control unit to come over and de-fox your yard. Yup.

So I'm appalled by this baby-eating-fox news, and Megan goes into more detail about the article and the parents' response. They're like, Well we're in a very difficult situation here, we either keep our windows closed during the night and simply boil, or we just have to keep a constant eye on the nursery while the babies are sleeping to make sure foxes don't come in. We have no other options. What ever will we do!

She's telling me this and I'm like Wow, that woman's right, what a pickle.

When Megan's like Um, OR they could just get window screens.

Oh yeah, duh. What a novel idea. That way everyone could get a good night's sleep, enjoy a nice breeze, and sleep soundly knowing that their babies are safe from trespassing foxes.

The next day I find myself chatting with George while he sets up the menagerie and I pick up the little fox pendant, not even thinking about my conversation with Megan from the night before. George is like Yeah, I don't think that's going to be such a big seller this weekend. I might need to put those away so we're not accused of being insensitive.

Naturally, I've blanked and ask what he means. He's like What, you didn't hear about the fox who crept through a window and mauled a set of twins?

And at that I let out a burst of giggles- I know, heartless! I wasn't laughing at the incident, I was just shocked that our entire window screen conversation over Pimms had escaped me. But of course, being a totally inappropriate time to laugh, I was deemed a heartless witch and then blamed for the attacks.

Look at her red tail! She turns into a fox at night and hunts children... she's a WEREFOX!

PS, I think the kids are fine, just a little scratched up. So I'm not acccttuuually so heartless. But I am a werefox.

Dr. Doolittle.

I'm working the Backyard Market as usual this past Sunday and am alarmed/ disappointed when I turn and see Rick creeping out from under my stall table.

Let me explain:

Rick is a fellow worker of the market and he has a permanent stall up near the entrance. Working at this market I've met the most interesting characters I ever thought I would meet. Rick is this delinquent and hilarious but kinda pervy guy and he sells army green messenger bags with some screen-printed designs on them, as well as little button-badges and some t-shirts and cartoon prints too. I first met him when I got back from the US and resumed my weekends on Brick Lane. Chelsea introduced me to a fellow she had met in my absence named George (who has since become one of our main cohorts) and from George we met a slew of other interesting folks.

After market it's customary for all the stall owners to go around the corner to a pub called the Pride of Spitalfields. One Sunday evening a group of these ragamuffins went to the Pride where I became acquainted with Rick, a somewhat-one-eyed chap named Vinnie, and an artist called Lewis.

Now that we've been at market for a couple of months Chane has achieved a "permanent" stall (duh duh Daaaahh!) snuggled right in between this Rick and Lewis, up at the front by George. It's a delightful spot to be in because when it's a slow day I get to watch Rick wandering around doing anything other than watch his stall, George might come to a dance for me to the wild tribal music blasting outside, or I can lean over through the curtain and watch Lewis sketch robots underwater.

Seriously, Rick is NEVER at his stall. As Lewis puts it "He kind of walks in, stakes out a spot and starts chatting to whatever bird he can get to listen, and sets up his stall kind of periodically throughout the day." Last week two people approached me wanting to actually buy his stuff and he was literally no where in sight.. I sold it for him and he was overjoyed.

So, back to this Sunday:

I was running a little late so had called George to throw a sheet over my stall so it wouldn't be taken. Then as I'm setting up, I realize I don't have a chair - on a hungover Sunday that might be the worst fate imaginable. I start to scout out the warehouse for an available seat and I remember that I've walked by Rick's stall and it's not set up yet, so he must not be here... muhaha... there are plenty of people milling about so I figure I can sneak back there, grab the chair, and save my feet/tush/sanity from an inevitable torture. Right as I get it out of the stall and I'm rolling backwards towards mine (cause my Sunday stall is a couple aisles back), I hear from behind me, "Are you knickin Rick's chair?" Me: "Nooo... don't tell, ok Lewis?? He's not here yet, and you know he's never even at his stall anyways! He won't even notice, and I'll just DIE if I can't sit down today." Lewis is like "Oh I'm not keeping that secret.. if he doesn't have it, he'll just bitch and moan and complain and that's all I'll hear all day. I can't believe you're knickin' Rick's chair." Ha but he's kind of kidding, so I nervously continue to my stall and rejoice in my success.

Halfway through the day I started to forget that I'd stolen it and drop my guard as I take a break to wander through the market, perusing all the crafts and fashions I do not need to purchase. Then as I turn to face my stall again, there he is!! That sneaky bastard has crawled under my table and snatched it back!!

I was like WHAT are you doing?

Rick: You bloody knicked my chair and I'm getting it back, that's what I'm doing!

Me: But wha- How did- did Lewis tell you??

Rick: No, I went lookin around the whole f%*&in market for it, that's what I did! Can't believe you bloody knicked my chair.

Me: Rick noooo! But I NEED that chair!

Ha I felt like my life would end without that. The hangover was still quite strong. The whole thing was pretty comical though.

Then, So I'm standing there behind my stall (ugggh, my legs!) reading a pamphlet of artists from an exhibition across the street when I realize that someone is standing in front of me. I look up, and, it's my friend Adam! Yayyyyy, someone has come to save me from being depressed about losing my chair!!!

Adam's like "Hey, how's it going. Have you seen George's mouse?" I'm like, "What, George has a mouse?? What on Earth could you be talking about."

I go visit George's stall and, sure enough, there is a little teeny tiny sweet baby mouse behind him, along the ledge... it's a little bit trapped back there, but it's still strange to me that it wasn't running around and trying to escape. It was like it had found George and decided that he would be his mother. George was happy to take on this role. In my subsequent visits I would find George on his Blackberry scouring Google for something like "what to feed a baby mouse that I found and looks kind of sickly." It's true, by the time we left, things weren't looking up for the little mousey.

This being Chelsea's last Sunday in London before heading back stateside, we decided to hang out in the area for awhile because there's nothing like Brick Lane on a Sunday. We saw a Mexican place (rare around these parts) and decided some margaritas might be in store. Except George ordered a Sex on the Beach because he wanted to "ask for sex on the beach." Whatever.

We're sitting there sipping on margs and gnawing on nachos (gnaw-chos, if you will) and this little Conrad-esque pup comes through the open door and settles next to the wall by our table. We're all like, "Ey pup, whatcha doin here?" And I'm doing the Conrad-whistle like it's a universal Jack Russell thing that this one will know. His owner comes in and is trying to whisk him away, but the thing backs right up to George's chair and won't budge - I'm not kidding, won't budge a freaking inch. The ownder has to leave and come back with the dog's leash and literally drag him across the floor and out the door. We're like, George, what are you doing to these animals? He was like a saint or martyr that these sick and depressed animals seek before they can let themselves go comfortably into the next life... it was really pretty weird.

So now George is Dr. Dolittle, and that explains the title of this entry.

I'll go study now.

10 Points for Gryffindor!

Already three weeks into my fourth term - can you believe it? I'm over halfway done with my Masters degree. Outrageous.

A bit of boring catch up:

Right now I'm taking two very business-heavy electives, Managerial Leadership and Human Resource Management. ML is Tuesday and Thursday mornings and requires a lot more out of class work than my previous classes here at Regents and... I won't lie, I kind of like it. I like a challenge.
HRM is on Friday afternoons (what an evil thing to do to a 22 year old American living in London) and it's a little boring, the usual lecture and notes but not quite as participative as my ML class.

For once I'm in the minority in both my classes for being American; the rest of the class is German, Hungarian, Middle Eastern, Thai, Kazak, Turkish... that makes discussion kind of funny sometimes. Also, a lot of the boys seem to be in this program in London mainly to bide their time before going back home to be princes or dukes or whatever they are. They contribute in class discussions, but half the time they're just trying to be cute and goof off.

So I heard this story about Emma Watson, that actress who plays Hermione in the 'Arry Pottah movies, and her first week in class at college in the US: Poor thing's trying to blend in with the other students at her university, but after raising her hand to answer a question in chemistry someone shouts from the back of class "THAT's TEN POINTS FOR GRYFFINDOR!!"

Haha - If you're not familiar with Harry Potter then this is meaningless, but Emma Watson's feelings aside, it struck me as hilarious.

And lately, I'm such a Hermione. I wasn't always the person who would voluntarily speak up in class but for some reason I'm all over it in this Managerial Leadership class. Of course, I started participating more and more throughout my four years at Millsaps and now in grad school I'm usually pretty involved, but it's like I keep accidentally having the right answer at the right time way more often than is cool. Maybe it's because I'm one of the only native English speakers, I don't know... yeah let's just say that.

But it's getting to be pretty embarrassing. I'm just waiting for someone to call me out for being a seriously eager beaver.

That's TEN POINTS for Gryffindor!