There are no atheists in South Kensington
When the alarms sound, reverberating off each other in disastrous cacaphony, frenzy tears through the mind. What have I done wrong? Whom should I tell I love? Whom should I tell has pastoral eyes or enviable posture?
As it turns out, the alarms woke up because our Soviet roommate Nick encouraged them to do so with very poorly planned steak-cooking that birthed a cloud of smoke. The entire apartment cleared, and a group of about 25 very irritated, loud and unkempt Americans stood next to the park that serves as the focus of the oval of fog-white apartments. And then the RA on call wouldn't pick up her phone. Neither would anyone affiliated with BU. But the fire company did, and they very kindly sent a fire truck with four firemen in helmets to battle the recalcitrant smoke alarm system. But the alarms won, subduing the best button-pressing efforts of London's finest.
We eventually found keys for the alarm box in a downstairs closet. And now I'm writing this. But we're going to watch cricket or some other British fun at a sports pub in Picadilly tonight. Should be ... American.
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