taken away my chance to discuss the works of Eric Hobsbawm and E.P. Thompson with peers.
Like Queen Anne realizing the potential for Ascot, I seized the opportunity to visit the British Museum on a week day. I had just been there the day before but the madness of the masses cut my visit short. Needless to say, I reinforced my policy of not going out on weekends.
Taking up my tote and trench, l hastened to the bus stop. Upon swiping my Oyster card, I reveled in the emptiness of the red bus. Seating myself by the wheelchair area I dreamt I would be able to claim just as much personal space in the museum. Greedily, I imagined myself in the presence of the Rosetta Stone sans tourists.
As I ascended the steps and passed between the Ionic columns, museum goers spilled out of the main entrance bordering Great Russell Street. Once inside I was relieved to not meet my death by crowd suffocation. Sitting on the floor unaccompanied in the King's Library was the pinnacle of my trip.