Room with a view

 

Okay.

So, the Stanford House is obnoxiously quaint and discombobulated. It is composed of a few old buildings gluesticked together, gluestuck, and creaks like a octogenarian breakdancer. Little stair cases go up down left right, and countless "fire doors" seperate everything. Some doors I have to shove with the weight of my body, which makes me suspect that English folk are particularly strong, or imprecise craftsmen. My room is nice. It rumbles when large trucks and buses buzz by, and one side of the room is curved slighly upwards. It's visually almost imperceptable, but I set my glasses on the little dresser, and they slide away. Room keys are dungeon-style treasure box opening wonders of yesteryear.

The town, or at least, the immediate area as I percieve it, is overrun with twenty something year olds looking entirely stressed and hurried, with huge innumerable buses constantly roaring in the streets. But the Oxford term does not start for a few weeks, so these people are not necessarily students. (The city wasn't formed around the school, the school sprung up within the town).