Sleepy Suffolk

I bought a while ago - can't quite remember when - a nice set of shelves. I actually ran down on a sunny Saturday to the store to choose the shelves rather than browse on a website. My secret hope was that I'd be able to carry the shelves home and start assembling straight away like a wild kid who's been regaled.

Unfortunately, the shelves only came along the following Thursday and I had to wait eagerly until it was time to come home from work. I had a few hours before my girlfriend came round and I wanted to set everything up before then.

The first hurdle was intimidating: find the tools. According to the guide, a simple pencil and screwdriver would do. Pencils, I had plenty of, but screwdrivers seemed scarce not to mention an extinct species in my room and I had to hunt Dhiraj - one of my roommates - down for his toolbox.

The second step was to look for inspiration: I checked the product profile & description online. I would aspire to the photo online. But quite frankly, when I looked at the two boxes and at the screen, it was hard to conceive that crossing a screwdriver with these wood planks would end in a full-scale stylish shelving element. Dark chocolate-colored on top of that.
Armed solely with a rusty pair of whimsical scissors and my will to assemble the finest piece of furniture since IKEA invented sore-throat giving furniture names, I tore open the first box in a flurry of white little specks of dust.

With Suffolk still under a clement weather spell, the Ipswich streets slightly wet by the night drizzle and shining in the oriental morning sun, it occured to me biking would be a great means of getting to BT. Late buses and expensive ticket fares begone, adios boring sittings in the 66 double decker on the way home from work, arrivederci those "darn I just missed the bus by a split second".

Welcome to my bright new shiny red bike. Last weekend I finally pulled myself together, ran down to the shops, hunted for a two-wheeler, and eventually drove home on my newly acquired mobility device.

And, on Monday morning, off I went, into Saint Peter's St, down the road, and then faced the very first difficulty of the day: the Back Hamlet Rd hill, as steep as Holland is flat. I eventually made it to the top starting to curse my will to cycle to work daily. The rest of the journey was a whizz, the bike handled itself properly, and I was glad to reach BT's gates some 40 minutes later and pop into the shower.

En route to BT: the bike way to work.	Aerial view of the mighty golf course.

I don't quite believe in ghosts but ever since I moved into a 600-year old or so house, I've been wondering. Imagine ghosts do exist, not believing in them would be offending them and surely they'd make a point of proving they do hang around. One wouldn't want to be woken up by a chilly, bony, fleshless hand round one's innocent neck. On the other hand believing in imaginary ghosts would be living in fright for no reason whatsoever. The decision's rather tough.

I'd never really thought of ghosts before moving to the USA 15 years ago. Yonder the Atlantic Ocean, in the New World, they simply seem fascinated by the dead or undead, the creepy and the surnatural.
During my first stay in England 13 years later, I realized that obsession came straight from this island called Britain, a couple mile shy of continental Europe. Wherever one goes about, there seems to be a ghost tour readily available for you to hop on. Chills guaranteed. In less than a year, I've already got acquainted with Scottish ghosts, others in York, a couple in London, and even some in Ipswich. The island is litteraly crawling with ghosts, and if it weren't for cricket, I'd reckon ghost hunting would be the national sport.

My curiosity being piqued, I'm off to search about those ghosts, and the best place to kick off is the Tourism center. Niched in a small church, it offers a wide variety of tourists' goods, flyers, vouchers, and ghost information. As a matter of fact, even small Ipswich boasts a monthly ghost tour. The next one is shortly after Halloween. I'll be sure to make it.

In the meantime, with the help of Google, I've dug up some information about ghosts in Suffolk. There seems to be a couple - seven to be precise.

England - Suffolk - Ipswich - the 7 sisters - as every one who comes from or lives near Ipswich will know there is a place called the 7 sisters. near the Orwell bridge. this is were 7 sisters committed suicide and were buried in a near by graveyard, this place has since been very weird as lots of scary things happen and no one will ever go there alone.

from http://theshadowlands.net/places/uk.htm

Scary thoughts scurry about my cerebrum. I shall have to look into the ghost matter further.

It took some seven hours to go from my home in Western France to Ipswich in East Anglia. Seven hours, three trains, and two subways later, I was walking down St Peter's St all the way to my new house.

It is in many ways the beginning of a new adventure: new place, new "terms and conditions", new job - the first official one - new friends, and old ones as well. And above all, it is the end of an era, a golden one too: a student, I am no longer. I graduated some ten days ago in the gourmet capital city of France, Lyon. No more exams to study for, no more projects to turn in...

I'm hoping to keep track of whatever pops up in Ipswich, of our still very studentlike life, of those who come and go... Hopefully, in a couple years' time, this blog will have grown to a full-blown account of everyday life, somewhat witty and shall I dare say interesting?