Saturday morning, the 20th, we landed in Manchester to awkwardly pile into vans hired to drive us to Liverpool. All the cars driving on the opposite side and our driver on the opposite side of the car is a head trip. It feels like my brain has been flipped inside out or like when I do a left-handed cartwheel (being right-handed).
The lot of us, as they say here, are a very dynamic and gregarious group. The few quiet ones of the bunch talk plenty when badgered, then there are the perpetual vociferous few—I fear I may be one of them, though those of you who know me well would be quite shocked at how reserved (all things relative) I’ve been here. Sheik and Curly are more on quiet side out of the women and were in the same van with me. Curly also plays the guitar so it was fun chatting and strumming The Lovechild on the forty minute drive. I’m embarrassed to say I can’t remember who else was in the car with us because Chip, sitting next to me, is one of the vociferous bunch and usurped most of my attention haven declared me interesting the previous day at orientation. God only knows why specifically, I am many things good and bad, though I suppose boring isn’t one of them.
I strummed and sang back up to Chip’s brilliant improvised lyrics. The reoccurring theme: number 7. This refers to the concept of group imposed rules concocted during orientation, and a proposed method of efficient communication if someone was breaking a rule, a numbering system. Instead of 1, 2, 3, 4 etc. I’ve declared number 7 to stand for all of them because I think it is so funny. Someone complaining? Number 7! someone use your stuff without asking? Number 7! And so on and so forth.