So here we are, at the end of all things. I've decided to throw into one sparkling entry all of those random tangent-y things that fit nowhere else. Make of them what you will.

And aaaawwaaayyy we gooooo.....


Exhibit A: Things I will miss about Oxford/the UK in general.

– Jaffa Cakes. Chocolate Digestives. Fruitier Skittles and Starbursts. A sweets aisle at the grocery store that stocks ten billion kinds of candy, including far more toffee than one could ever need, and twenty billion vaireties of biscuits and cakes.
– Shopping at Sainsbury’s. Its small size and my complete knowledge of where everything lies within its aisles. Bagging my own food in reusable orange bags. And check-out cashiers that sit rather than stand.
– Four major bookstores within ten minutes of my front step.
– Orange juice with ‘juicy bits’ (pulp just won’t cut it).
– Pimms. Pimms. Pimms. And Pimms.
– A rational approach to legal drinking.
– All of the British-ese listed in Exhibit C below.
– An average conversation volume that’s just a few notches below American.
– My kettle. I might cry myself to sleep about this one. I saw one at Target the other day. A quarter of the size. Twice the price.
– British fashion. I’m going back when I make my first million.
– The Oxford Library System. I foresee a painful thesis-writing-crisis at Gelman in the coming months.
– British currency. Paper-y and not fabric-y notes. Nearly twice as many coins. The weight of the one and two pound coins in my pocket/wallet/purse.
– The wine at Sunday hall, no matter how bad it was.
– More than ample seating in cafes, especially in Starbucks. And the lack of pressure to evacuate a seat, even if that last sip in your caramel macchiato has been sitting there cold for the past fifteen minutes.
– Multi-floored S’buckses. Especially the S’bucks on Cornmarket.
– The entire Grease cast.
– My pigeon hole.
– Cornmarket Street on Saturdays.
– Pubs.
– London, and everything about it.
– Everything you need lying within a twenty minute walk, including the bus and train station, which can get you anywhere else you might need to go, and at a very reasonable price.
– Emily Bazalgette and Louise Wratten.
– Living on a floor with two Brits, an American, an Italian, a Turk, and a Belgian.
– The utter privacy of public toilet cubicles.
– Gardens, gardens, gardens, and more gardens.
– Ditto for roses.
– People knowing how to spell my name and then knowing that it’s Irish.
– The non-threatening recorded announcements at the bank, grocery store, and post office (e.g. ‘Cashier number four, please’).
– Queues.


Exhibit B: Things I will NOT miss about Oxford/the UK in general.

– The bloody exchange rate.
– The Bloody University of Bloody Oxford.
– The twenty-minute hike from Pembroke to the English Faculty Library.
– Winter sunset at 3:30pm.
– Summer sunrise at 4:00am.
– Meat, veg, and potatoes. EVERY night.
– Having dinner unnecessarily served to me three nights a week, and how such dinners miracualously doubled in length when I had an essay due and/or I hadn’t slept in a few days.
– Cream on everything. Absolutely EVERYTHING.
– My prison cell. I mean my sauna. I mean my single room.
– Being poor. Oh wait......
– Big Issue (not the concept. Just the guilty pang I felt passing three to five sellers a day.)
– Lack of downpours.
– Life in a smallish city (better than the suburbs, but still not the real city deal).
– Walking everywhere. I know I also listed that above as something I would miss. But on second thought, I probably won’t miss it. I like subway systems.
– Perpetually grey winter skies.
– Pulling weekly all-nighters.
– My tutorial-induced manic depression.
– Oxford lectures.
– Lack of air conditioning.
– Pembroke Street, and the Marks and Spence delivery bay.
– The ringing of the Christ Church bell one hundred and one bloody times at 9:05pm every night.
– Sunday Bells.


Exhibit C: Britishisms! A Vocabulary Lesson.

In order to speak Britishese, one must mind the following language quirks:

– frequent use of the adjective ‘brilliant’ (which apparently has been recently imported to the States, thanks to a – dare I say it – brilliant ad campaign by Guinness)
– the non-existence of the adjective ‘awesome’ (except for when imitating annoying Americans)
– excessive use of qualifiers such as ‘quite’, ‘bit’, and ‘rather’
– 'you alright?' (similar in use to the American ‘what’s up?’ – i.e. no response outside a head nod or a ‘yup, and you?’ expected, and giving one might prompt an odd look)
– reading/doing/studying a subject; never ‘majoring in’
– insults of choice: twat and wanker
– pudding = dessert. Any kind of dessert. Not just pudding. Unless, of course, we’re talking about....
– a Yorkshire pudding. That’s a biscuit shaped like a bowl. An American biscuit, that is, ‘cause....
– a British biscuit is an American cookie. (Also: our English muffin is their crumpet. And their American muffin is just a muffin. Except huge. Kind of like their ‘American style cookies’ are enormous. And the ‘American Pizza’ at Pizza Express just has pepperonis on it, ‘for those who like their flavours simple and strong.’)
– cheers = ‘thank you’, ‘you’re welcome’, ‘goodbye’, ‘I want to have your babies’ (well, maybe not the latter...)
– they’re called toilets, not bathrooms; ‘WC’ and ‘loo’ both acceptable; ‘restroom’: never
– it’s a queue, not a line
– chips, not french fries
– notes, not bills (as in paper money)
– trainers, not sneakers
– scampi, not shrimp
– corgette, not zucchini
– juicy bits, not pulp
– smooth, not pulp-free
– sweets, not candy
– bum bag. NEVER EVER fanny pack. EVER. Try that one on some Brits if you want to see them laugh until they cry. Ask them what ‘fanny’ means afterwards.
– always an essay, never a paper
– fancy dress = costume (as in a themed costume party), not semi-formal/nice clothes
– smart dress = nice-ish/business attire/semi-formal clothing
– trousers, not pants, because it’s...
– pants, not underwear
– weekend, not weekend
– basil is pronounced ba-zil, not bay-zil
– oregano is oregano, not oregano
– knackered = exhausted
– ‘_____ is the way forward’; as in ‘Cheerleading is the way forward’ or ‘Pink shoes are the way forward’ or ‘Dance parties are the way forward’ or ‘Lesbianism is definitely the way forward for bitter old maids such as myself’. (Not sure whether this is a true Britishism, or one just excessively used by the Grease cast.)
– pissed = drunk
– gutted = emotionally distraught
– ‘what high japes!’ = ‘what good times!’ (only encountered this one once, but it’s brilliant, is it not?)
– ‘______ (insert name of anyone) is a legend.’ Once saw legend qualified with ‘stonking’ (i.e. you are a stonking legend!).
– street names can be proceeded by a ‘the’ (e.g. ‘the High Street’ or ‘The Iffley Road’)
– a British Mars Bar is an American Milky Way; and Milky Way is a Three Musketeers. (Okay, so this may not be a dialectic difference. But sweets are important to me, and the distinction must be made.)


Exhibit D: Funilicious Statistics

Countries Visited: 7 ( Read more... )
Cities/Towns Visited: 36 ( Read more... )

Essays Written: 30
Stories Drafts Written: 9
That, my friends, is 365 pages and 120310 words.

Primary Sources Read (i.e. novels, plays, essays, and poetry collections): 75 ( Read more... )
Secondary Sources Perused: Ugh. I don’t feel like counting that. I might vomit.

Exhibit E: GOODBYE!

That’s it! I have nothing more to say! Shocking, right?

Thanks, oh loyal readers. It’s been fun.

Signing out....

Cheers,
Caitlin xxx

Trinity Eighth (!!!) Week
Peruse the final photos ici! and here!

My last week in Oxford. Egads. Who ever thought I’d ever reach this point – alive and sane (well, I guess the latter is debatable) – and then actually succeed in documenting it all?

On Sunday, Alice (from GW) came in from London for the day with two friends from her apartment building. I gave the three a whirlwind tour of Oxford and then locked myself up in the room for a few hour of study while they continued their exploration. They returned to Pembroke in the early evening for some Pimms on the Quad and then accompanied me to dinner for the Formal Hall experience. Blame it on certain exams wrapping up, a 24/7 overflowing of Pimms, or the fact that it was the last Sunday of term, but hall was actually rather loud, rowdy, and generally laughter-filled that night. Said bye to Alice and Co. and then tried to continue work, but ended up un-decorating, (non-school-related-)reading, and sleeping instead.

Monday, I read aaaaaaall day long whilst simultaneously roasting and melting in my sauna of an un-air-conditioned room. Was up all night once AGAIN (making it official: I never ever got more than two hours of sleep before an Irish Lit tutorial... :::whoopsy daisies:::) but FINALLY finished my very last Oxford essay ever nonetheless. Tute ran horrendously over one last time, because (a) I was late, (b) Adrian took a phone call, and (c) we talked about weather, London, DC, the presidency vs. the monarchy, and then the Irish government for forty-five minutes before finally coming to the topic at hand: Samual Beckett. Two and a half hours later, I pretty much skipped back to Pembroke, an Oxford-education-free lady!!!!!! YAAAYYYYY!!! NO MORE TUTES!!! NO MORE ESSSSAYYSS!!! Okay I’m done now.

Walked to the EFL one last time to return my very last batch of books and snap a few photos. The rain torrentially poured down during the whole walk there and back. And I loved every minute of it. Had dinner at Pizza Express with Alan, Myla, and Louise, and then went with them to the Merton Gardens to see a promenade production of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe; quite stunning in setting, very original in concept, and an utter joy to watch. The audience moved around with the cast – all over the gardens (i.e. each scene was in a different area of the college grounds). Add in that C.S. Lewis – while either an undergrad at University College, a fellow at Magdalen, or a friend of Tolkein’s while the latter was a fellow at Merton itself – probably walked through those very gardens.... and it was pretty much a v.v. unique and cool experience. After the play, Louise led us over to the Rad Cam area to show us a Brasenose door right across the street from the church Lewis attended while in Oxford; an elaborate lion’s head is carved on the center of the door, and two fauns stand guard on either side of its frame. Turn to the right, and what stands in your path, in the middle of the cobble-stoned walkway that leads to the Bod? A lamp post. You put the pieces together. Yes, I flipped. Pics in the albums linked above. (Of the glorious sight. Not of me flipping.)

Wednesday night we had one last Grease-y get together, in which we watched the DVD in the Mac common room and sang along quite rowdily. Chatted and laughed afterwards for hours into the night; the party gradually dwindled, but as I had no work, I hung around until the bitter end: after putting Myla to bed (she fell asleep sitting up), Dave B, Michael, Benjo and I ended up at McCoy’s for chips (at around 3am.... ‘Look! It’s not even dark yet! Oh wait.... that’s the beginning of sunrise.’). We consumed our chips whilst playing pool in the JCR, and emerged around 4:30 to a completely bright brand new day (this whole virtually-no-night-this-far-north thing still somewhat baffles me).

My last two days were filled with attempts at packing and andf then utter packing meltdown, desperately compounded by the physically melting temperatures. (I think my brain actually boiled sometime mid-Thursday.) Emotionally exhausted from my dilemma-osity, I skipped the bop Thursday night and watched season one of 24 instead. Rested and refreshed, I some how succeeded in getting both of my bags below 32 kilos each on Friday morning and then hiked up to the UPS store in Headington to ship three boxes, thus officially finishing all things packing. Which was really really weird. There was no denying it now: the year – the long, sometimes torturous, often brilliant, literally life-changing year – had come to an end. I got emotional at the oddest things (i.e. when pitching my really overused and gross but well-loved ABT Swan Lake mouse pad; and when placing my Converse, a bag full of perfectly good Splenda, two boxes of tea and various and sundry other articles in another ‘to pitch’ pile). Emily B. came over later that afternoon for a chat and walked out with two Sainsbury’s bags full of my food, kitchenware, school supplies, and clothing (‘It’s like Christmas in June!’). By dinner time, the contents of my room were entirely contained in two gigantic suitcases, a backpack, a tote, and the trash bin.

From Hall that night, we all went straight to the Quad and began a long night of chatting, revelry, and very very teary goodbyes (Yes. I blubbered like an absolute baby. What else is new?). When the porter came around one or too to shoo us away, the small group of people I really cared most about migrated to the steps in north quad for a few more hours. Before heading to bed, I prepared to ceremoniously dispose of the Converse on my feet (Emily S. suggested I go tie them to the railings of the Rad Cam) but was graciously stopped by Myla who realized her feet were the same size and offered to give them a loving home. Barefoot and red-eyed, I gave everyone one last hug, headed up to my room, and collapsed into a few paltry hours of sleep.

The next morning, I rose at the crack of dawn to check out and hike it with my luggage to Gloucester Green. Thank goodness again for such kind-souled friends: Miss Stambaugh, Miss Green, and Mr Benson met me in the lodge and made the trip not only pleasurable but infinitely easier than anticipated. One last round of hugs at the station, and then off on a coach to Gatwick and over the Atlantic Ocean one last time.

It’s still weird to even think about it. I don’t know when/if I’ll be back.... when/if I’ll see many of those people again.... and that makes me much much sadder than I ever thought it would. As Sarah Schmidt would say, ‘Shut up Caitlin. You didn’t even like being abroad until like the last week.’ But like it I did. And miss it I do. And despite all the many (many many many) meltdowns, headaches, tears, and doubts: glad I did it I am.

And thus the trog crawls to a close.

I have one more nonsensical entry planned, and it shall come quite soon, I promise. To those who are actually still reading this (if such people actually exist): my profoundest thanks for putting up with my endlessly self-absorbed ramblings. I’ve had fun; I hope it’s all been somewhat interesting for you :o)

[edit: apologies for the delay in posting. i could have sworn i posted this ages ago.]

Trinity Seventh Inning Stretch. I mean Week.

Soooo...Sunday and Monday of seventh were identical to the preceding six Sundays and Mondays: lots of reading and note taking and planning, capped off with an all nighter. Had another nearly two-hour tute on Tuesday (come oooon Adrian), this time outside in his garden as the weather was just lovely (did get a bit burnt though). After tute, I decided to take the afternoon off and go see a film, even though I probably should have napped. Oops. I really do like going to the movies by myself in the morning or early afternoon, though. Nearly empty theater. Mindless entertainment. It's a lovely escape.

Continued to avoid sleep after hall that night by going with the usual suspects to the Turf's weekly pub quiz. And joy of joys: Broke Broke Pembroke (our team. I say ‘our’ loosely. I contributed very little.) came in third!!! Quite exciting. Went to O'Neill's for a spell afterwards before finally crashing.

Wednesday was rather chill (with only one essay left for term, I really didn't feel guilty 'chilling'). Went to the EFL to get some books and then to the botanic gardens to read some books (had to leave soon after arriving, though, as my allergies started to nearly kill me). Went to hall, and then to Oriel College with Myla, David, Jan, Alan and Alan’s friend to watch an outdoor production of Taming of the Shrew (our friend Grace - Rizzo from Grease – played Bianca). The production was generally quite excellent; I began to worry near the beginning of Act 5 whether or not they could really pull of the ending like the programme claimed they would. But pull it off they did, thanks largely in part to a very stellar Katherine and an almost equally as excellent Petruchio. I was quite quite pleased with their rendition of the final speech, and left the gardens, as every good English-er should, in continued awe of Shakespeare’s genius.

Thursday night, I went to an Ali Smith reading at St. Anne's. Ali Smith is a author whose novels and short stories were recommended to my by Kate, and since reading them, I've added her to the list of my top ten - possibly top five - absolute favorite writers. Ergo you can probably figure out how excited I was to actually hear her read, and then potentially meet her.

She read the opening section of Hotel World, a fabulous piece she recently rote for a magazine, and then another excerpt from her first novel: Like. Kate's husband – who, it turns out, is Matthew Reynolds: an Oxford English Fellow whose lectures on Victorian Poetry I attended back in Michaelmas! How crazy! - organized the event, so I got to meet him afterwards as well. Got Ali to sign my copy of the accidental and chatted with her briefly; she was incredibly kind, and even knew how to spell my name on the first guess!

Said one final goodbye to Kate, and began the walk home. And a very odd walk home it was. The weather was room-temperature perfect. The sun was shining. And the world of northern Oxford was amazingly calm. My mind, however, was in utter turmoil for some unknown reason. I don't know if it was the whole meeting a real live successful contemporary author. Or the prospect of leaving for good in a week. But my future suddenly seemed impending and oppressive and I wanted to just sit down on the side walk and bawl my eyes out. Quarter life crisis. Fun.

Friday, I woke up early and set off one last time for London; visited Westminster Abbey (and the Poet's Corner in particular) in the morning (p.s. did you know that England's been using the same coronation thrown since 1301?!?!?! I find that infinitely cool). I then walked down and across the river to meet Jessalyn and her boyfriend at the Natioanl Theater (where she's working this summer). We had lunch at Wagamamma's and then made our way over to the National Gallery for a bit (yay for free museums!). Said bye to Jess and then walked down to Westminster Palace to meet up with my friend Alice from GW, who's working in Parliament for the summer. We hiked back up to Trafalgar and had a few lovely hours of talk over tea in the crypt of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Took the long way back to Victoria Station so I could absorb maximum London-ness, and then hopped the coach back to Oxford.

Saturday was full of lots of nappage... I mean... working.... kind of. Not really. I was right the first time. Read on the quad for a bit to escape my bed, and then spent a few hours in the Christ Church meadows at Louise’s ‘Strawberries, Pimms, and Toodle-Pip!’ goodbye party (she’s not returning to Oxford next year; we adopted her as a fellow ‘Visiting Student’ during the last few weeks of Trinity). The company, weather, and food were all grand. And I think I made my friends really happy (not so much) each time I pointed out that ‘one week from now, at this time...’ I’d be driving to the airport/flying over the Atlantic/landing in the US/etc. After a time, they decided to stuff my mouth shut with more strawberries. I didn’t complain.

That night was possibly the best of the year. Sitting in my room, in a slight funk, I decided to go to bed circa 11pm, but was rudely pulled out of bed by a highly annoying fire alarm. Once we all convened on the quad, though, we kind of decided that the night was too nice to go back inside. Decked out in comfy ‘spending the night in to study’ clothes, we all laid out on the grass and talked until about 3am. The fresh air finally cleared my head, and the quality time with Louise, Myla, Sean, Kevin, Deb, Tugay, Milli, both Emilys, (literally everyone.... it was fab) was splendiferous. I discovered two kindred Aurora borealis spirits in Emily B. and Sean. And I finally finally finally let myself admit that I would really miss Pembroke – and the people there even more.

Trinity Sixth Week

Soooo... sixth week I pulled the best/worst essay stunt ever. As of hall on Monday night, I hadn’t quite finished my reading (for the essay due the next morning at eleven...), and yet, I went to a ball that night anyways (you gotta go to at least one ball before you leave Oxford!). It wasn’t a full on Oxford Ball (i.e. an all-night foood-and-drink-and-entertainment black tie affair on the grounds of an Oxford College), but a smaller one at a club, organized by a friend of mine as a fundraiser for her thesis project. The theme was ‘Moulin Rouge’, which meant I got to wear that shockingly pink dress I wore senior year for homecoming but have never had a proper opportunity to wear again. How exciting.

Pembroke’s string quartet played at one point, and Miss Bazalgette and I decided that the moment was most likely the closest we’ll ever get in real life to a ball in an Austen novel.
After the mini-concert, the place became more or less a regular club, except we were all in black tie. A lot of the Grease cast members came, so it was another lovely night of singing, dancing, laughing, and having a lovely good time with them. Enjoy pictures found here.

Went home at midnight and stayed up all night writing my essay (started the actual writing of it at 7am. Oops.). I had a twinge of guilt as Dr Paterson stood there and apologized up and down for not ‘properly marking’ my Joyce essay (he’d read it, just hadn’t marked it yet), and then insisted that he’d mark it and pidge it to me pronto. I pondered whether I should mention that I hadn’t really ‘properly written’ the essay I was about to turn in.

Almost slept through hall that night (I’ve forgotten how to wake up to alarms this year), but made it in the knick of time. Later that evening, I received one of my favorite phone calls of the year:

Miss Bazalgette: ‘Hello my dear. How are you?’
Cait: ‘Doing well, and you?’
Miss B: ‘Good good. Are you by chance busy right now?’
Me: ‘Nope!’
E-Baz: ‘Are you afraid of spiders?’
Knightess in Shining Armor: ‘No.,,,’
Damsel in Distress: ‘Would you like to come kill one?’

The poor girl has intense arachnophobia, and had apparently been sitting in her room for quite some time, transfixed and petrified by a teeny eight-legged fiend crawling on the ceiling above her bed. After calling three of her tall male friends, none of whom were available, she called in her tall female friend. I charged in on my horse, and slew the dastardly beast with a tennis racket, a bit of tissue, and a toilet; then the two of us chatted about our irrational fears (not that her fear is irrational. She makes a good argument for how spiders will some day take over the world if we don’t kill them now) and other various and sundry topics into the late hours of the evening.

[Note: three weeks later – three weeks of very hot, open window, and ergo bug-filled living, mind you – Miss B has overcome, if not her fear of spiders, at least her fear of killing them herself. Apparently, Paradise Lost, the collected poems of Byron, and The Waves are indeed useful for something. The former apparently is a wasp-killer as well.]

Read and creatively wrote my way through Wednesday and Thursday; transformed my problem story into something somewhat comprehensible, and then produced a small piece of travel writing. Had my last tute with Kate on Friday (saaaaaddd!!!), where she informed me that I need to cultivate a harsher journalistic voice for my non-fiction (the piece was a little too ‘nice’ and ‘complacent’; I need to find my inner ‘ice’, ‘malice’ and ‘callous observational sense’. Sounds fun. But I don’t know how successful I’ll be. Maybe I should go back to being an editor).

Hung out with the Mac girls and some of their visitors that night, one of whom is a student at Georgetown who’s been training at the Washington Ballet. The two of us threw around names (I love how small the ballet world is! She of course knows all my WSB teachers and many of my MYB ones, as well as quite a few of my old dance friends. As she’s stayed in the loop and I haven’t, she also knows where a few of them have ended up. Allison Walsh is currently at Joffrey, and Tori North is at Complexions. Craziness. But smallest of small... she actually went to see Balance’s Nutcracker in December, as she knew a girl in the cast!), then danced around Sharon’s room, and went out to the quad to teach the others ballet. Comical times ten. Except for when we started teaching their friend Erik how to partner. The kid was a born natural. Perfectly executed a fish, press lift, finger turn, sit lift, and many an assisted grand jete and pas de chat.... all within one or two tires. We were absolutely floored. Observe the fun in pictures found here! As always with my beloved ballet, my nostalgia started to morph into that suspiciously overwhelming sadness, so I awayed to bed rather early.

Saturday, I went with the girls to the Pembroke Sport Ground for sports day. Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking, though, as I don’t play ANY sports and only enjoy watching a very select few. When I heard the free BBQ wasn’t to start for another four hours, I left. Worked through the afternoon, then hung out that night with some of my favorite Greasers in Len’s and on the Quad, and then later with some of my favorite Americans in Duncan’s room.

END OF SIXTH!

(Egads! Only two more entries!)

Please note: in exactly one week, at this precise time, I will be standing in the USAir check-in line, praying that I won't have to pay a bajillion dollars in overage charges for each of my bazillion kg bags, and grinning like a mad fool in anticipation of touch-down on American soil ten hours hence.

:o) :o) :o) <-- preemptive foolish grinning.

That is all. End of note. On to your regularly scheduled program....

Trinity Fifth Week

Beginning of fifth was dedicated to Joyce’s Ulysses, which I finally finished on Sunday and then attempted to decipher and understand on Monday.

Monday night brought a post-Grease celebration in Broadgates Hall, hosted by the college Bursar (who played our Vince Fontaine) and comprised of champagne and nibbles and good company. Pulled yet another all-nighter that night (I really hate Mondays this term) with I believe every other American in college (we complained hourly on AIM) and our honorary American, Miss Bazalgette, as well.

Armed with a mere forty-five minutes of sleep, I headed off to Dr Paterson’s house for a tute that ran for, not the normal one, but TWO whole hours (arrrghh). Not that you really could tackle that beast of a novel in a mere hour (we spent at least forty minutes or so discussing just the opening paragraph to chapter eleven; I kid you not). As long as it was, though, and as tired as I was, it went relatively well (as well as any discussion of Ulysses can go with one who’s only read it once; one of those icky ones that demands five hundred readings for any sort of comprehension). Listened at the end of the tute to a recording of Joyce reading from Finnegan’s Wake, which was actually really cool. I have no urge to actually read said book any time in the near (or far for that matter) future, but his voice was lilting and lovely, and if I could get a hold of a recording of him reading the whole book, I might consider reading along...

I also listened to a short track on the same CD of Virginia Woolf discussing something (can’t recall what) at the very beginning of tute (while Adrian performed his customary ‘I’ll just run up and grab your essay from last week. Be back in a second. And by that I mean ten minutes’), and I spur of the moment decided that I want to write my Honors thesis on Woolf. Yay decisiveness!

Napped away the rest of Tuesday, and then went with Em and the boys to the Turf after Hall for pub quiz night (SO much fun! America needs pub quizzes! Everyone loves test of inane trivia-ish knowledge with prize money attached!).

Wednesday, I woke up on the right side of the bed for the first time in aaaages, which was just beyond glorious. That evening, I caught a coach into London to go see the Royal Shakespeare Company’s production of Breakfast with Mugabe, courtesy of the GW London Study Center. The play was excellent (very intense, but excellent) and a bit bittersweet in a way, as it was probably my last West End production for the foreseeable future. Had dinner on the GW dollar (or pound) following the play with two of the four actors in the play, which was tres thrilling.

Ran to the tube before it closed at midnight (random side note: this was the first time I’d ridden public transport since writing my story about a ghost on the DC Metro. And it was weird. Very weird), then scurried to the coach stop, and began the journey home before I myself turned into a pumpkin. Finally arrived in Oxford and began the trek from the High Street bus stop back to Pembroke. Alone, on the mostly empty streets, in the midst of a light 1:30am drizzle, it finally started to hit me that, as excited as I am to leave, I will indeed miss this place – this country at the very least, London without a doubt, and (she admits begrudgingly) even Oxford, in certain ways. Thus began a two plus week period of over-contemplation. But more on that in the next few entries.....

Thursday, I decided to just admit that senioritis has hit a few months early. It’s really the only explanation for my utter lack of motivation. Finally finished my work for the day.... at 4am. Went to tute with Kate on Friday, where she informed me that I need to write a teen fic novel this summer, before I loose my teen-ness, and sell it for big bucks to fuel my real writing. Sounds like a plan to me.

Saturday brought incredibly icky weather, which ruined a Garden Party whose ticket I spent way too much money on (ick). Headed down to the River to watch some of the Summer VIIIs racing (the biggest rowing event of the year) and sing happy birthday to Emily as her boat pulled into the Pembroke boathouse (American Emily, that it. Tres confusing that two of my best friends here are both Emilys. Shall have to start referring to them strictly as Miss Stambaugh and Miss Bazalgette). Hung out afterwards with some Greasers at a picnic in the Christ Church meadows. Returned to attempt more work, and then went out with some of said Greasers to see a fellow Greaser (how many times can I use that word in one paragraph) – Miss Rachel Parris – perform in a Burlesk show at the Zodiac in Cowley (an experience, to say the least, but a thoroughly enjoyable one). Danced to cheesy 80s tunes in the club afterwards, and then home again home agained.

END OF FIFTH!!!

Just when I thought nothing could surpass my love for the tulip... the English rose went and exploded all over Oxford. Currently contemplating how I shall smuggle the Pembroke gardener back in my suitcase....

Trinity Fourth Week

Sunday of fourth, my world came to a screeching halt when iTunes FINALLY added 24 to their TV section. Yes, I downloaded the entire season... and watched it all in three days. And double yes, I know I should seek help for my addiction. Thank god for Jack Bauer though, because most of fourth week was pretty miserable otherwise. With no essay due Tuesday, I felt rather aimless, and thus piddled away most of my time. Eventually found the slightest sliver of motivation on Tuesday night, but even that couldn’t stop me from taking three naps on Wednesday.

Wrote on Thursday (per usual), motivated this time by the imminent arrival of the goddess that is one Miss Jenna Green (i.e. my roommate form the States and one of the coolest people you will EVER meet, for those of you who haven’t had the pleasure of her acquaintance). Went to get coffee with her, Aaron, Emily, Jeffrey, and Andrew Siddons, who came to visit for the weekend as well (he and Jenna met up in London and coached it over together; a veritable Lafayette reunion!). Hung out and chatted with Jenna for the afternoon, then brought her along to formal hall. Worked hard core on both of my stories after dinner, while she and Em went to Len’s. They kindly brought a pint of Pimms to my room around eleven, and we chatted into the evening.

Friday: tute with Goddess Clanchy, which didn’t go as well as usual, mainly because the second story I wrote was not stellar and very difficult to work into something, well, workable (plot is not my strong point; playing with the words is; and this time, not even the words could salvage the utter tangle of a messy tangle that was my concept). As usual though, merely being in Kate’s company was beyond interesting and fab. I got to meet her two little blonde angel twins – Gabriel and Theodore (Dori). And then, on the walk up the stairs, she suddenly noted that I too am of tall stature.

‘How tall are you?’ she asked.

‘Five ten.’

‘Hmm. No you’re not. I’m five eleven, and I believe you have an inch on me.’

‘Well,, by five ten, I mean I stopped measuring myself when I hit five ten. And in my defense, these sneakers add an inch.’

We then joked for a while about growing up tall....

Kate: ‘What did you do? Bind your feet? Stack books on your head? Drink coffee? Or gin?’

Me: ‘Gin? Never heard that one.’

‘My mother drank gin every night.’

[Caitlin jots mental note: Drink more gin.]

I also had the pleasure of meeting Henry, her cat. When he scratched his way in the room, she said, ‘It is alright if he comes in, isn’t’ it? I mean, you’re not allergic or anything.’ Me: ‘Actually I am. But it’s fine.’ (Obviously a strong indication of how eager to please/in awe of her I am, as cats literally make my respiratory system shut down completely. After a mere fifteen minutes I started to get the itchy lung feeling, and I cursed my silliness. But I escaped alive, and I guess that’s all that matters.)

Henry plopped himself down on the futon, and Kate cocked her head and gazed at him. ‘This is Henry. He has his own book, you know.’ How cute, I thought. A cat that reads. Or at least paws a favorite volume. But no no no. Better than that. Kate walked to the bookshelf and then handed me a children’s picture book. Written by her. With Henry and a little boy that looked an awful lot like her son on the front. Wow. Henry actually has his own book. ‘As you can see,’ she said, ‘The artist insisted on drawing him much thinner than he actually is. [Looks towards Henry] We’re not fat, are we Henry? We prefer the term prosperous.’

After tute, I met up with Emily, Jenna, Andrew, and Jeffrey; we packed a picnic and embarked on a WONDERFUL and crazy afternoon of punting on the Isis. Punting, for those who don’t know, is another of those quintessentially Oxbridge activities. A punt is much the same as a Venetian gondola: a long, simple boat on which a person stands with a long pole and scoots you along the water. Except that expert punter is one of your party (and not someone you pay) leading to much hilarity (i.e. Emily fell in at one point; we found ourselves nearly crashing into a bush which was growling menacingly at us at another (seriously. I don’t even want to know what kind of ferocious beast lurked inside); and Andrew, during his stint as punter, found himself dangling precariously from a tree. Please, do go oogle at the hilarity in the pictures found here).

That night we had a fancy Visiting Students dinner in Hall, hosted by the Dean and the Bursar and attended by all of our Tutors. The evening began with champagne in Broadgates and continued, after an all-too-formal and ergo hilarious gavel summons (Steward: ‘If you would please proceed with your drinks to the Hall: dinner is served’), at one very long table in Hall, laid out just like the Head Table, which we always oogle at during formal. Dinner consisted of Scottish salmon on toast for the starter, chicken, potatoes and veg for the main, and a ‘summer pudding’ for dessert, followed by coffee and chocolates. We were seated by subject, and the conversation was intriguing, especially towards the end (as the wine was ever-flowing). Early conversations revolved around tutorials, books, politics, etc. And then somehow, by the end, we found ourselves discussing reality TV. With Oxford Fellows (i.e. Tutors). Shameful, I know. The embarrassment wasn’t one sided, though, as the two English tutors soon began divulging how much they dislike their third years and how they can’t wait for them to just leave.

My favorite conversations of the evening revolved, surprisingly, around creative writing. I thanked Dr Small (who arranged the tute for me) for making it possible. And she reminded me how lucky I am to be working with Kate (‘She’s quite famous, you know.’). Dr Mugglestone was not quite so reassuring, but of course, she is famous for her scathing tongue. ‘What exactly do you do in Creative Writing? It’s not something we normally let our students study. We prefer to send you off to the library, rather than off to your rooms to “contemplate your being” and whatnot.... Oh, you’re reading contemporary fiction as well? Good. I’m glad you’re doing something useful. Although I never did like the short story, in general....’ My other favorite conversation was with the Bursar, who has promised me a personal tour of the Fellows Garden before I leave, so I can see the famous George head donated by GW (‘Have you any idea how enormous it is? We really didn’t know where to put it...’).

The dinner ended with a lovely toast from the Dean of Visiting Students (‘Here’s to Pembroke in America!’ And of course, one of my tipsy comrades had to chime in: ‘To PIA!’). We convened afterwards in Len’s and then made our way to a club, where we met up with Jenna and Andrew. I think I was kind of a drag all night, though, as I was still mired in my fourth week doldrums, now compounded by a mini-jealousy of Jenna, who would be on a plane bound for the States the next day. To make matters worse the DJ was really bad, so I really didn’t feel like dancing. Oh well. Time moves on.

Up and off early Sat morning to get Jenna to the Heathrow bus. Slept a few more hours, then did the EFL/Starbucks routine. Spent the rest of the day hard-core working.

END OF FOURTH! HALFWAY THERE!

Trinity Third Week!
Grease-y Pictures found here.
Even more Grease-y Pictures found here.
And a Grease-y Megamix of video clips found here!

As I’d noted in my jottings for the week, third week arrived in the utter blink of an eye. In the ‘ready to get home’ sense, I was ecstatic to see time flying so quicklt. In the larger life sense, though... good god! Where does time goooo???? What am I doing with my liiiiiffffe????

Sunday was a day off of rehearsal, in anticipation of the Grease-packed production week to follow; so I worked all the live long day, hopped off to formal hall, and then took a break for an hour or so to watch the amusing-osity of the JCR (Junior Common Room) President/Vice-President Husts (the rigorous interview and hazing process they put the candidates through before elections. Festivities included: serious Q&A sessions, the traditional ‘a song and a joke’, a scavenger hunt (find a current JCR president, and bring them back within the hour: go! (every college has one, so they had about thirty five choices.... but it was nine on a Sunday and they weren’t allowed the use of cell phone; oo! that was a triple parenthetical comment!)), and the creation of a self-portrait... using haggis and clay... the use of hands being, of course, prohibited).

Monday was full of more work and capped off with first a dress rehearsal and and then my very first genuine all-nighter (i.e. I didn’t sleep one wink. The two days smushed together with no distinction. Woo!). Somehow made it through my tute the next morning, during which I elevated my tutor’s worldly value status to that of ‘demi-god’, as he not only told me I could take two weeks to turn in my upcoming Ulysses essay, but he also was pseudo-complementary of my atrocious Yeats essay (by that I mean he said it was good, and then he piddled around a few critiques without actually admitting they were critiques; not something you ever get/really even want here at Oxford; but this term: bring it on. Anything to make existence here a little nicer).

We loaded the theater into hall that night after formal, which was tedious but FUN, as whenever and wherever a stage pops up, I feel the need to dance my little heart out. Also brought over my iPod speakers and sang my little heart out with the other musical-loving casties. (Sigh. I shall miss being in a musical). Wednesday was full of Grease, as we teched alllll day long – literally, right up until an hour before curtain for opening night! Said opening night went well considering, though. The audience was a little dull, but ‘twas a good start nonetheless. Went out to the pub for a spell afterwards with Em and the American dudes.

Two shows on Thursday: a small but lively audience for the matinee, and a spectacular full house for the evening. Ran home that night to frantically revise my story, and had a motivation/morale jump-start after an hour or so when three members of the cast passed my below my window on Pembroke Street and shouted greetings up to me, a la Romeo & Juliet. ‘Twas in this fine convo that my new nickname – The Dancing Ninja – was christened. Ladies and gentlemen, my “Shakin’ at the High School Hop” partner, Dave Blagden: ‘No seriously! I am so incredibly clumsy and you... you are.... a DANCING NINJA!’ Amusingly, the name spread and stuck. I am told that a stealthy black costume (with requisite sparkly emblem) is in the works.

Woke up with a ghastly cold and no voice on Friday (what utter joy); somehow made it through a tute and a matinee (the singing, oddly, helped more than any tea I imbibed or medicine I took). That night’s audience was also sold-out, and predictably, as the closing night audience usually is, they were the best, thus enabling our best show yet. Said show was filmed (or rather, NOT filmed. Shhhhhh.), and I may or may not have a copy (wink wink) to share with you all when I return stateside. Broke down the stage afterwards and then headed out with some of the cast to Maxwells where, despite utter exhaustion-osity, we danced like crazy fools. (The lovely establishment played a remix of ‘Summer Nights’ at our request, and during Toni Basil’s ‘Hey Mickey’, Em and I succumbed to our inner cheerleader and reprised the ‘Rydell Fight Song’ routine. On the dance floor.) Hung out on the quad for more dancing and cheerleading and general silliness after Maxwell’s closed. Then crashed and slept for aaaages.

Saturday was mostly wasted away in sleep and piddling around, but ended in a night of cast party funness: pre-dinner drinks at St Aldate’s, dinner at Zizi’s (lovely meal and a round of gushy program sign-age), RAN back to college to perform (spur of the moment decision, literally) at Pembroke’s Arts Week Variety Show. Stayed on at the show to goof around on the quad and dance our hearts out (AGAIN), then danced MORE inside the tent to the talents of Magdalen’s utterly brilliant swing band. Sadly, ‘twas somewhere during said dancing that my beloved camera disappeared, and with it, documentation of the evenings festivities. Argh. Ended up hanging out in Em’s room, and then the Mac JCR. Then BED.

END OF THIRD (ugh. These in term entries are so dull. I should start traveling again.)

Trinity Second Week!
Photographic documentation of trinity fun, including Pimms Party & May Day!

Sunday, it finally dawned on me that, although I’d had nearly two weeks to work on my Yeats essay, it was still largely (read: completely) undone. So I workity worked all day and then all night, taking a break only for the Grease press preview/rehearsal (the photographer from the Cherwell was in my high school class. It’s a small world aaaaafter aaaalllll) and formal hall. Staying up all Sunday night, although not vital to the production of my essay, just made sense, believe it or not, as I planned to go with the girlies on my floor to Magdalen Bridge at dawn to witness the May Day festivities.

Don’t ask me what May Day is, because I’m still not totally clear. Generally speaking, I think it’s just the welcoming of spring (even though that technically starts on a different date, and even though they’d been calling this ‘summer term’ for the last week and a half...); it’s a very ancient English (perhaps worldwide?) celebration (I recall its mention in a Shakespeare play or two). In Oxford, locals and students alike still stay up the whole night celebrating or at least get up at dawn to welcome the day at Magdalen Bridge. Supposedly, people used to jump naked form the bridge into the Isis, but rumouredly, someone got hurt doing that recently, so they barricaded it off like whoa.

I really don’t know who in their right mind would have fancied a swim in those temperatures anyway, though. It was freezing cold, drizzling on the walk there, and down-pouring on the way home (welcome spring!!!!).We left college at about 5:30am; because of the overcast-ness, the sky was already diffusely light, but it was still crazy to see the streets so packed at that hour, regardless of how light it was. And I saw a man twirling a baton of fire. Cool, right?

Once at the bridge, we waited until 6am, when the bells of Magdalen Tower went nuts and the Magdalen Boys Choir serenaded the crowd from atop the tower. Then there was a short blessing (because all pagan holidays must be Christian-ized), followed by a general mass exodus back towards the center of town and all things breakfast (every restaurant opened early and was PACKED). Short and sweet, but a lovely tradition nonetheless. Too cold, wet, and tired to go sit in a restaurant, my friends and I grabbed waffles, strawberries, and cream from the cart outside G&Ds and then went back to sleep.

Monday was another day/night of work (I loooove double all-nighters! Particularly for that moment of sheer delirious confusion experienced when your alarm rings after than treat of a half-hour nap). And Tuesday morning brought my Oxford academic low point. Generally, it takes me six hours to write an essay, if it’s completely planned/outlined/etc. For some reason, I convinced myself I could do this one in less than five. Needless to say, as the clock struck 11 (i.e. the start time of my Irish Lit tute), I was walking out of the computer lab, UN-EDITED essay in hand (yes, this nearly killed me). I practically ran the entire twenty minutes to my tutor’s house (I stopped twice, to add a comma and correct a spelling on my essay. In black pen. ‘Ooo Caitlin,’ said Emily Bazalgette, ‘that’s poor form.’) Knocked on the wrong door once I finally got to his street (there was a 23, 23A, and 23B. How confusing!), and was rather freaked out by the old lady who answered. Then found the correct house and nearly collapsed.

My tutor was quintessentially British about my lateness:

‘Just curious... what time did we set this for?’
’Eleven. I know I’m terribly late. I’m so sorry. Printer troubles.’
‘Oh no problem. No worries.’ [Pause.] ‘Normally I wouldn’t mind, at all.... it’s just that I have another meeting set up for a little after noon, so we won’t be able to go the full hour.’
‘I completely understand. And I promise, it will never ever happen again. Lateness is actually my pet peeve in life.’
‘Oh really? Right right. Good.’ [Pause.] ‘So you’ll be on time next week?’

The tute went surprisingly well, which made me all the more embarrassed to fork over my atrocious essay. But what was done was done. Sleeping, relaxing, and rehearsing Tuesday night; work and lecture and rehearsal Wednesday. Writing, editing, reading, loving the writer’s life on Thursday (all to the tune of absolutely PERFECT weather). Dress rehearsal that night. Splendidly amazing tute with Kate on Friday morning, followed by utter burial beneath the complete plays of John M. Synge that afternoon. More of the same on Saturday.

END OF SECOND!

Trinity First Week!
[Hmmm. Why don’t I just make these bold title-y things my entry titles? Why the need for the random commentary below my date and time? Hmm. A quandary for another day.]

Sunday of first week, my panic re: not hearing from my tutors mounted to a whole new level. Luckily, said dilemma was finally solved the next morning, as I not only heard from both, but heard good news from both: my Irish lit tutor said he wanted to meet with me on Tuesday mornings (hahahahaha) but then also keenly noted that one day wasn’t quite enough notice to write an essay (‘perhaps we could have our first tutorial Tuesday of 2nd week, which would give you time to spread your wings’); and my creative writing tutor instructed me to use one of the readings she had assigned as a deliberate springboard, thus eliminating my number one creative writing fear (actually being creative).

So. Back the old routine. Starbucks and EFL; boredom and claustrophobia; bits of panic mixed with non-stop eating. You know the deal. Went to a Beckett lecture on Wednesday given by a fabulously brilliant old woman. Rehearsed for Grease every night from five ‘til nine-ish. La dee da..

Thursday was one of my best days in Oxford up to that point, as, for the first time, I got to play ‘writer’ all day long. I spent at least six hours working on my story, and I honestly enjoyed every second of it. Revised the heck out of the piece during down time at rehearsal. Went out for a drink at The Bear with some of the cast afterwards. And oh how I loooove hanging out with artsy people. The girl who plays Rizzo and I had a massive heart-to-heart re: the hopelessness of artist aspirations and the utter heart wrenching dullness of academic back-up plans. Oddly, as I sat there discussing my long gone ballet days and how much I missed the rush of the stage, it started to dawn on me that writing my story that day had given me a nearly equivalent rush. And thrillingly, although the writer’s life is probably just as difficult as the dancer’s, one is not excluded from it because of one’s height, icky knees, decision to pursue higher education, or even the passing of one’s thirtieth birthday.

On Friday, this newfound love for writing just about doubled, as I had my first tutorial with Kate Clanchy: poet and tutor extraordinaire, goddess of the universe and beyond. Ladies and gentleman: meet the woman that I would give my right foot to BE in ten years. She’s very tall (my height, believe it or not. Haven’t encountered many British women of such stature!) with short, messily curly dark brown hair, and she has these wonderfully deep, welcoming, quizzical, everything-in-one large blue eyes (apologies for the lingering description; I’m just a bit infatuated with her). She lives in a little row house off the Iffley road, about a twenty-minute walk from central Oxford. And she has three gorgeously blonde and adorable sons: a six-year old, and two-year old twins.

We have our tutorials in her study, which is the small, lone room on the third floor of her home. The cries of the twins (missing their mummy for the hour) faded gradually away into silence as we climbed the two flights to her little haven of a workspace. The room has slanted ceilings, three skylights, a large fouton-y bed thing, a desk with computer, and shelves upon shelves of books.

The tutorial went splendidly and was SUCH a welcome change from my other Oxford tutes. No grilling for information; just a conversation, really; about my story and its roots and aims, my characters and their backstories and personalities, etc. etc. I was extremely nervous walking in (not helped by the fact that I got terribly lost on the way and was just the teensiest bit late), but she made me feel incredibly comfortable.

As I near the end of the term, I think I can finally identify what I like most about her: she gives me very honest and straightforward feedback, about what works and what doesn’t in my writing, and all the while, she really treats me like a genuine writer. She’s intent on bringing every story to publishable quality, and she genuinely believes I can get it there. Until working with her, I had always considered my writing to be just a hobby of sorts. But her pushing and pushing to get me to submit something for publication has actually made it all seem like a very real possibility. It’s not that she gushes or delivers high praise; but she always somehow implies that I could potentially achieve something with my writing. My first story, for example, was rooted initially in a concept from Ali Smith’s Hotel World. And whereas I guess I assumed that we’d talk about it, and then she’d send me away to create something more original, she was intent on making this one work. ‘A good start,’ she said. ‘I get bored quite easily, and this really held my attention all the way through. Now let’s work on making it your own.’ She’s insists that I not be afraid to use successful writers and their work for direct inspiration, whether it be in their techniques or their concepts. ‘Originality,’ she said that first day, ‘is something you earn.’

Anywho... (Eesh. I’m totally rambling about the glorious-ity that is Kate, and I fear I’m making little coherent sense....) She sent me away with a new collection of stories to read and the task of revising my story. She also told me to go shoe shopping for my character (yes, literally. She suggested I amass a collection of clothing, trinkets, etc. for my main character – either physically or just in my head –, to help flesh her out. Sigh. I love being an author). I walked home on cloud nine, and then jumped to cloud ten at the sight of the absolutely bursting bed of tulips in chapel quad, the gorgeous-osity that was the weeping cherry tree in full bloom outside my staircase, and the presence of a bajillion cabinet emails in my inbox (every few weeks, there’s some sort of listserv firestorm. And it always makes my day).

More rehearsal that night with lots of dancy dancing and a bit of cheerleading (the dance chorus played cheerleading squad to Patty Simcox. My dream come true!), and by the time I walked back from the GAB, I was knackered beyond belief. Watched the other Americans, all dolled up, taking photos in the quad before they headed off to the Corpus Christi Ball (something I skipped out on), and then went to the Noodle Bar for dinner with Patty Simcox herself, my lovely friend and favorite Brit: Emily Bazalgette.

Saturday, I woke up on the wrong (i.e. academic) side of the bed, read Yeats and essay-panicked all the livelong day. Plus of the day though: I received a postcard from Cuba, where Jayne is studying for the semester. How cool is that?!? It made part of its journey to me via mule :o)

Thus ended first week. Thus ends this entry. Woot.

I’ve just realized that, in the past, I’ve never posted more than seven times in one month. And this is entry number nine for May. Have I finally mastered the art of the (somewhat) brief, and therefore easy to produce blog entry? Or am I just a procrastination sensation? (I think the answer is obvious.)

So. Where were we? Ah yes. TRINITY TERM, a.k.a. third term, a.k.a. summer term (this last title, of course, is beyond comical since, despite the occasional pleasantly sunny high 70s day, this country is still cold and wet. Oh yes, and about a half hour ago, it was hailing outside my window. Seriously. Almost as crazy as the fact that it was the third time it’s hailed this week.)

Not sure if I’ve ever formally explained this before, but here at Oxford, the weeks are numbered: eight weeks per term, referred to accordingly – i.e. first week, fifth week, etc. Thus, the week before term starts is 0th – or Noughth – Week. For ‘normal’ students (and some Visiting Students), Noughth Week means collections (exams that test you on what you learned last term; yes, finals six weeks after the class has ended. Cruel, right?). Luckily, my tutors are quite rational and sane and realize that, as I am not working towards degree exams here, it would be rather pointless to make me suffer through such tests of knowledge.

Therefore, Noughth Week for me meant lots and lots of Grease. On both Wednesday and Thursday, we had eight-hour rehearsals in which we revised all we had learned during Hilary Term. The hours were grueling, but the cast was/is quite fabulous, so it was a good time. On Thursday, we rehearsed with the band for the first time, which was a huge rush and amped everyone’s energy times a million. It was relieving to see the show start to piece together, as it honestly was looking pretty rough when we left for vacation. But above all, it was a simply splendid start to term for one simple reason: I’m always a happier human being when I’m dancing.

Outside of rehearsal, I did the whole un-packing/re-decorating the room thing and tried to catch up with people and listen to stories about their European (and African, in a few cases!) adventures. On Friday morning, I woke up early and actually (I swear this is true) went on a run. At the time, I intended this run to be the first of many (a 'make the jeans fit again' exercise regime, if you will). In predictable Caitlin fashion, however, I gave up the habit a week later. (And by ‘a week later’ I probably mean that I ran one more time that week. Oops.)

Friday afternoon, I picnic-ed on the quad with some of the girls (yes, in trinity term, you are actually allowed to walk on the grass. Chapel Quad only, though), and generally reveled in this brand new, parallel universe, ‘sunny & flowery’ Oxford. As most of you know, I really do love rain (to a rather freakish degree). And I’d normally never describe myself as one whose mood is affected by the weather. But this year has changed that a bit. In the previous terms, I found myself teetering on the brink of bad mood so often that the soggy jeans and frizzy hair became last straws of sorts. Conversely, no matter how stressed I am, I can’t help but smile when I walk by the bed of tulips outside Broadgates, or the vine of gorgeous purple flowers growing on the SCR. And thus: sunny Oxford is a better Oxford.

Of course, it’s also much easier to enjoy Oxford when you don’t have any work. And as of Friday, I still hadn’t heard from either of my tutors, so I had no idea what assignments I might have due or even when my tutorials were to be held. (Pleasant at first. But panic inducing as First Week drew closer.)

On Saturday, I made triumphant returns to my Oxford haunts: Starbucks on Cornmarket, the English Faculty Library, Borders, and Waterstones. I succumbed to that dastardly and yet brilliant 3 for 2 scheme the latter and purchased the accidental by Ali Smith (she’s my new favorite author. And she’s coming to do a reading at St. Anne’s College in two weeks. Eeeee!), The DaVinci Code by Dan Brown, and The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold.

(Egads. When did my trog become a catalogue of every minute detail of my day? Must stop this...)

Saturday night brought the Boat Club’s Pimms Party on Chapel Quad (Dear me, I do believe it’s Pimms O’Clock!). For those who don’t know, Pimms is a gin-based liquor that one mixes with lemonade (which is carbonated on this silly island), fresh fruit (oranges, lemons, limes, and cucumber (not a fruit. Yes, this confuses me too)), and mint leaves, thus creating THE quintessential Oxford (and English, for that matter) summer drink. The evening was incredibly enjoyable, and thus, I became slightly confused. Could it be? Was I actually enjoying myself in Oxford? Shocking! If only every week could be full of sun, Grease, no work, and lots of Pimms.