What is life but deciduous?

Formal apologies

2009-05-09T17:13:00.003+01:00

The author of this blog (hereafter "The Author") wishes to make a full, unlimited, and public apology to anyone who has had the misfortune to stumble across any of her posts since the beginning of 2008. (Although thinking about it, 2007 wasn't so hot either...) The levels of self-pity and general gloom expressed therein have, as The Author now acknowledges, been wholly inappropriate and, no doubt, burdensome to the spirit of any unfortunate reader.* The Author offers in mitigation the great shock and sense of isolation she experienced when the last West Wing episode finally aired; the absolute impossibility of buying Wild Cherry Pepsi in Great Britain; the failure of every man she has met to be anything other than a) married, b) gay, or c) a complete twatface; the emotional drain of dealing with the labyrinthine administrative systems of Oxford Colleges; and the English climate.

Nonetheless, The Author accepts sole responsibility for her egregious and unfortunate behaviour, and offers a promise never again to descend to such depths in public, whether online or in person.**

The Author hopes that readers will accept her fulsome apology. She might also send them some chocolate if they ask nicely.

Sincerely,

Flashbolt Bagman and Co., Esquires, Solicitors at Law.

* The author has, in fact, removed the more egregious of these posts to ensure your continued comfort and enjoyment.

** With the proviso that all such promises shall become null and void in the event of the next man The Author meets also being a twatface.

You live...

2008-12-10T23:15:00.002Z

...you learn.

So here I am, annoyed again. This time the culprit is some poor guy who had the misfortune to fail to gain an Oxford place, and to have his letter of complaint published in the Times, exposing what should be private disappointment and upset to the full scrutiny of the assembled masses. Or at least the readers of the Times. Presumably this august publication hopes that a bit of Oxford-bashing will help it sell papers. It's the politically correct thing to do after all, right?

Well, no. It's not. Let's look closely at Mr. Roberts' complaints:

"I must have spent more than a thousand hours, over five years, sat at my desk trying to learn the facts, figures and phrases that would allow me to get the best marks and grades in the best subjects."

Firstly, let me ask what the "best subjects" are? Of course, some of the practical A levels are less highly-valued than others simply because they don't develop skills which are helpful in studying at degree level. But choosing your courses with a utilitarian, I might even say cynical, eye towards what will gain you material advantages doesn't suggest a genuine enthusiasm for them. Now, barring the odd aberration, everyone who gains an interview at Oxford will have been working their socks off in preparation for exams and tests. They will all have clocked up this kind of mileage during GCSEs and A-levels. They are all generally diligent and deserve a lot of praise for the effort they put in. Mr. Roberts is exemplary, but not unique.

"On top of that I read a small library’s worth of books..."

Yes, I would really hope so. Reading in the subject should ideally be something a candidate does with appetite and enjoyment if they're going to get through a demanding degree course. That said, it's not all about coming to University already knowing all you need to know, but about your potential to absorb knowledge when you get there. Not every candidate comes from a background where they have liberal access to appropriate reading material, the money to afford hundreds of books, or the guidance on what to read in their area of interest. Reading a lot is a wonderful thing to do, but again it isn't something that's unique to any single candidate.

"...spent three summers making coffee on work experience placements..."

There is some kind of myth that work experience is necessary for an Oxford application, as it shows responsibility, diligence, reliability, and that kind of thing. Maybe it does. But the kinds of things that you learn on work experience are not usually applicable to your degree course. With the utmost respect, how does experience in making coffee add anything to someone's qualification for University? All it does is allow you to put something in the "work experience" box on the UCAS form, and I'm afraid that it almost certainly doesn't register very strongly on admissions tutors.

"...and did my absolute best to win prizes and captaincies and the like at school."

Again, I don't want to be disrespectful, but I don't think admissions tutors necessarily want to rely on whether the teachers at your school think you're good at playing cricket or at art. It shows that you have other interests, sure, but there's no requirement that someone who comes to University has to be a good sportsman. In the end, there are plenty of Oxford students who are really not interested in much other than their chosen subject, and to penalise that kind of passion would be an odd thing to do. Let's also remember that, on the whole, school prizes, captaincies, head-boy or -girl positions, prefectships and such things are more characteristic of grammar or independent schools than of state schools. For a tutor to value a head-girl over a non-head-girl would be hugely discriminatory. It's admirable that someone is well-thought-of by their school, but it speaks more to their personal character than their talent for a subject.

"What is the point of toiling away trying to get top grades in GCSE, AS level and A-level exams only to be told afterwards that they do not mean a thing?"

Well, may I risk saying that the point of working at something is that you really like it and enjoy it? I'm sorry to say that it isn't enough to put the hours in when you're competing against candidates who have all done exactly the same. You need a genuine passion for your subject and a love of study for its own sake if you're going to get the most out of a degree course. Your grades aren't meaningless and absolutely no-one is saying that they are. What the emphatically do not mean, though, is that you have a right to an interview at Oxford.

"I am more than happy to concede that A levels are a bit soft — so make them harder."

I'm not sure that the average Oxford admissions tutor would be so crass as to say that A-levels are soft. They're a lot of hard work, and not everyone is capable of getting the top grades in them. A lot of people are capable of that, though, and a lot of those people will apply to Oxford - often five or ten times the number that a college can accept.

"Whatever you do do not follow the current line of duping young people into thinking that hard work, dedication and genuine interest will be rewarded with a place at the university."

Where exactly is this "current line" exemplified? Who has told Mr. Roberts that hard work, dedication and interest will guarantee him a place at Oxford? These characteristics are shared by 99.9% of the applicants and I doubt the University would ever claim that there are specific attributes that will be "rewarded" with a place. What they probably do say is that there are certain attributes that are relatively essential if a candidate is going to have a good chance of having their application considered.

Here's the problem: school teachers think they know what admissions tutors are looking for. They don't. This can't be stressed strongly enough. Most teachers have no idea what an Oxford interview is like or what qualities are being assessed. So they drive their pupils into extra-curricular activities, work experience, and all other kinds of things that are largely irrelevant. They decide that talented young people are "not the Oxford type" and discourage them from applying. They give pre-interview “advice” that is often, at best, unhelpful, and at worst hugely harmful.

I’m not saying that all teachers are like this, of course. I was very, very lucky at my sixth-form college - one of those “bog-standard” ones, allegedly, which had an indifferent socio-economic profile, and an anything-but-indifferent teaching staff. We were given intelligent advice and teaching that I would rival any public school to beat. But even that didn’t “guarantee” me my place at Oxford. With so many applicants for so few places, there simply has to be an element of luck. It’s tragic, but it’s real life. Oxford is not the birthright of anyone – not the rich, not the powerful, and not even the head boy and cricket captain. Maybe Mr. Roberts will one day see this. I hope so. I hope that he won't remain bitter and angry forever. But regardless, he should have been left to mourn his lost dream in private.

The Joy of Tech

2008-03-24T04:25:00.003Z

Everything is logged. I was going to go to sleep a few hours ago. Then I realised that Skype probably still has logs of all the chats I had with my ex. So I just searched them out and re-read them all. Now I'm feeling really happy and ready for a peaceful night's sleep. Except it's half past four in the a.m., so a night's sleep is out of the question anyway.

Today I was accused of evangelising. I wasn't, and no-one in their right mind would think that telling a story about an idiotic thing someone said in Church equals an attempt at forcible conversion. But it bothers me how upset I am at the accusation. I feel dirty, as though I've been accused of sexual molestation or something. I don't want to evangelise people. I don't want to spread the good news. I think Christianity has become an intellectual exercise for me. Knotty theological questions are just ways of keeping my brain active - what ingenious bullshit answer can I come up with this time? Plus I'm a junkie for love and attention, and God is the ultimate indulgent parent. Never mind plausibility, tell me that someone loves me and I'm theirs for life. Which is a problem when they change their mind, but God never changes his mind.

Though, as Shania Twain once said, "that won't keep me warm in the middle of the night".

Woo-hoo for Ubuntu!

2008-02-11T18:32:00.000Z

May I encourage all you Windows users out there to switch to Linux? It's unbelievably cool. OK, so admittedly it's not as easy to set it up and get it working. But when you do... ah! The power and the glory shall all be yours. [Note to self: check whether that's blasphemous; rewrite if so.]

The prompt for my change (well, not so much a change, since my laptop will still also boot Windows) was the acquisition of a new ASUS Eee PC - a posthumous gift from my wonderful grandma. I must also recommend these very highly - they weigh less than a kilo, cost less than 200 pounds, and just work, straight out of the box. You need to play around with them if you want the standard desktop configuration, but that's easily done. And they ship with Linux (Xandros) installed.

So, after a taster of Linux via the Eee, I decided to take the plunge. All in all, it's probably taken me about ten hours' work to get everything up and running (including partitioning the hard drive, which involves a long time spent defragmenting). Most of that has been dedicated to the wireless card, something which Linux doesn't support hugely well. Still, now it's up and running and I'm quite delighted.

Now, all I have to do is learn regular expressions and the world is mine...

Revolutions

2008-01-11T22:45:00.000Z

I just realised that I didn't post my New Year's resolutions.

1. Finish my doctorate. No, really. It's getting beyond a joke.
2. Publish something. Something academic, that is, not a poem in the school magazine.
3. Get a job. Preferably in America.
4. Find true love. This will probably have to be accomplished by getting a cat.
5. Make more monsters. It's been too long.

Do I need more than 5? I suppose the more there are, the better the chance that I will actually stick to one of them. Okay, let's add another:

6. Be obsessive about something, someone, or somewhere.

Which means that I'm already a whole sixth of the way towards keeping all of my New Year's resolutions for 2008. Hooray!

Palpitations

2008-01-11T22:35:00.000Z

It's odd when the thing you were dreaming about but never thought would happen happens. And it's an anticlimax. At least it is when all it does is provide evidence of something you realise you didn't want to know about anyway.

OK, I had vodka and cocktails and I'm not too coherent.

But what I do want to tell you about is the book I'm reading. It's called A Game of Thrones and is utterly wonderful. I don't usually read fantasy fiction any more (apart from my annual rereading of LotR, of course) but my friend JZ recommended this one and I can never refuse him anything. And I'm so glad that I can't, because I'm completely hooked. The Americanisms grate just a little for me, but that's like complaining that Dickens is Victorian or that Shakespeare can't spell. Really, I would urge anyone who has even the remotest liking for dragons, wolves, swords and really brilliant plots to buy this right now. Here's an Amazon link to make it even easier. And here's one in case you're American. The rest of you benighted heathen can fend for yourselves.

Cartoons...

2007-11-02T01:06:00.000Z

...are now at http://batsflewin.blogspot.com. Bow down in awe.

That is all.

I am the walrus

2007-11-01T02:22:00.000Z

Let a hundred flowers bloom

2007-11-01T01:01:00.000Z

My hundredth post. Well, technically, my hundred-and-first, but my ex made me take down one I wrote when I first had the blog (and we were still talking to each other), because he feared it might harm his future career. Despite the fact that it never mentioned his name or anything about him. Who'd have thought that someone who believed so strongly in liberty and justice would advocate censorship? Obsessive, paranoid people are a very bad thing, and I have stuck to my resolve never to date one again. (Admittedly, I did try very hard to break that rule, but was saved by the gentleman in question's refusal to become even slightly enamoured of me. His loss, naturally.)

Funny, I've been thinking about people from the past recently. And realised that they're rarely as much to blame as you think they are. It's so easy to solidify bad things that happen into one big lump of hatred and bitterness, but it just distorts your memory. The fact that someone treated you badly on a grand scale doesn't mean that you didn't do anything wrong. Being a victim doesn't make you a good person. Being a good person makes you a good person.

The quotation which entitles this post is from Mao Zedong. Which only goes to show that even crazy, despotic, genocidal maniacs can talk pretty.

A letter to the cyclists of Oxford

2007-10-21T20:19:00.000+01:00

Dear Cyclists,

Do you see this long, paved area here? Does it look like a road? No. It doesn’t. Do you know why that is? That’s because it’s what we call “a pavement”. And “pavements” are meant for pedestrians.

I know that “pedestrian” is a very long word and may be hard to grasp at first. So let’s break it down. The Classical Latin root “pedestr-“ means “going on foot”, and the suffix “-ian” means “of or belonging to.” So, a pedestrian is one who goes on foot.

Now, would you indulge me for a moment, my dear cyclist, and look downwards. No, not there; that would be rude. Look at the part of your setup which makes contact with the ground. Is it your feet? No? Then what can it be? That’s right! Wheels. So, do you think you can validly be called a pedestrian? Think carefully… are you “going on foot”? No.

When riding around Oxford on your bicycle, then, you might want to consider that those long, paved areas are meant for people who “go on foot”, and that the flat, tarmacked areas we call “roads” are intended, nay designed, for those who “go on wheel”: cyclians, as we may call them. There may be a lot of other cyclian traffic (cars, say, or lorries) in your way, but you must remember that they are your fellows; you belong with them.

So, when it’s rush hour and Oxford’s narrow pavements (built for little medieval people) are full of anxious workers rushing home to their warm fires and comfortable wives, it would be just super if you could keep to the roads, and not whizz through the crowds at 100 miles an hour, leaving a mess of mangled pedestrian bodies in your wake and shouting obscenities at those who get in your way.

And when there are signs saying “cyclists dismount” on busy thoroughfares, that does mean you too. Unless of course you’re one of my students and late for a tutorial. Then you’re legally exempted.

With all best wishes,

EJ

A letter to my landlords' cat

2007-10-18T14:25:00.000+01:00

Dear Moppet,

Since I came to live here, you and I have become great friends. We chat about current events and the price of cheese, and you are very attentive about grooming me when you think I need it. (N.B. Some humans find being licked a little disconcerting. Strange, I know, but you may encounter some resistance even if they clearly need to be cleaned.) In return for your attentions, I feed you when your parents are away, and give you limitless cuddles. This has been a remarkably satisfying arrangement for us both, I think.

I was, therefore, quite surprised that you felt you had to provide me with further proof of your friendship today. Leaving a small gift for me in the kitchen was so terribly thoughtful of you, and I was quite distracted from my original intention of making lunch when I saw it. Having admired it (and the feathers it shed over the entire floor) for a suitable amount of time, I scooped it up reverentially into a top-quality Primark plastic bag, and deposited it as a suitable offering for the Oxford City Council sanitation workers. You will find, next time you visit the kitchen, no trace left of your sweet gift; I knew you would not want others to see evidence of your generosity.

In conclusion, I must say how glad I am that we have become friends, and that there is really no need for any more gifts. You should save them for when your parents return.

With love,

EJ

Temper, temper

2007-10-12T02:12:00.000+01:00

Say...

2007-09-18T22:29:00.000+01:00

...what you want.

It’s been a while since I last wrote here – a very long while, indeed. I tend to vacillate between enjoying blogging, and feeling that it’s a pretentious waste of time. When you tell people you have a blog, the most likely reaction is one of amused scepticism. Surely blogs are the last refuge of the self-aggrandizing and talentless? Well, yes, they probably are. But so are newspaper columns, and you actually have to pay to read those. So why don’t we leave bloggers to do their thing without supercilious mockery? If you don’t want to read it, nobody’s forcing you. If you do, nobody’s charging you. Seems like the perfect set-up to me.

In other news, I must strongly urge all 10 of my readers (and that’s in binary) to go and see “Sacred” at the British Library. It’s only on until the weekend, but if you’re in the vicinity of London, it would be a very good thing to do with your time. They have some truly beautiful and amazing manuscripts from the Christian, Jewish and Muslim (in alphabetical order, so don’t be cross) traditions, and they’re presented in illuminating conjunction with each other. My long-suffering companion J dealt admirably with my alternate gasps, squeaks and sighs as we went through the exhibition (though I suspect him of making “I’m not with her” gestures behind my back…)

Wednesday morning...

2006-12-14T03:43:00.000Z

...3 a.m.

Well, okay, it's Thursday morning. But you can't just go playing with the title of a Simon and Garfunkel song, can you?

So, I'm having one of my insomnias. (Mama, if you're reading, don't plotz, I just worked too late or something.) And I've found that one good cure for an insomnia is blogging. Perhaps this is because what I write is so damn boring that it makes me sleepy (cue the complimentary comments, please)... I flatter myself, however, that it is in fact the result of the great mental effort I put into each and every one of these gems of prose which I produce for you, dear Reader.

Anyway. Yesterday (or two days ago, I guess... Tuesday, whatever) I went to see the new James Bond movie with the delightful O. I was, I confess, predisposed to like Daniel Craig, him being tall, blond and craggy.

[Side note: why, if I like tall, blond and craggy men so much in theory, do I always fall for guys who have more in common with Paul Simon than Art Garfunkel? Eh? (I use Paul and Art only as an example of differing physical types: I stress that I do not have any kind of erotic attachment to either of them, fine musicians though they be).]

Where was I? And craggy. Yes. But I was not prepared for exactly how brilliant he would be. Not only does he look bloody good in swimming trunks, for which delight many thanks to the casting director, but he makes Bond into quite a different creature from previous portrayals. Watching this Bond, one suddenly realises exactly how nasty it would be to be a secret agent. Not only the obvious physical hardships (the chair scene... I won't spoil it for you if you've not seen it, but it brought tears even to my eyes), but the crappy unemotionality that's involved. Of course, in some ways it just makes Bond all the more attractive - at least to idiots like me who like the strong, silent, selfish bastard type - but it has so much more pathos than Roger Moore and his rubber eyebrow.

My new flat, despite its marvellous collapsing ceiling, continues to delight. One of the best things is having visitors. Somehow, people just don't like to come and ring the doorbell if you live with housemates. I guess it's the fear of disturbing someone you don't know, having to explain who you are, only to find out that your intended visitee is not in anyway. But people actually visit here. This, to use vernacular, rocks. In a big way.

Did you know that Jim Henson's son is producing Muppet porn? I am so not impressed. As long as he doesn't think of corrupting Sam Eagle, that's all I can say. Oh, and if anyone knows where I can get a stuffed toy of the gorgeous Mr. Eagle, please do let me know. He's so beautiful!

One man's ceiling...

2006-12-08T22:37:00.000Z

...is another man's floor.

This post is dedicated to JZ. When my friends find out I have a blog, it guilt-trips me into remembering to write something.

So, this week was fun. Apart from teaching, and interviewing, and writing applications, and 'flu, I also had the enlightening experience of the partial collapse of my kitchen ceiling. After working pretty much 10-6 on Tuesday, a rare thing for louche academics like me, I looked forward to returning to the comfort of my flat. Somehow finding the energy to negotiate the stairs, I unlocked the door, and prepared myself for an evening of cooking pie with my friend, E. Upon entering the kitchen, however, I was struck by an unusual sloshing noise underfoot. "How strange", I thought, "Perhaps some rain has come in through the windows". But no, the windows were shut. It was at this juncture that I noticed another unusual feature of the kitchen floor: the tasteful addition of a small but significant amount of rubble. "Gosh", I thought (in a commendably non-blasphemous and non-profane manner), "where on earth did that come from?" I looked upwards, to see if the source of said rubble might be found skywards. Sure enough, a large patch of bare joistwork confirmed that part of the ceiling has lost its battle with gravity and was now gracing my linoleum. Well, I suppose it's like aeroplanes - how do you expect anything that heavy to stay up in the sky? Defies the laws of physics.

I suppose I haven't mentioned my new flat yet, either? I moved in a few weeks ago, after a prolonged conversation with my College (who were landlording me at the time) which could be summarised in this manner:

Me: "Hello. I'm having some trouble with my accommodation"
Them: "Okay, how can we help you?"
Me: "Well, one of my housemates smokes, and as you know I'm badly allergic to cigarette smoke, so I wondered whether you could move me to somewhere non-smoking?"
Them: "Mmm... Yes... Well, nothing's available at the moment, but we'll certainly keep you in mind".
Approximately one year later...
Me: "It's been about a year now. I wondered whether there had been any movement on the non-smoking front?"
Them: "Well, Mmm, Yes, we're still considering it, of course, but you know how demand is for the graduate building, and that's the only non-smoking building in College."
Me: "You do realise that this is making me quite badly ill?"
Them: "Yes... Gosh..."
Approximately three months later...
Me: "Another housemate has now taken up smoking, and she does it right under my windows and with her door open, so the whole house stinks."
Them: "Gosh! What are these young people coming to?"
Me: "I know. Yes. So, my doctor's had to give me new migraine medication and sleeping tablets because of my reaction to the chemicals."
Them: "Goodness, yes. How awful for you."
Me: "So, is there anything that perhaps might be done?"
Them: "Mmm... Well... Yes... No. I don't think so."

So I moved out.

Turned out to be one of the best things I have ever done. For starters, the shower's always free when I want it and the cleaner doesn't wake me up to tell me she simply has to clean my sink. But the best thing is having my own kitchen. No longer, as with housemates, must I put up with other people's mould. No longer, as at home, must I place the forks prong-side upwards in the drainer to prevent my mother from serious mental harm. I can sit in there and bake things to my heart's content, and if I want to leave the washing-up until tomorrow then, goldarn it, I shall.

Am I boring you yet, dear Reader? Indeed, if you have read thus far you deserve a reward. Go and eat yourself a nice chocolate bar.

This fortnight has been a fortnight of New Things. I have, monumentally, discovered grits - a corn-based product, with the texture, perhaps, of porridge, but a wondrous taste that is all its own. I'm hooked. Sadly, they're not readily available in the UK. Internet campaign time, we wonders? I have also dined at high table at Christ Church. Oh yes, dear Reader, I have eaten at Hogwarts. Sadly, they had the magic ceiling turned off. Economising, I suppose. I sang my first ever Tenor solo in the carol service at my church, following on from my wonderful Soprano solo in College the week before. This led one of my dear fellow choristers to ask whether anyone had properly investigated my gender. Not thoroughly enough for my liking, I told him. And I visited the Oxford Internet Institute for the first time. They have, like, a sliding door and a whole electronic "who's in-who's out" system, and computers with three screens, and, oh boy, it was like awesome, dude.

Many other things have happened... but, were I to tell you all about them, you would deserve another chocolate bar. And that would be bad for you, what with Christmas overeating on the horizon anyway. So, goodnight.

I'm so...

2006-10-19T22:11:00.001+01:00

...tired.

Who would have thought? Teaching is actually mind-bogglingly tiring. Plus one of the little darlings has given me what is delightfully known here as "Freshers' Flu", as students from all over the world bring their own particular germs, mix them all up in the crucible of the College bars, and serve them up with great love to their tutors. Thanks guys!

So, what with all the didactic activity, things have been pretty stretched. Which has not stopped my life from being a bit of a social whirl. Well, as close as I ever get to a social whirl, anyway. I not only ate at high table at my own college, but also had my first experience of Senior Common Room life at the college for which I teach. This is truly great. Imagine one of those big old drawing rooms, with strange wallpaper and the odd wood panel. It's like that, but provided with lots of newspapers and periodicals (including my favourite Private Eye), decent scotch, and its own writing paper. Very shiny indeed. And then you process into dinner, wearing gowns and looking superior to the students.

Following this, I went to my first proper dinner party last week - yes, at the age of 27, I had still never attended one of these events except as someone's annoying child who kind of put a damper on the evening. I may still have been annoying, but at least it was in my own right. Then, the very next day, I attended a lunchtime dinner party (don't know what the term is for those... "Lunch party"?) at which we were served rainbow chard. It's amazing! Surely vegetables aren't really allowed to be that exciting? So that was my weekend.

But you mustn't think, dear Reader, that the fun stops there and that the rest of this term will be a humdrum round of essay marking and dried pasta - oh no! In a bid to prove to me that Waitrose is not middle-class and middle-aged, I am being taken to the aforesaid temple of groceries on an outing this Saturday. I'm not sure this will do anything other than confirm my prejudices, but apparently they have great fruit compote.

Not much other news. My room is in that terminal state of bomb-hittedness from which it seems it will never recover. This disturbs me greatly, as I do like neatness, but I simply can't seem to summon up the energy to do anything about it. If only George Clooney were intending to pop in for coffee. I'd get myself tidied up pretty smartish then, I think...

Your mother...

2006-09-26T23:47:00.000+01:00

...should know.

Seems my mother reads my blog. She's upset by the mention of blow jobs. What can I say? Don't read the blog, mum, you won't like it! Hee-hee!

I'm...

2006-09-20T18:01:00.000+01:00

...down.

Actually, I'm not particularly. But what if I were? The organisation Dignitas is seeking a change in Swiss law which would allow assisted suicide in cases of severe depression. This, I think, is a very frightening idea. While I am cautiously in favour of assisted dying where the person has an incurable illness which is making their life unbearable, depression is a very different matter. For one thing, it is not generally incurable. For another, someone who is severely depressed is, by definition, not of sound enough mind to take this decision - a requirement if assisted death is to be legally acceptable.

Removing the barriers to suicide, making it "safe" and "comfortable" and certain to succeed, is an act of mercy where the sufferer's only other option is a long and painful death from terminal illness. But to extend this to the clinically depressed is highly dangerous - suicide in these cases needs to be seen as what it is: a final resort, a violent and horrifying end which should never, ever be sought where there is the least chance of a return to life.

Let's...

2006-09-18T23:56:00.000+01:00

...talk about sex, bay-bee.

I hate that embarrassing moment when you say exactly what you thought before you realised that you shouldn't say it. Like today, I'm sitting helping my housemate proofread an article on Julius Caesar and stuff, when she notices my attention wander...

"You're looking very thoughtful?"
"Yes... I was just considering blow jobs."

Which was true. But I was considering them because I had recently had a conversation with a friend over whether blow jobs were acceptable from a Christian perspective. So, had I said, "Yes... I was considering a fine point of theology", that would also have been true. Somehow, the mouth has a real urge to say the inopportune before allowing the brain to filter.

The other night, I dreamt that I had a beard. I'd just shaved it, and it was really painful. And when I woke up, I thought "how awful to have a beard". And now I'm curious about whether beards really do hurt, or whether that was just the dream. If anyone would like to leave a comment telling me, that would be great. (N.B. to men - whether they hurt or not, they're damn nasty and should be taxed. Except maybe for religious beards, because that's a different thing. But to do it from choice?)

Please...

2006-09-18T19:57:00.000+01:00

...Mr. Postman.

The thing is, right, you think you understand everything, and then it turns out that you don't.

Anyway, I've been making a website, and maybe writing CSS all day has made my brain funnier than before, but what I'm told is a good cure for this is pizza, which I am now going to go and get from somewhere. All for me.

Goodnighten...

Life...

2006-09-14T22:44:00.000+01:00

...is just a bowl of cherries.

Now, I find this quite unlikely.

Let's look at the evidence:
1) Bowl of cherries tastes good. Life sometimes does, but more usually tastes of something boring and pedestrian like cheese sandwiches. And occasionally, it tastes like something really disgusting. Seaweed, say.
2) Bowl of cherries stays in one place for your viewing pleasure. Life is unlikely to do this, ever. Until maybe you're eighty and too old to enjoy it.
3) Bowl of cherries full of reassuringly predictable content. "Ooooh... what'll it be today? I know: a cherry!" Every one's a winner. Life: not so much.

So, let's reassess:
Life is just a bowl of random foodstuffs, placed on the roof of a high-speed train, with the odd unexpected item like dog poo mixed in.

Admittedly, it doesn't fit the tune quite so well.

Video...

2006-09-13T20:24:00.000+01:00

...killed the radio star.

So, who needs all these computers, anyway? Complete waste of time.

No, not really.

But I'm trying to learn CSS, and my brain hurts an awful lot. As do my eyes.

It was so much easier when you wrote a project on coloured paper, glued shiny stars on it, and got really good marks and a pat on the back.

Probably should point out, for the benefit of people on Facebook, that these posts are being fed in from my blog. So if I seem to be talking crap that you don't understand, that could explain it. Or it could be the other, more obvious explanation.

Always look...

2006-09-13T00:15:00.000+01:00

...on the bright side of life. As Jesus once said. (Was it Jesus? Looked like him, anyway.) So, let's look at how lovely life is.

West Wing season 7 arrived in my pigeonhole today. Like, Oh My God, it's the end of an era. The delightful and delectable D invited me to bring it over and share his television (mmm... luxury!) so we ate chocolate souffle and enjoyed the delights of C. J. Cregg.

Side note: someone I once knew gave me the nickname E. J., for reasons best not discussed. But no one calls me that any more. And I really liked it. But how do I reintroduce it? I mean, it's a bit weird just to rename yourself randomly, eh?

Side note 2: the people in the church choir in which D and I sing think we're well on the road to marriage. What is it about churches? Exactly the same thing happened when I first started going to St. Mary's in Swansea with K. "Ooooh, and is he your boyfriend?" "No, no, we're just friends." "Well, you just keep hold of him, dear"(knowing wink). And there's no point arguing. They see two people of vaguely the same age; they want them to marry and produce Christian Children. Scary!

Anyway, on with the litany of wonderful things. I have a friend with cats. He invited me to dinner last week. So, not only did I have dinner cooked for me (yum), and not only did I introduce yet another person to the delight and absurdity that is the cartoon version of The Lord of the Rings, but I also had a cat on my lap for the first time in years. You cannot, dear Reader, imagine in your wildest dreams the wonderfulness of having a cat. Unless, of course, you have a cat yourself. In which case it would take less imagination, I suppose.

And then he who cooked me dinner also lent me the DVDs of Firefly, which is a kind of sci-fi series and absolutely rules the universe.

AND I have two Patricia Cornwell novels left to read in order to complete my perusal of her entire body of work. (Ha, like the pun? Crime writer, body of work... Cool, huh?) I feel that this is an achievement I can legitimately bring up with my supervisor when he asks precisely what I've been doing all Summer.

Erm... that's it.

All you need...

2006-09-13T00:06:00.000+01:00

...is love.

Yeah, like hell it is! Love. Such a deceptive little word. It acts like it's a great thing, like everyone should want to be its friend, right? But don't be fooled! It will suck out your brain, chew on your heart, and trample on your bloody, beaten corpse, laughing all the way. Love is a little incubus who sits on your chest while you're asleep and plays frisbee with your soul. Love wants nothing more than to alienate your friends, ruin your life, and dance on your solitary grave.

That's what I think of love.

A long, long time ago...

2006-09-04T20:57:00.000+01:00

...I can still remember when the blogging used to make me smile.

I have been remiss. I confess this fact. This is because I have been doing the Academic Tango - a.k.a. presenting papers at numerous conferences, applying for jobs, teaching, setting up a mailing list and website, and trying to write my thesis. All at the same time. Whilst pretending that I don't have CFS.

So apologies to all two of my avid readers - you are greatly loved.

I'm going away now, as I have a blister on my right thumb, exactly on the edge which does the typing. Gaaagghh!

Elephants!

2006-07-27T08:49:00.000+01:00

Was müssen das für Bäume sein Wo die großen Elefanten spazieren gehen ohne sich zu stoßen? Links sind Bäume, rechts sind Bäume und dazwischen Zwischenräume wo die großen Elefanten spazieren gehen ohne sich zu stoßen.

What noise annoys an oyster?

2006-05-09T00:28:00.000+01:00

There's a new member of the "make lots of really annoying noise" conspiracy. She disguises herself as our cleaner, but I know her true allegiance.

I must explain, as an aside, that I find the concept of having a cleaner disturbing. I've been capable of keeping my own place clean for many years. However, my College (probably correctly) believes that students are incapable of either tidiness or cleanliness, so three times a week someone comes in to clean the kitchens and bathrooms, and empty the bins. Occasionally, she also hoovers our rooms. This doesn't work for me, on many levels:

a) I still have some of my mother's socialist principles, and I figure that these workers are not being paid a particularly good wage for what they do;
b) this said, they are often also pretty useless at what they do;
c) the hoover makes my room smell like cheese (nasty cheese, not the good stuff);
d) even when I indicate that I'm busy working or sleeping (by putting my wastepaper bin outside my door - the traditional sign), she still insists on waking me up/disturbing my work in order to tell me that she's meant to clean my room. To which I always reply "thanks, but I'm busy" to which she replies "I will just clean your sink" to which I reply "no, really, I'm very busy - I'll do it myself" and then I feel guilty that I've actually just let her off doing some work. As though I'm some kind of benevolent capitalist paymaster.

Yeah. So she's the new member of the conspiracy, anyway. And once she's woken me by knocking on the door, she then proceeds to keep me awake by vacuuming every other square inch of floor in the entire building. I know, I know, I shouldn't complain that the cleaning's being done. But sadly, the vacuum cleaners have either not had new bags put in for a milennium or so, or they need replacing. So she can hoover as much as she like; it will have no effect whatsoever. Except to make me slightly mad.

The council has also changed strategy. The road-digging men have gone, but then they sent a guy in a machine to clean the pavments at 12:30 a.m. the other day, I'm not kidding. Flashing orange lights, big machiney noises, at gone midnight. And they cleverly picked the one night that week I wasn't up until 4 a.m. working.

Starting to think living out in the country would be a good option. Except The Conspiracy probably has some tame cockerel in its pay, not to mention a cow with a particularly loud moo...

The Da Vinci (planning and roads, subsection 2:a) Code

2006-05-03T15:22:00.000+01:00

A dark office. Rain spatters the windowpane, glinting in the orange light of a solitary streetlamp. The figure behind the desk is still, smoke curling up from the cigarette between his fingers to surround 40 watts of dim lightbulb hanging from a frayed flex. The phone shrieks...
"Yes?"
"We've found her." The figure straightens, leaning into the receiver, grabbing for a chewed biro.
"Tell me!"
"She's living on Woodstock Road, in Oxford."
"I'll have someone dispatched immediately. Go with God, Falcon."
"God be with you, Eagle."
The man allows a smear of satisfaction to cross his face, before reaching again for the telephone, and pressing a button marked "repairs".
The chase has ended, but for the woman who is his target, the horror is about to begin...

I swear this is what happens in Council Offices around the country. They find out where I live, and then they send men with unfeasibly noisy machines to do roadworks or dig up water mains right outside my window while I'm trying to study. It's getting to be beyond a joke.

Books and dreams

2006-04-27T22:06:00.000+01:00

Hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo, I get to look at the manuscripts in Trinity, Cambridge! I've been invited by a friend's colleague, and we've arranged for later next month. She did threaten to get me a bib in case I dribble over them.

Other news is slight. I bought a medieval reliquary cross, which isn't exciting to most people but had me practically orgasmic. (Can I say that? I'm not sure any of my family read this blog. And, hell, I'm twenty-six now, so I guess it's okay...)

And, speaking of which, this is amazing. But don't look if you're at all prudish, or in a public place.

Get happy

2006-04-27T21:54:00.000+01:00

It's been a mad social whirl this week. A came over again Sunday night with more anime and chicken soup. We discussed the legal position of an elephant who might or might not have sat on a monkey. Last night, I surprised myself with spontaneity and invited S over after our seminar on the medieval Wirral, and got all the juicy details about her latest boyfriend. And tonight, in yet another burst of spontaneity, the lovely D and I decided we would have a beer and cook Chinese, while considering the merits of collecting dog pictures in a sticker book.

So, I'm feeling very lucky.

Tomorrow evening will be another matter, as I will have taught four hours of tutorials followed by an hour's choir practice. Which would be okay if there were any prospect of sleep tonight, but sadly I have four essays to mark before tomorrow and I'm behind with my OED work. What larks.

The food of love

2006-04-24T17:44:00.000+01:00

Not for the faint-of-heart, but I thought this was hysterical:
Steak and BJ Day

Acquainted with the night

2006-04-23T01:55:00.000+01:00

So, it's nearly two a.m. and here I am, still awake, sitting at the computer in my blue pyjamas with white bunnies on them. And why am I still awake? Well, I'm still awake because I know I have to get up at 9 a.m to sing with my choir at 10, which won't be finished until about midday, and then I have to be at my Jacari student's house by 1 p.m. The day will therefore be quite busy and I would like to have enough sleep tonight. Which is why I can't sleep. Which is why I try never to arrange appointments for before midday. QED.

That is not what I meant at all (Part V)

2006-04-22T22:50:00.000+01:00

Overheard by my mother in the Post Office:
Man: I would like to send this parcel on your next-day service.
Clerk: No problem, but you've missed the next-day collection for tomorrow, I'm afraid.
Man: So, then, if I leave it with you now, when can I expect deliverance?

Which reminds me of a story told me by a Welsh person, who saw a bilingual road sign on the hard shoulder during motorway works which read "Free Recovery / Iachawdwriaeth Amhrisiadwy". This is only funny to Welsh-speakers, who will know that the translation is not really a translation at all, but in fact means "Priceless Salvation".

Wild bells

2006-04-21T01:00:00.000+01:00

Easter's over, and I managed not to stuff myself with chocolate as a result of having a mouth ulcer and another ulcer on my throat. This made any kind of eating quite excruciating, and chocolate even more so. But now I'm back in Oxford completely un-leprous and without parental watchfulness, and am munching away on all the chocolate from my egg-hunt. Add to this that the wonderful A just came over with not only some really great Japanese anime on DVD, and not only amazing German goats' cheese, but also even more amazing German chocolate, and you have a very happy me.

Easter is, I suppose, the start of a new year in some kind of metaphysical Christian way, so I'm going to use it as an excuse to make the resolutions I didn't make back in January. So, before next Easter I will...

1) Visit at least two more European countries (preferably Italy and Germany, but I'm not fussy)
2) Visit at least five Anglo-Saxon sites to get photos for my archive
3) Learn Latin and German well enough to read moderately difficult texts - the German perhaps facilitated by resolution (1)

I think that's enough. I could always add "try to be a nice person" - but why change the habits of a lifetime? ;)

After a very short time away from Oxford, I'd already forgotten how guilty I feel when at least three sets of church bells toll the hour to tell me that it's really too late and I should be in bed...

Willows and ruins

2006-04-11T23:11:00.000+01:00

Yesterday, I returned from nearly a week spent in Ireland. This being my first holiday in about ten years, I was determined to enjoy it - but I hadn't expected it all to be quite so wonderful. Apart from the obvious things about Ireland - no smoking in the pubs (bliss), people who are actually friendly, that kind of thing - the conference I was attending was so well organised and full of interesting papers and excursions and free food, that it would have taken a serious level of curmudgeonliness not to be absolutely delighted with it all. Okay, so some thieving bugger stole my wallet, but that was pretty much the only downside to the entire trip!

Admittedly, nine hours' travelling each way wasn't exactly fun, but it was great to get on a plane again after fifteen years and finally cure myself of my flying phobia. The conference itself was brilliant. There were some fascinating papers given, and the opportunity to meet other postgrad medievalists would alone have been worth the journey. My travelling companion C and I spent most of our time with M, Jh, and Jw, who we were lucky enough to meet on Thursday and who proved to be fantastic company. Jw, in addition, lives in Galway and played Tourguide Barbie excellently, making the visit far easier than it might have been!

Galway reminded me a little of Swansea, although it's larger and rather more cosmopolitan. It's on the coast, with some fabulous views, and the city is really vibrant at night. I counted three different groups of street musicians walking home at midnight on Saturday! This being Ireland, they were pretty musical, too. There are (of course) plenty of pubs - the Front Door was my favourite, with amazing food and good service. C and I stayed at the Claddagh Hostel, in a twin room, which basically consisted of a bunk bed and a strip of floor; we couldn't both be out of bed at the same time, pretty much! But it was clean and comfortable, which was all we really wanted. It was odd to be in a place which seemed so much like home, and yet wasn't. I had to ask some chap in a newsagent what a postbox looked like, and the Euro exchange rate just made my head hurt. And the Irish seem to have very European road-crossing habits - you run across and just hope that you make it before the cars get you. No good for someone brought up on the green cross code...

On the Sunday, we visited Claregalway castle, which is currently being restored. Some of the old walls of the castle building had recently been excavated, and the outlines were visible in the ground. From the top of the tower, we had a perfect view over to Claregalway Abbey, which we later visited as well. The architecture was sublime, and it was a real treat to be accompanied by some proper archaeologists and art historians who knew what they were talking about. How did I manage without the term "ogee"?

The Eunuch and Wicked Fellow

2006-04-01T13:44:00.000+01:00

It's a beautiful day, the sun is shining, and since I worked till 4 a.m. today, I feel that the rest of the day can justifiably be taken off. Although I'm very excited about grammar, so I may not be able to stop working!

I discovered on BBC Online a recording of the last ever castrato, Alessandro Moreschi. It's eerie, and I find it very unpleasant, although he was apparently quite renowned in his time. The accompanying article explains that poor parents would have their sons castrated in hope of their finding fame and fortune as singers. Seems like quite a drastic step to take for such a long shot. A little research brought out the fact that some men nowadays are castrated willingly, either for sexual gratification (it better be really good, you'd think) or because they have some form of body dysmorphia or are unhappy with their libido. I'm certain there must be better ways... I also discovered that castration, aside from reducing sex drive and aggressiveness, can prevent baldness. I know one or two men for whom it would really have been the ideal solution on both counts - killing two birds with one stone, as it were. Or should that be two stones?

Much (more) time is lost

2006-03-30T00:53:00.000+01:00

My life has been rated:

See what your rating is!

Created by Bart King

Am I wrong to be disappointed? Then again, it's 1 a.m., I've been working on the adjectival use of the accusative case for the past four hours, alcohol sends me to sleep, I cry about dead ants, and the last time I saw a naked man was on a Channel 4 documentary about hernia operations... I should probably be glad to be rated above PG.

**NEWSFLASH** One of my housemates is rated PG. I feel happier now.

Much time is lost

2006-03-29T14:13:00.000+01:00

Your Bra Is

Convertible Satin Ice Strapless Bra

What Kind of Bra Are You?

You are

Stretch Satin Thong

What Panties Should You Be Wearing?

I think they match surprisingly well, don't you? I'm also told by two separate quizzes that I should learn Swedish and that I should date a Swede... Spooky! Apparently, my Muppet character is Miss Piggy, my power colour is red and my ideal degree is a Master's in Fine Art. Who needs the Careers Service when you have Blogthings?

A dress no one else can wear

2006-03-28T18:46:00.000+01:00

The BBC reported last week on the case of Shabina Begum, whose school has won its appeal against a ruling of unlawful exclusion for barring her from wearing a jilbab in school. Legally, I suppose it all makes sense; after all, she knew the school's policy and chose to attend there nonetheless. What I would like to see, instead of a challenge to the school's acting on its policy, is a challenge to the policy itself.

Those who criticise Shabina Begum for her actions tend to do so on the basis that leading Muslims advised the school that their uniform policy satisfies Islamic requirements. But she is quoted by the BBC as saying that "I feel it is an obligation upon Muslim women to wear this [the jilbab], although there are many other opinions." Those who criticise her decision are denying her a freedom of religious interpretation and expression, suggesting that mainstream opinion (and, let's face it, in most faiths that means "male opinion") should govern her, rather than any sense of personal spirituality and understanding of her own religion. This is, frankly, ridiculous. Mainstream opinion, for example, argues that drinking alcohol in moderation is perfectly acceptable within Christianity; some groups, however, choose to avoid it entirely on religious grounds. They are not being difficult or unreasonable, but expressing their own understanding of what their faith requires in a way which neither distorts nor goes against the spirit of that faith.

It seems to me that much of the criticism of Shabina Begum is a smokescreen to hide the fact that commentators simply don't like the idea that a Muslim woman is actually choosing a way of dressing which seems to them to pander to patriarchy and male supremacy. But, as I've argued before, I see the difference between Muslim views on dress and those of "modern" Western society as being one of degree, rather than of inherent content. As such, while I question the cultural background which makes such distinctions between the sexes apparently necessary, I nonetheless believe that Shabina Begum has the right to stand up for her own understanding of her faith, and applaud her for so doing.

As the fond Mother gratefully can give

2006-03-28T00:09:00.000+01:00

Yesterday, of course, was Mothering Sunday, an occasion marked by a visit from my mother, since work has kept me pinned to the desk in Oxford this year. A few days' break was therefore much welcomed and we had a wonderful weekend, including a visit to Christ Church, where we saw Peter Rabbit (really, not even any alcohol involved), and a proper cooked breakfast at Brown's Cafe in the Covered Market which I think has provided me with a nice reserve of fat for the next few weeks. There was also a French Market on Broad Street over the weekend, which was particularly great since I'm never brave enough to speak French without the security of mum as a translator for the ones with odd accents.

Amongst its other beauties, Christ Church has some wonderful stained glass, and I've become particularly enamoured of a dragon in one of the windows. I told my housemate P that I would quite like the dragon to be my next boyfriend - after all, he'd be very protective, probably have interesting perspectives on the world, and all that. P's response was "yeah, but you know what people would say - 'What's he doing with her? What is he thinking?'" So maybe the dragon and I are doomed from the start by social pressure. People can be so narrow-minded at times.

Singing with my choir Sunday morning was fun, especially since all the women in the church were given a bunch of flowers for Mothering Sunday. Though the pressure this places on a 26-year-old lacking, as yet, even the slightest sign of parental status is quite significant! The sermon involved a question-and-answer session with the children: "So, who do we think about particularly on Mothering Sunday?" - "Jesus!" pipes up one of the munchkins. I do wonder whether there isn't some truth in the idea that Christianity is a little bit patriarchally-centred. Later: "The little boy whose mummy put him in a basket on the river, who did he grow up to be?" - "Jesus!" (same munchkin, I think). I guess that, 90% of the time, "Jesus" will be the correct answer to a Sunday-School teacher's question...

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

2006-03-15T16:26:00.000Z

Inner Space

2006-03-10T01:00:00.000Z

Inner Space

in an octagonal tower, five miles from the sea
he lives quietly with his books and doves
all walls are white, some days he wears
green spectacles, not reading
riffling the pages – low sounds of birds and their flying

holding to the use of familiar objects
in the light that is not quite

Tom Raworth

That's one of my favourite poems. I think it's one of the best things I've ever read. I thought of it because I've just read Mark Haddon's The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time. I picked it from my shelf a couple of hours ago thinking to read a chapter before bed. I read it all, and now I'm too excited to sleep. It made me think about how good things are often so simple. Things like - walking around the yard in my pyjamas as midnight because I like getting my feet cold when I can't sleep, and not worrying about being thought odd for doing so. It's not being thought odd that's a problem, in fact, it's when people feel the need to control what they see as oddity. Or think that you do something odd to annoy or attract attention. I hear people say of children "ignore him - he's doing it for attention" - as though wanting attention were a bad thing. It's a bad thing if it's done at the wrong time or place or in excess or because it's hiding other problems. But children are as entitled to just plain old attention-because-I'm-bored-and-fed-up as anyone else. If I want attention from my friends, I go and visit them, or phone them, or we chat online. Kids can't always do that stuff. So they attract attention in different ways. I think children deserve to be treated so much better than they are. I was reading the BBC website about child abuse, and that's an extreme form of what I mean. But I also mean - why should children have to wait outside for the bus to school in the rain and then stay in damp clothes all day? And why should children be forced to spend social time with other children just because they're all the same age? We wouldn't expect adults to put up with it. Children are more important than adults in so many ways, especially because what you say or do to a child can stay with them for the rest of their life. I remember being told as a child that I had been rude to ask to try someone's chocolate bar, and would not be given any chocolate as a punishment. My parents insist it never happened, yet I can see where I was (entrance to Swansea Market) and what the chocolate bar was (Double Decker) very clearly. And up until recently, I still found it difficult to ask someone for a try of something they're eating.

Apologies for this navel-gazing, Reader. My housemate tells me that blogging is narcissistic. Maybe it is, but I do it mainly because I enjoy it. I'm always a little surprised when people tell me they read what I write. Though I pretend to be cross with them for not looking more often!

The book also made me think about other things, including my previous post. Because in the eyes of the main character, biblical stories boil down to lies - a metaphor or a parable describes something in terms of something that it is not, which he sees simply as untrue. Call me stupid, but I'd really never thought of it that way.

****

It's been the week for strange news from home - today brought the announcement that my mother's ex-head of Faculty when she was a teacher has won the Lottery. Which is nice, and one feels oddly excited while knowing that in fact it has no personal effect whatsoever. But the infinitely sadder news was that an old schoolfellow of mine, having just married her long-term partner, woke up the next morning to find him dead beside her. And again, she's not someone with whom I've kept in touch, so there's no real personal meaning, and yet I feel so terribly sorry for her.

Okay, this is turning into a late-night ramble of little interest to anyone but the narcissistic author, so off I toddle.

"I’m strong and holy, I must do what I've been told."

2006-03-08T19:45:00.000Z

I'm reading a book, The Dark Side of Christian History. I'm sure you can make a guess as to the subject matter, and the text isn't really any more subtle than its title. But it's made me think, nonetheless. Christianity bases itself, quite solidly, on the Bible as its foundation. Whether or not you believe in the Bible as the Word of God, it should be pretty uncontentious that this is the coherent text of what Christians accept as the truth, right? Uh-uh. No banana. Not only do Catholics disagree with other denominations about which books are canonical, but according to Ellerbe's book, a writer in 450 stated that there were about 200 different gospels circulating in his diocese alone. The Gnostic gospels, for example, place very different emphases on ways of believing and worshipping God from those of the four now-canonical gospels. They encourage a closer and more direct relationship between the individual and God - which, of course, wouldn't suit the need for power of ecclesiastical authorities. All of which leads one ot think that the Bible - or at least the Christian scripture - is, in fact, no more than an arbitrary selection of texts based on the desires of a power-hungry, anti-Semitic, male-dominated Church.

Food for thought, especially at Lent.

After all, if the Church is nothing but an artificial edifice, whose laws and doctrines were created as a matter of political expediency, what on earth am I doing as a member of it? I've long been worried by aspects of modern Christianity which I would have hoped had died out at around the same time that heliocentricism became accepted. Its ingrained prejudices, for example, and its inability to recognise that discriminating against Jews, Muslims, homosexuals or women for religious reasons is still anti-Semitic, Islamophobic, homophobic and sexist. There's no Get Out of Jail Free card to be had by hiding behind religion in these matters, as far as I'm concerned. Our churches are full of infighting and squabbling, we can't hold on to members without playing guitars and promising them that gays go to hell, we won't ordain women as bishops because... erm... well, just because the man in the beard said so - and I've genuinely spoken to people who would rather children stayed in local authority care than were adopted by a gay couple, or who think AIDS is God's punishment on the "homosexual community", or that unconverted Jews go straight to hell. And I don't believe any of that.

So, who's right - them or me? I can only conclude that, considering the history of Christianity, they are right, at least in an historical sense. Because they can quote the Bible ad nauseam and show theological positions and traditions to support their arguments. And all that can be argued by the brave souls on the other side is that we have to move on from the ancient cultural context of the Bible. In other words, if Christianity is strictly Bible-based, then liberal views can't be supported in a Christian context.

I think maybe I've just convinced myself out of a religion...

Green Resistance

2006-03-08T19:26:00.000Z

Odd day, today. Lack of sleep was a big problem - it went like this: Wednesday is tutorial day, so Tuesday evening is spent designing and finishing off the tutorial worksheet. Tuesday evening at about 11, sheet was finished. More work, however, needed doing on materials for next week's class which needed handing out today. By 1 a.m. this also was done. Saved. Happy. Opened tutorial worksheet in order to print out copies. Realised had saved next week's jottings over worksheet. Cried. Just a tiny bit, but I was very tired so I guess it's excusable. So, at 3 a.m. I finally went to bed. Tutorial went well today, though, so I guess I shouldn't grumble. Especially not since it's Lent and I'd go to hell for sure.

Anyway, so, since two of my housemates are big Green people (ha ha, yes), I was encouraged to go on a demo which took place today in Oxford, protesting against the University's plans not to renew its contract for green electricity provision. I won't go into all the ins and outs of it, see here for more info, but it was quite an inspirational event and very well attended, especially considering the usual level of student apathy here (which includes me, I hasten to add).

You see this egg?

2006-03-08T19:11:00.000Z

A change of style is due, I think. You may not have noticed it, but up until now every single one of my posts has been entitled with a quotation from the works of T. S. Eliot. Yes, I am that much of a Tom fan. But finding appropriate words, even from the master of the appropriate word, is becoming more and more difficult. So, it's goodbye to the master (although this post's title is a final homage). From now on, I'm going to find interesting poetry quotations from around the world and the timeline... and if you write in telling me the poet and the poem, I might even send you a Kinder Egg.

I once won a Kinder Egg during a lecture series on Gothic literature, for the feat of remembering the name of a rhetorical term. "Occupatio", I think it was. Anyway, Dr. Jon Mee (for it was he) promised me a Kinder Egg; forgot to bring one the following week; brought one the week after but I wasn't there; the week after that, he, I and the egg were all in one place, but he'd sat on it. The week after that, I got a new egg. And it tasted all the better because I'd earned it...

Deny the voice

2006-03-07T12:21:00.000Z

It's Lent. That time of the year when those of us who are bound to superstitions invented hundreds of years ago by big, beardy men are compelled to give something up. The traditional thing is chocolate, which I have duly foresworn for forty days. I've also given up complaining, however. Immediately upon taking this decision, bad things started to happen. The culmination of this is that my favourite DVD won't play, I have a mouth ulcer which makes eating almost impossible, and my housemate has used, and failed to wash, both my non-stick pans when I really want to make scrambled eggs. I state these things merely as facts, you understand. No complaining here. God has a cruel sense of humour.

Thou hast nor youth nor age

2006-03-06T22:06:00.000Z

A disturbing discovery, today. I think I've mentioned before that I'm a big fan of the TV series Alias, right? Well, my super-duper favourite character in Alias is Jack Bristow, the heroine's father, played by Victor Garber. Jack (see photo, left) is the object of many a secret fantasy of mine. He's certainly what my housemate, S, would call a "silver fox" - a hideous term which apparently denotes gentlemen of the older generation who still have that certain je ne sais quoi (roughly translated in English = "Phwoooooaaarrrr!")

Anyway, this preamble is merely an introduction to what happened today. I was idly searching the internet for information about Alias - whether there would be a new series, all that stuff - when I came across the fact that Gorgeous Garber was, in fact, the lead in the original Godspell, and in the movie made of the musical, playing (would you believe it?) Jesus. I discovered a pretty good photograph (see right), which shows him with worryingly big hair and lacking, I think, most of Jack Bristow's gigantic sex appeal. I love Godspell - it's certainly head-and-shoulders above Lloyd Webber's stuff - but Victor? Surely not!

I'm traumatised. There's no other word for the effect this has had on me. The thought of sexy Victor dancing around in clown trousers with a ginger afro and clearly weighing less than a sparrow on a diet just doesn't do it for me, in the slightest. And next time Jack draws his big, shiny gun in Alias, I'm not going to be able to help hearing that immortal Monty Python line - "He's not the Messiah: he's a very naughty boy!"

If the weather is foul

2006-03-06T21:49:00.000Z

Last week's weather was just a bit bemusing. First there was sun, then rain, then sun, then hail, then snow, then sun, then snow. And all in one day. Our garden was all white and blankety for a little while, but yesterday the flowers were blooming in the sunshine.

Finished working on my first text for the OED, a fifteenth-century English chronicle. I love medieval spelling, if only because it occasionally throws up gems such as "the cuntesse" (countess), the "Arsbishop" of Canterbury and, in a moment worthy of Blackadder, the "duke of Ostrich". It also entertained with accounts of the king of France dancing around dressed up as a wildman, only for his pitch-covered costume to catch on fire, and a lovingly detailed description of a certain king of England being killed with a red-hot poker inserted into his Archbishop. I warn anyone who intends to piss me off in the future - don't; I know exactly how to do the red-hot poker trick now, and I'm not afraid to use it...

(Another) evening with the photograph album

2006-02-26T11:14:00.000Z

Finally, in today's post-a-thon, some more photos of lovely Oxford.

Fragments (Part II)

2006-02-26T10:58:00.000Z

Some more things I've found amusing... Yes, I have no life and I should get out more.

I know lorry drivers are traditionally a bit on the heavier side, but still...

Another victory for the City and County of Swansea Education System.

Don't really know why this made me laugh - just the draconian possibilities of the slightly unfortunate wording, I suppose.

Thanks to F. for leaving this for me to find in the kitchen one morning!

Evidences of respect

2006-02-26T10:36:00.000Z

The animal protesters have been at it again, but this time the scientists (and others) are fighting back. I find it rather ironic that, while the anti-lab protests I've seen (see photo) have been roughly equally police and protesters, apparently the pro-lab people numbered in the many hundreds.

The Animal People (for want of a better term) have announced that all of the University’s students and staff are legitimate targets. Tee-hee-ho, as my housemate H would say. What larks.

The thing is, you see, that I’m actually pretty much against animal testing. To say that we, as human beings, have the right for our own purposes to inflict injury and death on other creatures who can’t fight back is a dangerous thing. There have been (and still are) too many individuals or whole societies who will define as non-human other human beings – Jews, or homosexuals, or Native Americans, or people with mental illnesses, or people of any ethnic minority – for me to be comfortable with the idea that our power over other species should be so far-reaching. I’m not claiming that animals have “rights” per se, but that we have a responsibility not to demean our humanity by exploiting our ability to use and abuse any sentient being which is weaker than we are. After all, as Gandhi said, “the more helpless a creature, the more entitled it is to protection by man from the cruelty of man.”

To define biomedical research as “cruelty” is to use an emotional discourse which is far more appropriate to cosmetic testing, or to fox-hunting or dog fighting or any of those activities whose “sport” lies in the enjoyment of an animal’s pain. I’m assuming that this new biomedical lab (whose work with animals, incidentally, will apparently only be a small part of its overall research mission) is not going to be a place of wanton animal torture and cruelty. In fact, from all I’ve heard, there will be high standards of care for the animals used there, which is laudable. But I nonetheless still disagree with animal testing. If you could prove to me that the discomfort or death of, say twenty rabbits, would definitely produce the answers the scientists need in order to make important medical advances, I would consider that that was probably a justifiable exchange. But the problem is that this testing is precisely that – testing. The outcome may be nothing at all except possibly injured or dead animals, and a human culture which believes in its own right to do what it will with weaker species.

It may surprise you, all this being said, that I will not be protesting against the new research lab. And this brings us back to the Animal People. To a greater or a lesser extent, they are disrupting the work of an entire academic establishment. I’ve had my own research set back by their protests, and I’m solidly in the humanities division – the only way animals come into my work is when I have recourse to my stuffed-toy bunny for comfort when the writing’s going badly! I also know people whose working day is constantly disturbed by these protests because they happen to be scientists who work in the Science Area – although they are theoretical physicists or psychologists who work with computer modelling. And I’ve heard from friends about protesters trying to hand their leaflets, which are often very disturbing, to primary-school children on their way to and from lessons.

The Animal People have turned rational protest into hysterical terror tactics, and to align oneself with the animal-rights movement and against the new lab feels like aligning oneself with these destructive and counter-productive protesters. In their zeal, they have turned many moderate people like me, who are against animal testing on principle, against their cause.

Children’s voices (Part II)

2006-02-26T10:35:00.000Z

I’ve been reading on BBC News Online about school attendance figures, and that apparently teaching manners to children improves their behaviour. No, really?!

As I was reading all about the truanting problems some schools have, though, I suddenly had the irrational feeling of regret that I will never again have a free day off school! I never truanted, partly because I was too afraid of parental wrath if I did, and so the odd free day – because there was snow, or the I missed the bus, or whatever – was absolutely to be treasured. I suppose that an unexpected day off work may one day bring the same feeling, but I’m not sure; as a child, or at least as a well-brought-up child with parents who value education, your feeling of autonomy regarding going to school is very small. As an adult, there’s always the option of just calling in sick, after all. So, though I have no other reason to lament the demise of my schooldays, I do mourn for the free day off.

He could make you laugh

2006-02-13T11:58:00.000Z

Had a wonderful evening yesterday, as my delightful friend A invited me to evensong and dinner at her College. The service made quite a change from what I'm used to "at home", with all the proper BCP bowing and scraping and devices and desires and all that jazz, as well as an interesting and erudite preacher. All of which made up for absurdly uncomfortable pews.

The great revelation of the evening, for me, came not in our in-depth discussion of men and their faults (though this was illuminating!) but in watching Kind Hearts and Coronets. I've always avoided Ealing Comedy like the plague, but now I've found out what I was missing, I'm going to have to reconsider. Haven't laughed so much in an age! The hats, for goodness sakes!

Regard the moon

2006-02-09T22:37:00.000Z

My new camera rocks!

I didn't quite catch your name

2006-02-09T22:27:00.000Z

I don't like the internet very much. It's useful and pretty and helps with my work, but it also has weird people and the FBI and stuff on it. So I've decided no more photos of people (especially not me!), no more facebook profile, none of this at all. I like anonymity.

The evening with the photograph album

2006-02-08T11:47:00.000Z

Well, dear Reader, the most exciting events have happened in the past week or so.

Firstly, my wonderful friend N came down from Glasgow to give a paper here, so I got to meet up with him for a few hours and catch up on old times. Haven't seen him or M for ages, so I'm planning a Scottish trip soon - their two kids are looking scarily grown-up, and I think I need to get there before they're taller than I am. We were also taken out for dinner at Pierre Victoire (=posh!) by the seminar convenors, along with othermembers of the seminar, so a good time was had by all. Well, by me, certainly!

Secondly, please admire my new camera! The old one broke, so I decided on a bit of an upgrade, and it is truly beautiful. Unlike my old Kodak (which was lovely and worked very well until its unaccountable demise), the Fuji has lots of manually adjustable settings so you can take pictures in the dark, when it's raining, etc. (See photos of our truly atmospheric gate... yes, well...) It also has good auto settings for when you really can't be arsed. Very happy, I am.

The other exciting news is that I will be doing some freelance work for the OED. OK, so, I'm not going to be the next visitor in Dictionary Corner, but still I'm very pleased.

Nothing else so much, really. Teaching going well, and I'm enjoying doing some GCSE tutoring via Jacari - this last also raises even higher the phenomenal respect I have for my mother, as I have come to realise exactly how very difficult it is to teach well, and how much time you spend worrying that you simply aren't doing a good job. Who'd have thought that I'd be revisiting Romeo and Juliet for GCSE ten years on? And, for that matter, the blasted Weimar republic, too! It's very good for my brain to have to dredge up all these old facts and convert them into English... "Germany had no tradition of democracy before the Weimar era..." Thanks, Mr. Connick, for being such a great History teacher!

You wouldn't eat me! (Part III)

2006-01-17T23:57:00.000Z

But before I go to bed, I forgot to tell you about avocadoes! I had one for the first time the other day, and it's one of the best things. Thanks to Abel and Cole for making me try it. Another good breakfast...

Make scrambled eggs with milk, butter and cheese, and place on plate
Mix slices of avocado with slices of kiwi fruit and add to side of plate
Eat.

Today's breakfast was a salad - cucumber, tomatoes, celery and mixed seeds - mixed in with scrambled eggs. I'm feeling so healthy. (Especially since H and F helped me out with the last of my Christmas chocolate last night - friends indeed!)

The sun of the East (Part II)

2006-01-17T23:44:00.000Z

The view from my kitchen window in Oxford this evening:

Thanks to S for making me take my eyes off my computer for five minutes to notice it!

I should be asleep, to be honest, as I'm teaching for the very first time tomorrow. But I really did have to finish watching Star Wars Episode I - The Phantom Menace. J told me the prequels are awful, but I confess I enjoyed it. Then, I will enjoy anything that looks pretty and has shooting in it. I started watching yesterday, but was forced out to the pub by F, who bought me Belgian beer and Irish whisky (though I snuck in a Scotch at last orders to revitalise my tastebuds). Returned to the house to find myself deputed to make hot chocolate for four, as S and H joined us and we discussed... erm... I probably can't say rude things on here, can I?

Another picture, for your pleasure, dear Reader:

And goodnight for now.

You wouldn't eat me! (Part II)

2006-01-10T14:01:00.000Z

This may sound disgusting but try it...

poach two eggs until relatively well done
cut up two different fruits of your choice - best if they're not too acidic (I used papaya and banana)
mix fruits with yoghurt in a bowl
put eggs on top of fruit and yoghurt
squeeze passionfruit/lemon/lime over the top.

Makes a great breakfast.

Last season's fruit is eaten

2006-01-09T20:24:00.000Z

A reckoning for the New Year - things that are new...

Good Things in life:

Having learned to cook;
Doing yoga;
David Daniels (website's a bit poncy, but he sings like an angel);
Teaching;
Growing cress on the windowsill;
Joining Jacari;
My mum's learning how to do email;
Getting organic vegetables delivered;
Steve McCurry's Portraits;
Learning to draw even more;
Moisturising;
Lots of points on my Boots card so toiletries are all free (kind of);
Joining Human Writes (if they'll have me!);
The pasta sauce I dropped on my laptop didn't get into the inside of it.

Bad Things in life:

I dropped pasta sauce on my laptop;
I had to pay my termly accommodation bill today;
Errrrm...;
That's it.

Hmmm. I'm a bit smug now.

That's what life is

2006-01-09T09:20:00.000Z

A couple more Swansea pictures for your delight and edification, Reader.

I was going to tell you all about my train journey home at the end of last term, but I'm not sure that I can bring myself to relive the emotional upheaval... Skimming over the stranger moments, however, I met some very interesting people, including Gina, who was on her way to Swindon and had never heard of Didcot, Mike who kept on being asked where the trains were just because he was wearing a suit, and Rob from Newport who not only left me his Sudoku puzzles, but also his biro - thanks Rob! A train is a strange thing, because you often end up with someone's whole life story and then never see them again. I want to know how the vaguely inebriated lady from London got on with her ex and his pub, for example, but now I never shall. So it goes.

The wall, the wainscot, and the mouse

2006-01-06T13:19:00.000Z

Well, the big highlight of the Christmas break was The Mouse. We have named him "Titus Pullo" for reasons that any afficionado of BBC2's "Rome" will probably understand. My mother swore she saw him in the kitchen, scuttling behind the worksurfaces, and so all-out war was declared. The kitchen door was fortified with draft excluders to stop Titus escaping and carrying out a marauding mission into the rest of the house; all edible items were placed on top of the refrigerator (for fear a mouse can walk off with an entire banana); the kitchen floor was swept at least three times a day in case of stray crumbs. This being my mother's house, of course, stray crumbs were not much in evidence. But you can never be too careful, especially when you have a messy student living with you. So, anyway, the Council Ratcatcher came out to visit and, thankfully, found no trace of Titus Pullo's existence. Likelihood is, he says, that Titus was merely an advance scout and, finding no free food for the taking, informed his raiding party not to bother with us. The kitchen is now equipped with a sonic mouse-repellant, which should keep us safe from any further attacks. Let us hope.

Otherwise, the holiday was pretty quiet. I managed to catch up with some reading for the course I'm teaching this term, as well as watching some of the classic films which graced our TV screens this holiday - Jaws is still great, but can anything surpass Spartacus?

My friend R was home from London for the holiday, and we went for a lovely walk by the sea, whence the photographs - Swansea is actually quite beautiful from the right angle.

Christmas day was good fun (though I did sleep for a lot of it) - my favourite moment was being swung by the vicar in church - nobody's done that to me since I was about 5! My second favourite was when a nameless person exclaimed at me and my godfather "That's enough theology - it is Christmas Day!"

Fragments

2005-12-15T13:14:00.000Z

Some things, mainly photos, from this term that I haven't had time or inclination to blog before now...

At the Chinese supermarket - I had a strong inclination to buy a bottle, wrap it in Christmas paper, and send it to someone I know, but decided I don't want a lawsuit for defamation. (Though, is it defamation if it's true?)

The pavement artists of Oxford get poetic... (click for larger version)

Some advice from a tantric sex book my friend D and I found in Borders. If you can't read the caption, it says "a big buttock indicates a strong, healthy, good wife and mother". So, I'm in there.

The same book advised testicle shaking for good health (and illustrated this procedure) and claimed to be able to tell the size of various parts of the anatomy from the shape of one's teeth. Now I know why my dentist always sniggers at me.

From the South whence thousands travel daily

2005-12-15T13:06:00.000Z

So, after hours on the bus, and getting my feet tangled in my wheelie case maybe seven different times whilst negotiating the pavements of Oxford, I finally made it home yesterday. It was maybe the combination of very good Trinity food the night before, plus great Chinese for lunch (and the cinnamon Danish for breakfast), but I felt distinctly queasy as the bus pulled away from Cambridge. This, however, passed, and I was free to focus my attention on the other passengers. Of particular note was ADHD boy – must have been in his late teens, and seemed to think that the greatest fun in life was to be gained from turning the little light switch above his seat on, then off, then on again. Then off again. Then holding it down so it flickered. Then on again. Then off. And on again really quickly. All the while listening to absurdly loud music on his iPod. He was fun.

After a brief moment at home to catch up with the housemates, I went to the pub to meet S and R for a pre-holiday pint (or scotch, in my case). I think I was very irritating, but too tired to really notice at the time. Ah well – rushed off quite quickly to return to the housemates, eat (more) Chinese and drink gin. F left this morning, which leaves me slightly desolated, but somehow I shall survive. The way I’m feeling, probably by going back to bed. Though not until I've eaten all the expensive chocolates I brought back from Cambridge for breakfast. Classy, me.

Love beyond desire

2005-12-15T13:00:00.000Z

Manuscripts. I nearly fainted.

A bit of context might help. The Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge has an exhibition of medieval manuscripts (on until the 30th – go!) to which I went yesterday. It. Was. Amazing. I have never seen so many lovely things in one place, ever. They had the Eadwine Psalter, for goodness sakes! And a manuscript of Ælfric! I died and went to heaven.

I was very fortunate to be staying with my friend J, who’s a lecturer at Trinity, and so had the proper Cambridge experience – dinner at High Table (interesting conversation with a chap who was a friend of one of my undergrad tutors as well as the nephew of a Somerville fellow), breakfast and coffee the next day in the SCR where we were joined by one of the Trinity fellows who was the best friend of the wife of another of my tutors, and (get this) a trip up to the roof of the Wren library to look over Cambridge. Cocktails on Tuesday night with J’s colleague and friend M were delightful, as was meeting up with an old ex-fellow-St. Johnian, F. These two days were the term’s highlight, without any doubt.

Hieronymo's mad againe

2005-12-15T12:59:00.000Z

Had a wonderful time last night when K and D (they of the wonderful dog, Wookie) came over for dinner. You see, dear Reader, I’ve been learning to cook proper curry and it is so much fun! My various pots of spices and weird stuff have slowly taken over one of our kitchen surfaces, but my housemates don’t seem to mind as long as I feed them the results occasionally. So, anyway, K and D came over, brought wine (yay!) and ate food. Just in order to prove how sensible philosophers can be, D drew Genghis Khan’s face on his finger, with a tamarind shell as a helmet. (To be fair, we were still eating and talking until gone midnight, so a small amount of delirium is excusable. Still…)

You wouldn't eat me!

2005-11-30T20:07:00.000Z

I’ve discovered the craft of biscuit-making. I’ve also discovered Christmas Tree shaped biscuit-cutters. Add to this the final discovery of glitter icing and silver sugar-balls, and you have some very happy DPhil students reverting to childhood. H produced a very creditable dinosaur as well as her piece-de-resistance fish design, E's excellent decorating skills came up with ionic columns in front of a sunset (interesting choice for a Christmas Tree...), while our temporary housemate X gave us a lesson in Chinese writing which left us with a number of biscuits which are simply too pretty to eat. Guess I’ll have to bake some more, then…

Just possible that a poem might happen

2005-11-28T22:54:00.000Z

So, did I tell you, dear Reader, that I’d been organising a poetry evening in Swansea? No? Well, I did. And it was tonight. My wonderful readers did a great job, and the audience (kindly described as “intimate” by one lady who attended) was appreciative out of proportion to its size. Though the otherwise wonderful K’s intro and outro entirely missed the point of the evening, it was nonetheless rather good fun. Though, I have to ask, why do churches have to be so cold that your toes go numb? Is it some kind of spiritual mortification thing? Do clergy think that, through the cunning induction of numbness, the faithful will be tricked into believing that they are having some kind of religious ecstasy? Or maybe it’s the Holy Spirit breathing on us, like in the hymns? Someone get the Holy Spirit a bottle of scotch and a good log fire, that’s what I say.

I’m so going to Hell.

Good night, sweet ladies

2005-11-23T23:49:00.000Z

The ladies of 155 decided it was time for a night out, and so we threw ourselves with gay abandon at Somerville’s Michaelmas Dinner. (It’s free, so what more do you want?) Highlights of the evening included setting fire to orange peel, building towers out of combs, and singing carols. Badly. In many different keys at once. Oh, yeah, we’re sophisticated. Cracker jokes, as usual, caused a great amount of mirth, as did the whoopee cushion which came out of one of the crakers, though the comic zenith was the JCR President’s speech – kudos to him, whoever he is!

Food was, in fact, edible – though I had taken the precaution of eating dinner before we came out in anticipation of the usual Somerville culinary delights. The trip home was fun, as my housemate F decided I should ride on the back of her bike. It was about halfway up Woodstock Road, I think, that I began to pray in earnest. Thanks to her great skill, however, I arrived home with no more than a ladder in my nylons and a bruised leg. Well worth not having to walk back in stupid girly shoes.

Music which we seize

2005-11-10T21:46:00.000Z

Went with C and T this evening to hear The Sixteen sing Tallis in the Sheldonian. Words cannot express, etc. They were sublime. It’s the first time I’ve heard Spem in Alium live, and, day-um was it good! If you don’t know what I’m talking about, and tell me so, I will force you to listen to a recording of it, so be wary.

Tomorrow, the idea is for a far less cultural evening, when T comes over for film and pizza. I’m sure Tallis would have loved pizza, though, so we can think of it as a homage…

All that is ill you may repair

2005-11-05T19:33:00.000Z

Today, after nearly a week at home, I finally got to visit my grandmother in hospital. She’s not at her best, but still keeping up hope that she’ll be getting back home at some point, so all we can do is keep our fingers crossed.

To prevent our passing on, I dunno, plague or something, we had to wear plastic gloves and aprons. It’s amazing how plastic will make you schvitz – I really can’t understand how anyone would wear it for fun.

In other news, our wonderful friend H has set off for a trek round Africa for nine months, and we’re going to miss her!

Time present and time past

2005-10-29T12:38:00.000+01:00

So, it’s been, like, forever since I last blogged, eh? Well, the muse hasn’t quite been with me this term, I’m afraid – as I explained to a friend, when it gets to the point where you’re listening to Joni Mitchell’s lyrics and thinking “Yeah, damn right…” it’s time to reevaluate life just a teeny bit. But, hey, it could have been worse – I could have been agreeing with Leonard Cohen, right?

Anyway, I intend to backdate all the posts I have drafted over the past weeks to get them into some semblance of chronological order, so in years to come (when, of course, I will have achieved cult status for my lucid prose style and scintillating wit), no-one will ever know there was this unpardonable hiatus… Historical revisionism? Perhaps. But it has a good pedigree; consider the following from Bede, discussing the apostate kings of Northumbria:

Infaustus ille annus et omnibus bonis exosus usque hodie permanet, tam propter apostassiam regum Anglorum qua se fidei sacramentis exuerant, quam propter vesanam Bretonici regis tyrannidem. unde cunctis placuit regum tempora computantibus, ut ablata de medio regum perfidorum memoria, idem annus sequentia regis, id est, Osualdi, viri deo dilecti regno adsignaretur.

You all understood that, right? So, if Bede rewrote history, surely it can’t be so terrible for me to do so too?

Teach us to sit still

2005-10-27T00:24:00.000+01:00

The BBC website seems designed to provide me with things to whinge about! The latest is that schools in Glasgow are offering free iPods and other incentives to make children eat healthily. They complain that, otherwise, the kids will just be off down to MacDonald's. Well, maybe I'm old, but when I was in school there was no way we were allowed off the grounds without a teacher, certainly not to pop down to the village chip shop for a deep-fried Mars Bar! The reason we have different words for "child" and "adult" is that these are two separate, though related, categories of person. The child needs guidance, and needs to be "trained" into good habits, such as politeness, respect, and healthy eating. That guidance should come from the parents first and foremost, with the backing of the school. This should not be a question of "if you behave as we would expect you to behave, we will reward you", but rather "if you do not behave as we would expect you to behave, we will take sanctions". I do believe in positive encouragement for children, as it helps them to learn, but to spend education budget money on bribes for healthy eating is absurd, as is the scheme that was introduced to pay children to stay in school. What needs to happen is for society to begin valuing education and educators, so that children will grow up believing in their value too.

That said, in order for this to happen, the education system really needs to pull its socks up. You can't expect a child to respect someone just because they're a teacher, if that person does not respect the child in return. This is difficult, when the children come in with no respect or value for what they're doing, and in some cases prepared to use violence against their teachers. But I experienced teachers who told me that I was useless, would never make it to University (two degrees form Oxford later, and another in the running, I have to feel a little smug), was a burden on the school (having participated in every choir, drama group, public speaking competition they asked me to), etc. I know of teachers who have told children they belong in the gutter, who use their classroom as a forum for expressing their repugnant homophobic or racist views... I could go on. This kind of behaviour is unacceptable. Good teachers know how to admonish without resorting to insult. Unfortunately, even good teachers are let down by bad schools, bad curricula, bad inspectorates...

Is there a solution to this problem? Or is our society just too far stuck in the rut to ever return to a basic decent standard of behaviour from children and education from schools?

Our impudent crimes

2005-10-26T00:27:00.000+01:00

I found this article in the Guardian very interesting. Apparently (and let's forget, for the moment, lies, damned lies, and statistics), about 85% of people believe that "life should mean life". It's difficult to know what to say about such a thing. On the one hand, it seems rational that this should be the case, but the argument is often that this would leave no incentive for criminals in prison to reform. Do we believe that prison should be merely punitive, or that it should attempt to rehabilitate inmates? My view is that those who commit crimes forfeit their right to be treated as full members of society because they have shown themselves to have no respect for the rules and expectations of society. But even this is too simplistic a view, because it assumes that everyone in a British prison is there justly, and that their crime was committed in the knowledge of the law and with the wilful intention of violating it. The Universal Declaration of Human Rights guarantees everyone the right to life, liberty and security of person. Thank God we don't have the fear of the legal ability to deprive individuals of life in Britain. But to put someone in prison is surely to deny them the latter two rights? Is this a case of the greatest good for the greatest number, ensuring the freedoms of the many by incarcerating those who would threaten it? Or is there some other legal or moral way to explain this? I'd be very grateful for answers, if anyone has any...

In other news, I attended the Human Rights Discussion Group in the law faculty here today, and it was absolutely inspiring. The speakers looked at the question of whether cours have the right to overturn legislation on the basis that it denies human rights. I shan't go into the argument, though, as I'd almost certainly make a hash of it!

Goonight...

That is not what I meant at all (Part IV)

2005-10-21T23:03:00.000+01:00

For the first time in a while, I've been using my dictation software while writing notes for my next chapter. This, of course, provides ample opportunities for intriguing errors, especially where slightly technical terms are involved. Hence the following...

Mexico and illiterate patterns = metrical and alliterative patterns
bodily poll-stations = bodily pulsations
Hezbollah's dictionary point = ...whose illocutionary point

One day, I swear I will write a book about Anglo-Saxon poetics, only in order to title it "Mexico and illiterate patterns"! More of these to come, no doubt, as I continue writing.

On the same subject, I've recently bought a couple of books which have had me rolling on the floor laughing.

One is called "The Joys of Engrish" and documents the interesting English used in Japanese marketing and signs. For instance... a biohazard sign reading "It supposed to help all the people it supposed to make them happy but we got to recognize it danger"; a College schedule announcing "Very F***ing English Lesson" (without the asterisks); socks marked "Soft and Worm"; a cheese menu offering "Roguefart"; and a toilet sign: "LAVATORY: It has separated into the male and the woman. Don't mistake".
(For more, visit engrish.com, and see also fahruz.org for Flancais and other languages too...)

The other is a further offering from Private Eye, "Mediaballs 2" - while not as amusing, in my view, as the straight Colemanballs, this still has moments of brilliance. A French newspaper welcomes "Le prince Charles et Camilla Parker-Bowels"; the Liverpool Echo gives an account of a church's "Ted Deum window"; and a quiz-show contestant sincerely believes that Jesus was betrayed by his disciple, Solomon. This book is, however, most worth buying for the short but gem-like "Pseuds Corner" section devoted to birth announcements. What can you do with parents who will name their child "Mimi Magenta Poodle"?

The army of unalterable law

2005-10-18T16:28:00.000+01:00

Who'd have thought that an Oxford professor could have designed himself such an excellent website? I know John Gardner only by reputation (which is quite impressive enough) but a lawyer who can cook has to be a good thing, eh?

So, what else? I've been having an argument about biblical inerrancy which I have now realised was completely futile in the face of utter obstinacy. (Not something of which I've ever been accused myself, of course...) If only Anglo-Saxon literature had any real arguments left in it - not just the dating of Beowulf or what the word "cellod" means, but some honest-to-goodness life-or-death debates. I'm going to have to become a lawyer, you know. Ironic to have parents who try to talk me out of a well-paid and prestigious career where I can spend a large proportion of my time wearing a suit and the rest reading books. Do I romanticize, I ask myself?

My housemates are still ridiculously good looking. It keeps me in my place.

Can't you stop that horrible noise?

2005-10-08T00:23:00.000+01:00

The people over the road are having a party. I'm not a complete misanthrope, and so this does not, per se, cause me any kind of existential angst. Unfortunately, however, it does coincide with the maintainence bods having come and fixed all the radiators in our house. It's now like living in a sauna and, despite this being early October, I am forced to sleep with both my windows open and no pyjamas. (Sorry for the unfortunate mental image, but sometimes these things have to be said). Today came a minor breakthrough, as I worked out how to turn off the radiator in my room, thus reducing the temperature from Saharan to merely tropical. Thank heavens for small mercies.

In other news, I had my first rehearsal with a new choir today, and I think I acquitted myself relatively well. The problem with being Welsh, though, is that one carries the burden of one's entire race, musically speaking. We are simply expected to sing well, just as the French are expected to make love well, the Italians are expected to make food well, the English are expected to make complaints well, and the Canadians... Erm... Anyone?...

And they write innumerable books

2005-09-28T23:38:00.000+01:00

Check this out.

Whoah - three posts in a day. I need a lie-down with a cold compress.

Goodnight, dear Reader.

Weave the sunlight in your hair

2005-09-28T21:49:00.000+01:00

I was thinking over the holiday. (OK, that statement is rather self-evident, since I was working on my doctorate. It's meant colloquially.) My mother and I were discussing Islam - the burning topic of the moment, according to pretty much every news agency and television documentary - and she said that she can't see how a culture which forces women to cover their hair in public can claim not to be misogynistic. Fair enough, in some ways - I think this is a sticking point for many people with otherwise liberal views of Islam.

But how different is "Western culture" (an unfortunate term of convenience)? Forget if you will the well-known facts about the gender disparity in pay and employment, the far higher rates of domestic violence and sex crimes perpetrated against women than against men, and the unequal standards of beauty and attractiveness which apply to women in the media and the public eye (would a woman who looks like Andrew Marr, Jeremy Paxman or John Humphrys have reached anything like the status that these men have? Just look at Sophie Raworth, Moira Stewart, Anna Ford...) But even disregarding these challenges to the "emancipation" of women in the modern Western world, facts which even the least ardent feminist would agree are pretty damning, our society actually accepts discrimination between women and men as a normal, if not essential, part of life.

"Surely not!" I hear you cry. (No, I'm not hearing voices - it's a rhetorical technique). But think about it... What would happen if I walked down the street naked from the waist up? Flattery aside, I've no doubt I'd be arrested for public indecency. And what if a man did the same? Well, some women would no doubt swoon. Not me - I'm far too serious. But the point is that, in our society, we generally sexualise the female chest and not the male, and therefore insist on the former remaining hidden in public. What, then, is so different about a culture which sexualises female hair? There may be little biological difference between female and male hair, but equally there is little difference between female and male breast tissue. The hair is generally longer and more luxuriant, the breast tissue generally more enlarged and prominent. Why do we consider the insistence on covering the one to be oppressive, while covering the other is only normal and decent?

Now, I'm not advocating a cultural relativism which overlooks true oppression - violence, the denial of basic human rights, or anything of the sort. All I'm saying is that it's sometimes necessary to reevaluate what seems strange or offensive in another way of life.

Meanwhile, I guess we liberated Westerners are still waiting for the dawning of the Age of Aquarius...

Known to be the wisest woman in Europe

2005-09-28T18:10:00.000+01:00

So, is it possible to contract Fresher's 'Flu before Freshers' Week even begins? Clearly it is, or at least some malign fate wishes me to believe so. Accordingly, I am well-stocked with Vitamin C, Echinacea (with added Vitamin C), Beecham's cold powders (with added Vitamin C), and some healthful fruit smoothies (with added Vitamin C). Perhaps the next bizarre Oxford Mail headline will be "Giant blackcurrant-woman in bus tragedy - Woodstock Road blocked by jam". Watch this space...

At least, however, I have a decent kitchen in which to produce herbal tea concoctions and comforting food. Upon which note, why must bacon be sold in such large packets? An individual of moderate size such as myself finds it difficult to consume more than two rashers per day, which means eating the damn stuff for four days in a row. (Unless, of course, one wishes to run the risk of hearing in the mind's eye (erm...?) one's mother's childhood voice... "think of the starving children in Africa"... as half a pack of Marks & Spencer English Maple Cured Bacon ends up in the bin.)

But, apart from the cold and having to endure living in a house filled with improbably attractive and pleasant people, life in Oxford is going well.

And ghosts return

2005-09-27T23:14:00.000+01:00

So, back in Oxford.

Apologies for the lack of recent posts, but it's so much easier when I have an ethernet connection.

Anyway, during my time in Swansea and the environs, I collected a number of photographs which provide further evidence of the tact and tastefulness displayed in this charming corner of the world (see earlier post). I include a couple for your perusal.

An advertisement in the city centre:

and a small boat sitting by the side of the sea:

I can also tell you truly that TK Maxx (clothing shop) has, amongst its other varied clothing departments, a rail devoted to "girls bottoms" [sic.], and that there is a town on the way to Hay-on-Way with the glorious name of "Three Cocks". Should anyone wish photographic evidence of the same, I can provide it.

But, anyway, I am now back in the national hub of culture and refinement, and such puerile amusements must be beyond me. I was, however, sturck by the headline of today's local newspaper:

This doesn't quite measure up to my all-time favourite Oxford Mail headline "Pub attacked by killer slugs", but still it's a good one.

That is not what I meant at all (Part III)

2005-09-18T21:08:00.000+01:00

I thought I would take this opportunity, dearest reader, to share with you some of the incompetencies of the subtitlers on the major terrestrial television channels. I wish I could remember all the evidence of this which I have seen over the years (I seem to recall "Roam yo and jool yet" as an offering on Comic Relief night one year), but the few I have collected over the last little while will have to suffice. Shimon Peres, according to one ITV subtitler, is in reality Dado Perso, head of the Democratic Unionist Party. Well, Irish, Israeli - it's all the same, isn't it? Sir Edward Heath, whose death was much lamented earlier in the year, was subtitled as "Sir Health Health Health" son of "a competent other" (a carpenter, to you and me). Apparently the great man was to be buried in Salzburg Cathedral, which he could see from the windows of his house. Pretty clever that, what with him having lived in Salisbury, and all. But my particular favourite was a simple cock-up which raised the old chestnut of "weapons of mass-seduction". No, I'm not kidding.

Any contributions?

**UPDATE**

A few more clangers noted by my wonderful mother:
'schleppty' [celebrity], 'more cock row' [Morocco] and 'an adult with a pension [penchant] for young girls'.

Go Steff!

The mocking-bird heard once

2005-08-03T22:57:00.000+01:00

Sitting outside McDonalds today, eating a Quorn burger with my friend C, I felt an unusual sensation on my head. C confirmed that, yes, a bird had indeed defecated on my head. My mother’s reaction, via text message was “a) take a photo, and b) serves you right for eating McDonalds food.” Maternal love is a great thing. (The photo does exist, by the way, but I shan't inflict in on what I know to be your delicate sensibilities.)

On the plus side, I now have new bookshelves. Less floorspace in my room, which is a drawback, but at least all my cherished darlings can share my space with me. Now, maybe if I have them all neutered…

Wire in the blood

2005-08-02T18:30:00.000+01:00

Today, I had my ears pierced. Now, maybe going to Claire’s Accessories (cheesy high street little-girls’ store) to have this done wasn’t the greatest of ideas. Not that thy did a bad job - on the contrary, in fact. But I was sharing the ear-piercing queue with an assortment of munchkins who were all having their ninety-ninth piercing at the age of five. So my (I think understandable) nervousness made me a cause of great hilarity to seemingly every adult in the whole of Swansea. As her small child happily ascended the piercing-chair, one mother turned to me and said “he’s shaming you now, isn’t he?” - and I had to admit that he was. She went on to explain that the young man would only be having the one ear pierced, because “he’d look gay otherwise”. Well, I just hope they did the correct ear, that’s all I can say, or he’s doomed to a life of deviant sexual behaviour and frilly underwear. Poor lad.

Anyway, my own turn finally came, and a very lovely young lady of eleven (though I could have sworn she was about my age, what with the make up and so on) assured me that it wouldn’t hurt at all and that I should be brave, as I most likely wouldn’t faint. And indeed, she turned out to be right. I’d assumed that she was waiting in the queue behind me, but one my ears were satisfactorily manhandled, she wished me good luck and strolled off. Well, we all need cheerleaders sometimes, eh?

That is not what I meant at all (Part II)

2005-07-28T19:13:00.000+01:00

The highlight of today was our acquisition of a new fridge-freezer - frost-free. no less, so no more of that cooking five hundred frozen peas because they all stuck together inseparably in the bag. No sir.

So, I thought I’d share with you, dear Reader, a selection of the instructions which Samsung so kindly provided in the manual which came with Mr. Fridge (as my mother has affectionately christened him - he stands next to Mr. Bin and across the room from Mr. Microwave):

“Never use the combustible sprays like lacquer and paint near the machine for those will cause blasting hazard.”
“When the refrigerator works in malfunction, or is damaged, operation shall be stopped immediately.”
“In case of discard the refrigeratory, please discard the door seal at first.”
“Glass separation is moveable and very heavy. Please take care of children no touching lest injured.”
“In case of refrigerator door keeping open in a long time, it will make “Hooting” sound”.

And my personal favourite:
“Do not store the items with rigorous temperature requirements, such as blood serum, bacterin, academic data and so on.” Well, now I know where not to put my doctorate, I suppose.

A cold coming we had of it

2005-07-18T19:03:00.000+01:00

Gosh. So, I owe D my life, soul and anything else, mortal or immortal, that he should care to ask of me. For indeed, he spent three hours or so helping me move out of my room. How can I possibly have amassed that much stuff? I mean, the books I understand - they breed on my shelves (I try gender segregation, but then what do you do with anthologies, or books by Anon.? Tricky.) But what was I doing with three different tubes of foot lotion? Or five types of laundry-washing bag? Never mind the three bags full that went to the charity shop on Wednesday, or the two bags of food I left with D, or the box I have in storage in College, or the crockery which is on my shelf in the MCR dining room. I think I need to downsize. A lot.

The journey back was uneventful, though of course Wales is immediately rainy and cold (I’m not kidding!) And we managed to unpack the hire car with little trouble and only minimal sticking my arse out into the street to get stuff out (see photo - cheers, mum.) The damn thing was like a tank (car, that is, not arse) - though D, being American, thought it was quite dinky when he saw it.

And, having left the cultured sophistication that is Oxford, I return home to find that Swansea has not changed at all in its sense of propriety and moral values, as evidenced by the headline of the local newspaper. Good to be back.

Until you can hear them all over the Park.

2005-07-16T21:19:00.000+01:00

Today, in between all the packing and stuff (trying to fold up one of those wire-framed laundry baskets that should fit into its own front pocket. Yeah, right.) I managed a bit of time off to visit the University parks with D and K and their simply fantastic D-O-G Wookie. Naturally, we conformed to our species types - D, K, and I bouncing around chasing a frisbee and making fools of ourselves, while Wookie sat sedately in the leafy shade of a big tree, occasionally exchanging remarks with passing fellow-canines. Admittedly, the poor guy did manage to get himself hit by an ill-thrown frisbee (well done, D!) but moved himself quite sedately to a safer spot with dignity unruffled.

Tonight, then, I met with Y to say goodbye - she’s going back to Canada for good at the beginning of August, which is pretty sad for me, though should be very exciting for her - new job, new city, all that stuff. And I suppose now I’ll have someone to visit in Canadia - check out all the quaint accents!

Other than that, I’ve been wandering around in a bit of a daze trying to remember the five million things I always want when I’m at home that just can’t be found in Swansea. Like nice olives. And books. Lots of books. That kind of thing.

Children's voices

2005-07-15T03:17:00.000+01:00

Harry Potter night! I have to admit that, despite my advanced age, I’m a sucker for the Harry Potter books and all the assorted paraphernalia that goes along with them. Tonight, that meant owls. Real ones. And I got to hold one!

But, more importantly, my fabulous ex-flatmate T came to visit to take me to dinner. Since we’ve not seen each other for two years, this was quite an experience, and it took us a good few hours to catch up. I think my favourite story of the night was that, now working in the archives at Lambeth Palace**, he challenged George Carey for identification when he was trying to gain admission. OK, so he’s a Catholic (T, that is, not Carey - no great scandal to expose), but still. T’s excuse was “he looks much bigger on TV - which isn’t fair”. Well, I suppose at least Rowan’s not in danger of the same thing happening - what with the unmistakeable eyebrows, and all.

**N.B. Glossary for Catholics, Canadians, and other heretics: Lambeth Palace = the Archbishop of Canterbury’s HQ; George Carey = former Archbishop of Canterbury; Rowan (Williams) = current Archbishop of Canterbury; Archbishop of Canterbury = head of the Church of England; Church of England = does exactly what it says on the tin, but with refinement, cucumber sandwiches, and incense.

He do the police in different voices

2005-07-14T23:59:00.000+01:00

Met the delightful DK for a drink this afternoon, amidst box-packing and other related activities, to say goodbye before he goes of to Corsica for a week or two. I am not jealous. I am not jealous. I am not jealous…

Tonight was pub with JJ and R - we encountered one of the wonderful Thames Valley police vans on our way down Cornmarket - their slogan is “Reducing crime, Disorder, and Fear” - you just have to love it.

Leave me sitting pen in hand

2005-07-13T18:46:00.000+01:00

It's weird. Everyone's leaving Oxford for the Summer. Ok, admittedly, I'm leaving myself on Sunday, but that doesn't change the weirdness of it all.

I spent part of this afternoon with the lovely J (who is leaving, naturally) shopping for birthday presents and drinking frappucinos. And I do have to thank him for the most wonderful bit of corporate silliness I've heard in a long time, which came in the form of his itemised phone bill from Carphone Warehouse, in which the only itemised charge was the charge for sending the itemised phone bill.

Do you have anything more ridiculous to share, dear Reader? Please do so - I could use a laugh now that I'm mouldering away here alone!

Any meaning we can assign to happiness

2005-07-12T22:34:00.000+01:00

When I moved in to a new College last year and was feeling a bit new and fragile, my friend RL offered me possibly the best advice I've ever received - "smile whenever you see a Royal Mail van". After that, every time I saw one, even if I was feeling really down or tired or dispirited I made myself smile, and now it's become second nature. Which is great, because you really do see a lot of Royal Mail vans around the streets of Britain. So, I recommend this to everyone - take an incongruous but relatively common object, and invest your happiness in it! Americans - maybe those yellow school buses; Canadians - I don't know, moose or something? (N.B. I'm assured that the plural is actually "meece".)

Wrestle with words and meanings

2005-07-10T22:54:00.000+01:00

How can my Latin primer keep a straight face (books have faces, don't you know?) when giving me, as an example of the vocative, "O, puer magne!", translating this as "O, big boy!"? Well, I suppose I'll know what to say next time I'm trying to get a Classicist into bed... "C'mere, puer magne!"

Just to warn you, there is a law, which states that communal kitchens and fridges have to stink. A refinement of this law proves that, the greater the number of students (particularly those below the age of twenty-five) who use said kitchen and fridge, the worse will be the smell. My kingdom for a clean kitchen!

Babble the same speech without need of meaning

2005-07-09T23:10:00.000+01:00

Oh yeah, and there are people having loud fights and kicking things on the street outside my window, and there's a damn massive wasp on my mirror. Strictly speaking, it wasn't necessary to blog this, but I wanted a) more sympathy from my friends, increasing the chance of an imminent neck-rub and b) an excuse for posting a gratuitous Jude Law picture. Again.

Sweet dreams, dear Reader, and may the heavens rain down radiant jewels and sweetmeats upon you.

Ecstasy is too much pain

2005-07-09T22:48:00.000+01:00

OK, I'm making a plea here - please, please, please will someone come and rub my neck? The chairs in the library are really hard and my back hurts a lot. Poor me. (N.B. this is only a plea to people who actually know me - no random perverts or anything, please. Unless you're Brad Pitt or, at a pinch, George Clooney, in which case I'll make the sacrifice.)

I've started learning Latin today, and made the surprising discovery that "fiduciary" doesn't mean even vaguely what I thought it meant. I now realise how deprived I've been by not having a classical education. I'm doomed to make a fool of myself with North Americans who use long words for the rest of my life. On the plus side, though, I've taken the first step towards being able to read Jerome's Vulgate all by myself. Is it sad that I'm quite excited by that thought?

Oh, yes, and Jude Law - if you're reading, you can apply for the neck-rubbing job too...

That is not what I meant at all. That is not it, at all.

2005-07-08T22:04:00.000+01:00

Just a short voyage into cyberspace today, to discuss misprints. Yesterday, I read in an article that someone (probably some whingeing medieval) was "stick of love". Well, aren't we all, dear? My mother also provided me with the fabulous "King Cock" as a subtitler's error for "King Kong" on the television - although one has to wonder whether someone isn't perhaps having his little joke there in the BBC studios... But back to the point, which is that I am simply astounded by the amount of howlers I read in academic articles. The "stick" one was at least amusing, I will admit, but of the forty-odd articles I've read in the past few days (yes, that was me boasting, in case you missed it), a good proportion of the authors or typesetters seem unable to distinguish, for example, between words such as affect and effect, practice and practise, and so on. I mean, really. If you're writing an article, on the subject of English literature of all things, you could at least try to be literate, eh?

Sorry.

To be fair, at least misprints have provided me with perhaps my most amusing medieval-articles moment, in a fine essay discussing the status of the medieval couple as "man and wide".

He who has seen what has happened and who sees what is to happen

2005-07-06T22:42:00.000+01:00

I’ve been watching Alias - the one where Jennifer Garner gets to wear lots of revealing dresses and silly wigs and run around pretending she’s a spy, right? And, well, it kinda got me to thinkin’ (as the Americans say in their folksy idiom). Now, I’m the first to admit that perhaps I read too many thrillers, and I’ve always been a big fan of James Bond, but I think it’s having a weird effect on my brain because I’m starting to be seriously paranoid. There are bugs in my radio, listening devices in my MP3 player, and that little hole in the wall above my bed? Obviously a concealed microphone. There are people reading my text messages and emails, and I’m longing for the day when that self-destruct paper they had on Mission: Impossible back in the seventies really exists. Even some of the catering staff in College look suspiciously like Mata Hari.

In order to allow myself some chance of sleeping at night, therefore, I thought I’d have a quick scout around to see what I could find to put my mind at rest. Imagine my surprise, dearest Reader, when the most cursory glance over the BBC News website provided me with the following…

Article #1 - a senior lawyer’s email communication with his secretary ended up all over the news. I bet the poor man wishes he’d never heard of the modern wizardry that is Outlook! And further on the subject of computer privacy, the organisation Privacy International reports that “As consumers engage in routine online transactions, they leave behind a trail of personal details, often without any idea that they are doing so. Much of this information is routinely captured in computer logs.”

Article #2 - all about how your mobile phone can be bugged, or even turned into a bug, without your knowledge. Apparently the answer is to live inside a little silver tent.

Article #3- the case of a Welsh woman who discovered, well, not to put too fine a point on it, some pretty raunchy text messages on her husband’s phone. It turns out that he’d bought the phone second hand, and the messages were left over from the previous owner (who was a very lucky man, by the sounds of it…)

Article #4- the so-called “snoopers’ charter”, allowing a whole series of agencies and authorities to use surveillance.

Privacy International’s UK Big Brother Award shortlist, 2005, includes nominations for “The Land Registry. For openly placing details of all house purchases and purchasers online for a fee.”, “Richard Granger, head of the NHS IT project. For his project's lack of regard for patient privacy and for his policy of non-accountability to the public.” and “The European Union. For consistently approving bad policies that even failed at home. Including data retention, identity cards, biometric passports, passenger surveillance, ... and that's only this year.”

So, what can I say? I don’t suppose I’ll be losing too much sleep over it, to be honest. After all, even if they are listening in, all anyone’s going to hear are my conversations with my stuffed-toy bunny. And I should have learned my lesson about text messages the day that a missive intended for my at-the-time dearest boyfriend reached another person entirely. (I have been more embarrassed, but not since I was about five.)

But this really is scary stuff - and what's the remedy? To avoid all forms of electronic communication? To resort to semaphore and hope the government has forgotten how to use telescopes? Or just to be practical and never, ever, communicate in an email or text message or telephone conversation anything we would not be happy being read out in court?

And as for all these government agencies and corporations and criminals and random perverts, well, as Ira Gaines kept warning us, “that’s right… we’re watching you…”

References: Article #1; Privacy International on computers; Article #2; Article #3; Article #4; The Big Brother Awards

Yellow leaves of a book that has never been opened

2005-07-05T22:44:00.000+01:00

So, then, (as Seamus Heaney would undoubtedly say), today I had a moment of epiphany. I was about to return to the Beowulf article, having taken some time away in order for my toes to regroup their strength, when I suddenly realised that it had absolutely no relevance to my DPhil topic whatsoever. This admitted, it logically followed that to continue reading it would be an act of absolute masochism, and Somerville has never liked S&M in the library. Perhaps understandably. So, with great reluctance, the article is consigned to the back of a lever-arch file.

That is not to say, dear Reader, that your industrious correspondent has been neglecting her studies. Far from it. So far this week I have studied in two libraries, and am hoping to add the Bodleian to that list on Thursday morning. (Just so you know, it's not the amount of work you do, but the number of libraries you do it in that counts.)

In other news, I read that the Ship of Fools website is running a competition called The Laugh Judgment, trying to find the funniest and most offensive religious joke. This is in response to the government's proposal in the Incitement to Racial and Religious Hatred Bill to ban remarks likely to cause hatred against religious groups.

On the face of it, this seems a sensible proposal. But who draws the line? How do we define something which is likely to cause hatred? It seems to me that there is an obvious difference between those religious jokes made out of affection or wit, and those made through ignorance and malice. For example, consider the joke "What do you call one lawyer at the bottom of the sea? A good start." Ha-ha. We all hate lawyers, right? But if I made that same joke about Muslims, I would be censured by anyone with an ounce of decency, and rightly so. In contrast, here's a joke from Ship of Fools' competition: "Jesus' last words on the cross: "Don't touch my Easter eggs - I'll be back on Sunday." " Well. Inciting hatred? Maybe, but probably only against anyone with little enough wit to tell such a joke.

In a sense, it seems that what the government is trying to do is to redefine certain types of speech almost as speech acts - if you say this thing, then it has a concrete real-world effect above and beyond its semantic context. But surely this is also an infringement on the right to free speech? Don't get me wrong - I'd love more than anything never to hear a racist, homophobic, sexist word spoken again. What I don't want is a cosmetic job that papers over the cracks of prejudice in our society without taking definite steps to stop those cracks spreading. Just because people can't say something, it doesn't mean they don't think it. I'd rather hear someone make a bigoted remark against me so that I can challenge them to their face, than have them think it and never have it disputed.

So, anyway... What do you call one BNP member at the bottom of the sea?

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse

2005-07-02T18:09:00.000+01:00

Still reading the Beowulf article... Someone come and save my toes!

And prayer is more than an order of words

2005-06-30T22:47:00.000+01:00

I think I'm getting the hang of this travelling business. K was celebrating his first Eucharist as a priest yesterday, so I thought "what the hey?" and hopped on a train to Swansea. The journey was completely uneventful, and I even managed to do some work, including reading what may be the most boring article I've ever read in my entire life on weapon-terminology in Beowulf. I was ready to chew off my own feet for entertainment by the time I was halfway through it.

Naturally, as soon as we passed over the border into Wales it started to rain. And to add to my discomfort, my mother refused to believe that I was standing outside our front door when I rang her and insisted on checking on me through the window before letting me in. But she made up for it by taking me for a curry, so all is forgiven!

The service on Wednesday evening was lovely, the choir was excellent as always (with a brave conjunction of Parry and Victoria for the anthems!), and I managed to catch up with quite a few old friends. And now I suppose I'll have to call him "Father"...

The journey back was also beset by rain, and I arrived in College to discover that some evil person had stolen my dinner from the fridge. Bloody students.

Images: Didcot station (2005); Millennium Window, St. Mary's Church, Swansea (2004)

A raid on the inarticulate

2005-06-28T23:16:00.000+01:00

NOP World Culture Score(TM) Index Examines Global Media Habits
BBC Online discussion of NOP report

Okay, I suppose we must start by saying that the statistics used by NOP are all based on self-reported activity. But even so, shouldn't we be concerned that the UK's reported time spent reading is very near the bottom of the scale, while the reported time spent watching TV is an hour and a half more than the global average?

At first glance, this does seem worrying. 5.3 hours a week reading is less than an hour a day, while 18 hours watching TV works out at more than two and a half hours.

But what does NOP mean by 'reading'? Doesn't this in all likelihood include magazines, newspapers, trashy romance novels and thrillers? It's too easy to place reading as a pursuit way above watching TV, yet I can think of a lot of quality television programming from which I've profited far more than from reading Heat magazine whilst waiting in my local Chinese takeaway, or indulging myself with the latest John Grisham novel.

It's time we stopped blindly privileging reading as a culturally and intellectually "better" activity than watching TV or using the internet. Certainly, I wouldn't give up the hours I spend reading every day. But used properly alongside traditional literacy-based education and recreation, technology and the media can be rewarding, informative and improving.

After all, as a postcard I picked up in London pronounces, "God Almighty HATES book lerners".