10.07 THANKSGIVING

I am thankful. My housemates, sympathetic toward my homesickend pangs of hunger for turkey and stuffing pitched in to prepare a thanksgiving dinner.

The modest-sized bird was accompanied by an elaborate menu of roast swede and onions, sweet potato mash, sauteed mushrooms in garlic butter, sage and sausage stuffing and homemade pie of apples from our garden.

With impressive diligence Jake, Maddy, and Sean coordinated the meal along with my help. While it was a cooperative effort, I bow my head and take blame for the undercooked dessert. A puddle of apple pie. One of these days ill nail it. Be patient.

But be thankful.

It was edible at least.

No one was left hungry and my homesickness passed.

10.06 NEIGHBOURS

Chris is from Peterborough. Not the smalltown in Cambridgeshire, famed restingplace of Henry VII's first woman, Kat of Aragon.
Its the other Peterborough I'm talking about: the gateway to the cottage country on Ontario's Otonabee River, home of the Peterborough Petes and Trent University.

Chris is my next door neighbour and, coincidentally, is Canadian born. He has lived in England for nearly 40 years, retiring a few years back from Notts Trent Uni where he taught fine arts.

I maxed my vertical the other day, jumping when he startled me out of my mid morning daze as I made my way out the door for school. Maybe it was the Canadian accent that threw me off my course. Perhaps it was his kindness.

I didn't expect such welcoming neighbours in Forest Fields.

This morning he buzzed again, hoping we wouldn't mind if he picked off our apple trees.
"It's thanksgiving weekend," I said. "Help yourself but save some for my apple pie."

I hoped to share a slice with him but the pie was a bit of a flop.
At home, Loretta usually doesn't mind samples of my culinary experiments.
But then I don't want to drive this guy back to Peterborough.

10.05 THE GOOSE FAIR

For the next four days, an undulating melody of adrenaline charged screaming will render a disturbing background music in my head. The accompanying rhythm of synthesized carnival music penetrating the single pain window in my bedroom will be equally impossible to ignore. The Goose Fair has arrived in Nottingham. It is an exorbitant event, over 700 years old in tradition, that inhabits the open field park just down the street from my house.

With the curtains closed flashing carnival lights still manage to catch the corner of my eye. In a way, it is mesmerizing. Overstimulating. Too much coffee too late. The colourful carpets and cling clang of casino coins. Money Pit.

Departing from my exhausted senses, I meander into the chaos of lights and sounds and 'chavs,' if you will, within the safety net of my three housemates. A childish excitement overwhelms me as we reach the depths of carny land. I'm waiting for this all to disappear so that I can find the deserted ticket booth and make a wish that I could be Big.

But for the moment I am happy to revert to being small. Or acting a few years younger anyhow. We settled on tickets for an aggressively torqued, topsy turvy, hold-on-to-that-sausage-you-just-downed sorta ride: The Space Roller.Fortunately I am harbouring an empty stomach. Mouth wide open, I let out nothing more than a guttural scream, joining the polluting choir of noisemakers, only I've reached a heightened pitch, like the glass-shattering mermaid.After a long wait for my appetite to return, I succumb to the enduring craving for something vile and greasy. Overcooked sausage on a bun, extra onions.

Back in my bedroom I may as well be Sleepless in Seattle. Or Nottingham. Geography doesn't matter anymore. I'm still lost, senseless but for the muted sound of carny music and colourful lights. The whirlwind of Goose Fair Land.

10.04 MY FELLOW COUNTRYMAN

Chris is from Toronto. At the ripened age of twenty nine, he is leaving the successful family construction business he managed in search of a fulfilling career in newspaper reporting.

He is older than me. This is consoling. Add to this the fact he is Canadian, and he becomes the perfect partner to wash down mad cravings for for Turkey and Stuffing while lamenting the future. We did this over a mid-afternoon beer; a Guinness and a Stella, hold the Moosehead.

10.03 HANDY MEN

A second housemate, Sean, arrived just the other day.

He and Jake are two peas in a pod, if you will, reminding me of the comical duo of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy.

They are always up to something. I found them haphazardly piecing together a wine rack this afternoon. Other times they've been caught in the act of vacuuming the house, sewing costumes, or potting plants...undoubtedly red handed, if a cup of tea proves guilty of resembling a couple of old maids.

But don't you tell them I said so.

10.02 ON ASSIGNMENT

Induction week and already we have two group assignments and nine to five days at the Centre for Broadcast and Journalism at NTU.

Kieran, Becky, Karl, Chris and I set out to Lenton and Sneinton, two neighbourhoods in Notts to break exclusive stories before Friday. We are off to a good start in Sneinton.

In 100 words this is what we got:

Greenwood Junior School could lose half its student population under a
government shake-up designed to streamline primary education.

The latest phase of the Building Schools for the Future program could see the capacity of three Sneinton schools cut, in an effort to phase out mixed age-group classes and reduce surplus places in the area. Greenwood Junior faces losing 55% of its students.

The proposal is under public consultation until 5 October. Nottingham City Council has refused to comment. However, Greenwood Junior is asking parents and community members to contact the LEA and back the school’s campaign to retain 315 places.

10.01 BACK TO SCHOOL

Here we are. The Notts Trent Centre for Broadcast and Journalism Class of 2008. Hopefuls, I should add. Whether I make it through to graduation day will depend on whether we start and end every day of school like we did today - at a pub.

Wine flowed freely with lunch at The Orange Tree this afternoon, where we spent two hours numbing our minds despite engaging and excited conversation before heading back to campus for a introduction to the course along with an itinerary for the week...and the next twelve months.

This was abruptly sobering.

But the effect lasted only until we were dismissed. I reason that the only possible way to digest the pending workload was to collectively toast to it, then drink it down.

I gather much of what I learn this year - about writing, about the press, and about myself - will take place over a lager.