The exam for composition class had a twist. It wasn't about writing, ironically. The professor thought it was a good idea to make a point about the importance of listening. He read a passage about a 19th century ball held in a northern city to celebrate the completion of a common green. The exam, it turns out, was to recreated the type of dancing described in the essay. Not what I had in mind when I paid tuition.
Knowing that the city can clear one's head, I sought out the proverbial nice cup of tea. There was a Starbucks right there so I took a shot. In line, I sorted the unfamiliar lurce in my wallet. Somehow, inexplicably, this was interpreted as an offer to pay for the items being purchased by the person ahead of me. There were terse words and everyone was frowning at me.
This was not how I imagined living as a student in London. Not at all.
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