Things That Don't Work

I've promised you a gloomy post, and here it is.  I need to get it done today because I think I'm about to have a really fun Thanksgivingy end of the week and weekend.  I'd better be gloomy while I can.  Watch this to get yourself in the right state of mind:

Now that you're appropriately forlorn, I give you: Things That Don't Work.

Me.  I don't work.  I don't work at all.  I am bruised and pulled and generally broken.  Yesterday I walked to a riding school to be assessed for dressage lessons.  They presented me with a 17.1hh-ish dark bay Warmblood gelding named Harbor (although they probably spell it Harbour because they're weird like that).  He was a good old schoolmaster.  He was very pleasant, and he expressed to me that if it was all the same what he'd really like to do was walk along the rail with the full weight of his head and neck resting on the bit.  It took a lot of muscle power to inspire him, but he was obliging as long as he was convinced that I was putting forth more effort than he was.  We got some good work done, and I really liked the instructor.

Oops, I've gotten cheerful by accident.  I'll try again:  With the exception of a single ride in October, it had been two months since I'd been on a horse, and all evening yesterday I could feel my back and legs slowly tightening, like a vice gradually clenching down on something.  I woke up this morning, sat up on the mattress, and it hit me like a brick wall.  OW.  Every muscle in my arms, legs, shoulders, hips, and especially lower back hates me and would like me to know it.  I feel about 90 years old.  So...when do I get to ride again?

Next on the list of things that don't work is the shower.  On my first morning here, I stumbled into the shower room, which would be nearly big enough for one person to stand in if the door didn't open in, and turned on the shower.  It was icy.  As in, hurts-to-hold-your-hand-under-it cold.  I waited for a good ten minutes, and nothing changed.  So, slimy from a two-day journey from the US, sore from my first night on the world's worst mattress and a pillow that a flight attendant would blush to give to someone, and mired in a haze of jet lag, I stood outside the minuscule shower and stuck my head under the frigid water to wash my hair.  I decided at that moment that I hated this country--a position which I have since substantially revised.

Immediately after my "shower," I called maintenance, and to their credit the guy came in just a few hours.  He tested the shower, and--it was fine.  So then we went through the routine of him explaining to me how a shower works.  I couldn't quite communicate to him that, yes, I do understand the concept.  It was really cold this morning.  I don't know why it's not now.  But I do actually understand how to use a shower.  Ah well.  The water is hot now.  You still can't actually adjust the temperature, but the one it's settled on permanently is acceptable.  The only remaining issue with the shower is its size.  Upon stepping into the shower, the temptation to say "Beam me up, Scotty!" is almost irresistible.  Like the small space in the shower room outside the shower, there is nearly room for one person.  The water pressure is, I would say, enthusiastic.  True, it's better than too-low water pressure.  But when you turn the water on and the pressure is so high that the shower head pivots up and slams itself against the wall with the water rocketing sideways into the opposite wall, well above your head, a shower then becomes more of a challenge.

We have a thief on our hall.  Two weeks after I got here, things started disappearing from the kitchen, including my plate and fork, someone else's knife, and someone else's chopsticks.  Despite days of passive-aggressive post-its all over the kitchen door, my plate and knife haven't reappeared.  The really awkward thing is that we're pretty sure we've figured out who it is, but we don't quite know how to broach the subject.  I mean, what do you do?  Knock on the door and say "Hey there flatmate!  How's the coursework going?  By the way, you stole my plate and I want it back now."  That's just a level of uncomfortable that I had hoped to be done with at 24.  On the very unlikely chance that our thief reads this blog, however, I'll just write a quick note:

Dear Thief,
Give me my dang plate and fork back.
Love,
Anna.

Lastly, I shall tell you about my skylight and how it doesn't work.  Everyone who comes in here admires my skylight--if only they knew.  It is the bane of my existence.  Complaint 1) The shade on the skylight is both made of paper and torn.  Ergo, when the sun comes up, my skylight says to me, "GOOD MORNING ANNA IT'S DAY WAKE UP!" and it gets really very bright in here.  Complaint 2) My skylight is broken.  It won't actually close all the way.  I came back from London early in the term one Saturday to find literally dozens and dozens of bees crawling around in my bed and coming in through the cracked skylight.  It was the first cool day of fall, and they were coming in  and dying in my bed.  The best part was that there is no one around this place on the weekends except resident students, so I had to wait all day Saturday, all night, all day Sunday, and again all night before maintenance got my message of distress.  So I invested in some duct tape and spent that lovely weekend picking bees out of my bed and laundry and carpet and...everything.  Maintenance came on Monday morning to "fix" the skylight, but I still think the duct tape is the only real barrier between me and nature.

That's probably enough gloominess to counteract all the cheery things I've been writing, don't you think?  The next time my happiness gets out of hand, I'll tell you about the radiator and my closet door.  But for now I think this is sufficient.