Tonight I saw The Taming of the Shrew, and, aside from hoping against hope (as usual) that the shrew would resist all taming, the performance was about average. They attempted to do something of an updating of it, with portions performed in modern clothing (but if you ask me, it failed, as it only left me confused). Other than that, the acting was good (although I will be the first to admit that I didn't entirely understand everything that they were saying). I will definitely go to the theatre again, although I think next time I'll go to a musical.

As it were, seeing the Taming of the Shrew was a lucky occurence (or perhaps unlucky), because both Wicked and the Woman in Black were sold out.

As far as more successful sojourns go, I went for a run this morning, and succeeded in not dying.
I decided upon going for a run primarily to investigate the area around my residence hall, but I also desired to reduce the rotundity of my figure. Of couse, because of said rotundity of figure, I could only go for half an hour's worth.

I also figured out where Hoxton Park is, and realized that I should buy proper running shoes. Also, I realized that black socks look tacky when you're running. I say running. What I should say is extraordinarily slow jogging accompanied by panting (and some pointing and staring on the part of passers-by). Next time I'll go in a different direction (and actually remember to wear pants; just kidding).

Also managed to actually find my way to Old Spitalfields Market while the thing was actually open (what a challenge it is to wake up before one o'clock in the afternoon!). It's actually quite wonderful, and the first real street market I've found. Old Spitalfields has been around for ages, and you can buy almost anything there: clothes, jewelry (both cheap and couture, ditto for clothes), silverware, books, odds and ends (there's a military booth where I saw an old Soviet Union officer's cap. Almost bought it, too, before deciding it was out of my price range. I also decided that it would be impractical, as it clashes with all of my outfits and I have nowhere to wear it anyway.)

My creative writing class met at the Tate Modern this week (in order to find inspiration for a story) and while the idea of using art to inspire a story is quite a good one (and certainly one that I've used before), my disdain for modern art remains. Dangling a rubber hose from the ceiling is not art. Although, to be fair, the surrealist gallery was quite interesting. In any case, if you have any affection for modern art, the Tate Modern will certainly be much more to your liking than to mine (and if you don't like modern art, you can go to the Jeff Koons exhibit and watch porn until you're ready to leave).

The crowning jewel of all galleries (or at least all of the ones that I've seen thus far) is the National Gallery. There aren't really words to describe it, and I won't try. It's room upon gilded room of beautiful, historical art, everything from the 1200's onwards, encompassing most of Europe. It's completely endless, rooms flowing one into the other, like a maze, or a river, each one waiting to be discovered. It's absolutely amazing, and I await the chance to explore it further.

Going to Oxford tomorrow, the city of dreaming spires, and being such a Philip Pullman-reading nerd, I am quite looking forward to it. More on that when I return.