Rosa Thomas: For
Unsurprisingly, if you ask most people at Oxford, they would not put unpacking six times a year at the top of their list of favourite university traditions. I’ll admit it, perhaps packing doesn’t have the hedonism of trashing, the sophistication of matriculation or the rich history of Merton’s ‘Time Ceremony’, but I’m willing to bet that the process has had much more of an effect on your time at Oxford than you might think.
For one thing, packing provides a glimmer of hope that you may, just for once, have your life organised. For the other seven weeks of term I find myself living in a constant state of chaos. By second week clothing will be rammed in my desk drawer, pens will be in biscuit tins, and, my socks will never be seen again. I become accustomed to a life where seeing the floor is like meeting someone who likes Lola Lo’s; rare and fascinating. But, for the first blissful days of term everything is perfectly organised.
Unpacking is my sole chance in eight weeks of madness to have my life together, find the things I’ve lost and remember that normal people do not keep their tutorial notes inside a spare pillow case on the floor. The pillow case may be a rather extreme example. However, I do refuse to believe that every Oxford student manages to keep their rooms in perfect, regimented order, all term.
You may complain about packing, but I’m guessing you’ve found more than a few important old essays in the great 0th week unpack. The process doesn’t just allow you to organise your life, it makes Oxford feel like home. It’s hard to deny that your college room feels quite different every time you’ve finished unpacking. I may be a university cliché, but after taking out my fairy lights, sticking up my photos and unloading my varied cushion collection, term doesn’t feel quite so daunting, and home never feels quite so far away.
Jamie Onslow: Against
Each time I return to Oxford after the vac, my feelings of almost pant-wetting excitement are tempered by the knowledge that before I can gaily dive into the fun-filled bonanza that is life at our university, I must first go through the ordeal of unpacking. The first item to be unpacked is, in fact, myself. As is common practice, at the end of every Oxford term the head porter rubs me down with goose fat and pushes me into a tight-fitting wooden box. Any remaining space is filled with items, read yet mostly-unread, from my reading list.
The lack of light within the box precludes actually reading anything, and I instead absorb books through my feet and into my bloodstream, much like a phagocyte might absorb a suspicious-looking amoeba. However, just as a foetus knows when the time is ripe to slide forth into the world, as soon as term begins I instinctively slither out of my box. I writhe around naked on the floor, temporarily blinded by intense daylight, with half-absorbed Russian classics protruding out of my legs.
Luckily I am not alone, as much like the hatching of baby turtles, all undergraduates emerge from their boxes simultaneously, and thrash around on main quad until they can walk. Much as a new born calf soon hobbles to his feet, or a butterfly emerges from a cocoon, I am soon ready to undertake the more serious task of unpacking the various items that I use in my daily routine. As 0th week comes around I often consider staying within the oaky confines of my box. However, it is common knowledge that throughout history few have achieved greatness from within the confines of a greasy box, and so I reluctantly nibble my way out, ready for some learning.
