Today is MOUNTAIN DAY!! And for those not well aquainted with the bizarre traditions of Mount Holyoke, that means NO CLASSES! Woop! And we climbed the 'mountain'. A.k.a. a very small hill. Mountain day is not a fixed date, and no one knows for certain until the morning when it will fall. The bells ring at 8am, and everyone is sent an email. I did much enthusiastic sleeping (apart from Christina and Moni bashing on my door at some outrageous hour of the morning to inform me that today was mountain day) and finally got up at about 10am. We crawled to the bus stop at 11am, and then didn't all fit on the bus, so some of us had to wait for the next one. On arrival the entire hike took 25mins ish, and we were definitely NOT walking quickly.
At the top we ate ice cream with bean gum in it (and I told the bean story much to people's disgust). Then we took lots of photos and came back down again. Another escapade was almost over. We did extreme pushing and shoving to get on the bus, didn't fit and crammed lots of extra people onto seats without the driver noticing (I sat on the floor), and made our way home, sweet home.
We were naive enough to believe that purchasing food in Blanchard would be simple. But no. The world and his auntie, and his second cousin twice removed, and her sister's best friends' dog were all there. We ordered food and half an hour passed and still no munchies. So I cancelled my order and re-queued for a sandwich which the lady didn't know how to make. So I ended up eating something which was considering resembling a turkey club sandwich, but could have been anything really.
Drama over. It tasted good.
The second part of this entry should come first as it happened first, but I thought that I would mix things up a bit. It is all about the wonders of the best sport in the world, rugby. Which everyone should play. And when I launch my military coup to take over the world I shall make it the law that everyone must play rugby. And you are all welcome to join me in my political venture and may each carry a pointed stick. Or a bunch of loganberries.
But alas, forsooth and fulsaw... the rugby is fantastic, I am still not any good at it but am enjoying the stunning bruises and 'cleat' marks. That is what the crazy Americans call rugby boots. I am still trying to convince them that it is in fact our language and therefore I am infallible in all matters language-related. They are not buying it.
But anyway, I have been training and am having fun and larks with the shin splints and am being very wussy over the hard ground etc etc... We played Smith College on Saturday, and lost. But the 'B' side were amazing and put us to shame. And we buried our heads in the sand because we had got all the nature off and were almost as shocked as Melman.
BUT!!! I am super big and butch and scary because I did weight training with some of the crew team who are insane and train at 5:30am 6 days a week plus cardio and weights. But I managed to keep up, and only hurt a teeny bit today! Yesss! And now I have to go and do more rugby. Oh thrills and larks and all that fandango.
Oh, and most importantly our coach is called Eliza, and therefore I am questioning whether it is necessary to always speak to her in a cockney accent remnicent of 'Pygmalion'/'My Fair Lady'. And/or sing all the songs to her. And regularly ask: 'Eliza, where the devil are my slippers?'
And that is me making the tackle in the picture. As I am awesome. Or some such nonsense.