Why is it called an Internet Cafe?

Some time later.

I now am a fully trained, but not yet fully disclosed, private tutor. This means that, although I can work, I can't since I am still awaiting proof that I am not a danger to my prospective students - hopefully this proof will arrive shortly and I the pennies will follow.

Apart from (in fact with) this the last seven days have been my best in London. I will regale you with the highlights:
On Tuesday I enjoyed my first visited to the Emirates Stadium, which was graced on that occassion by a beautiful exhibition of 'Wengerball' as we 'Gooners' call it - and Carlos Vela, with almost a single flick of his right shoulder (that's right shoulder) restored almost all of the faith that I reported as having lost in a previous post.
On Thursday I registered and enrolled at UCL - which is a great great place - which brought me some new friends and some intellectual stimulation, both of which had been somewhat absence from my capital city existence.
On Saturday we had our first dinner party and inflicted the pungent odour of Garlic upon two of our best friends, which might not sound like much fun, but is to us.

The best news, almost, is that the next week promises much more of all of these. I am particularly excited about testing my intellectual mettle against the supposed cream of British Acadermia (it is no exaggeration to say that the majority of my new cohort is Oxbridge-bred) in the somewhat unfamiliar realm of late French Romanticism.

Apologies for the increasing sparcity of posts on this page, AOL have yet to acknowledge our flat and Internet Cafe's aren't much fun. In fact the obnoxious woman enjoying (very audibly) a YouTube broadcast of a Beyonce concert is about to drive me out of this one. Off.