Let’s Get to Know Each Other a Little Better… and Talk About Ducks.

Lovingly borrowed from http://www.duckoftheday.co.uk
Check it out (I am a huge fan).

There are many questions that, as inquisitive human beings, we are inclined to ask of ourselves. Who’s in the house?  Will you still love me tomorrow? Do you believe in life after love? Why don’t we do it in the road? Wassuuuuuuuuup?

But most importantly, what is it about The Shire’s campus that attracts so many freaking ducks?

Reader, you may realise that I’m about to pull down one of the curtains of mystery. If you don’t know me in Real Life, let us introduce ourselves again. Properly. Sort of.

You can call me Larousse. I will call you Reader. I am a student of Linguistics and French at the University of York, which I will still call The Shire. Because that’s how I roll. And I will be spending my Year Abroad in the beautiful city of Toulouse, which will be the furthest south in France I’ve ever been. Incidentally, I am told it is on average the hottest city in France. And my name is Larousse. Because I’m a redhead. I feel I may have neglected to do some of my homework here when choosing The Destination as my destination. Nothing new there.

Question: can you even get Factor 50 in France?

I digress. We were talking about ducks. And this brings me to a very real worry of mine for next year in The Destination (I still don’t like to speak of it- it makes it seem too real).

Time management. It’s never been a strong point of mine. Forward planning. Self-organisation. Task management. Call it what you want, I am always late and often lost.

On my first day of interning I had to ask directions to my own office. And France is big. Really big.

Not only that, I can walk to work in twenty-five minutes from where I’m currently residing. And you won’t believe how vastly, hugely, mindbogglingly big The Destination is in comparison.

And not only that, all I have to contend with before 9am here is the odd duck stampede, or maybe a mob of angry, territorial geese, honking at me to get off their turf. Or if I’m really unlucky, an unruly cyclist.

I’ve decided to see myself plonked in the middle of a bloody enormous city in a strange country, when I couldn’t find my way out of a paper bag if it was patrolled by an overly enthusiastic tour guide offering me the choice of not one but three exits, each illuminated by large, flashing lights spelling “GET OUT HERE”.

I’m gonna miss the ducks.


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