12.45 Oh boy. It's gonna be a good day, lads. I am currently sitting in a mildly dingy albeit adorable diner called Owl Breakfast (stellar name), and I just consumed Mount Vesuvius in carb form. After a sleepy conversation on the way to breakfast about our favourite form of potato*, nothing could have prepared me for the discovery of my new nectar: Philadelphia Home Fries. Imagine bubble and squeak, but it's so well fried that it's all bubble and no squeak. I felt like I was at a pool party with Abraham Lincoln and Uncle Sam in a vegetable oil jacuzzi, wearing bagels as a bikini top and batter on the bottom. It was divine. God bless America.
12:52 I'm told that some of the earlier risers have headed to South Street, an edgy part of town full of unique food places and vintage shops. All I can gather from their trip is what I've seen on snapchat, but it looks like they had fun exploring shops such as:
14.41 We are at Eastern State Penitentiary, the first penitentiary prison in the United States, and I am delighted that I have not yet wee'd myself out of fear. I've been complaining about squishing 10 Suspensions onto one carpet at night, but the cellmates kept here in the 19th century were kept in total isolation for 23 hours a day, and not allowed to speak. Makes our coach journeys seem like a damn spa retreat. After I begrudgingly handed over $12 for the entry fee, I was just mulling over all the potato-based goods I could buy for that same amount of money, but this tour was worth it for the Steve Buscemi audio tour. That said, I think I burst a blood vessel resisting the temptation to sing Cell Block Tango.
16.15 We're at the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and upon arrival there are hoards of tourists doing a victory pose. They look like absolute idiots, so naturally I join them. Turns out Rocky is filmed here, and after a lifetime of snapchatting each other running up the steps to the 'Eye of the Tiger' (foreshadowing - read on), we head in to get some well-needed culture.
17.19 We enter museum and drink in the high-brow atmosphere like the true intellectuals that we are. 'Wow! It looks so real, like a photo!' Raf says as we walk into a photography exhibit. 'WILD' by Michael Nichols is made up of pictures of wild animals, one of which was the tiger. This, incidentally is the nickname of the unnamed Suspension who drank a little bit too much fizzy pop at the frat party, and had to take a fun trip to hospital land. As I pondered this event whilst drifting through the gallery, the twain began to merge inside my mind, and I decided to come up with my own art. I call this exhibition: SUSPENSION AT THE SESH.
[Editors note again: the unnamed Suspension is absolutely fine and their family as aware of their misfortune! No worrying necessary]
20.23 I have just finished aggressively consuming my chili bread bowl (a bowl... made of bread? I don't get it, but I am ready to renovate my entire crockery collection with this invention.) Rachael, Lottie and Dan are glaring at me furiously, as they have not yet received their food. Like owls on meth, their heads turn abruptly at every pass of the waiter, until finally their prey finally arrives, and they stick their faces into their respective doughy troughs. It is our final night by ourselves as a group, so we're all out at dinner. I am getting emotional, but I'm not sure if it's because I'm going to miss the leavers or because the waitress gave me a bowl of complimentary tortilla chips. Either way, my phone is on 4% battery, and I feel I have spoken enough about potato forms for one day. Goodnight, sweet readers. Comment below with your favourite form of potato.
*Side note: Right. I was proof reading this blog and needed to add this because I'm so mad. Alice said New Potato. NEW POTATO. Who the £**&! says that new potatoes are their favourite form of potato?! What about chips? Crisps? Mash? GODDAMN HASH BROWNS? To make matters worse, El then chimed in to say that if she was eating a meal, she would give her new potatoes away to someone else. THAT'S SOMEHOW WORSE. It's one thing to say that new potatoes are your favourite form of potato, but to turn down a potato altogether? That's outright sacrilegious. I thought I could trust people in this group, but clearly they are nothing more than carbophobic snakes. I'm so done. I'm visibly shaking with rage.