My best memories of gallivanting around Europe were of parks. They were found in the tranquility of self-reflection as I enjoyed the serenity of nature, clutching my too-expensive coffee and watching the ducks swim about in the river as the cold winter wind whipped the fallen leaves off the ground beside me.
On being accepted into Oxford, everyone warned me about the reading lists. “You’ll be reading eight hours a day,” they said. At the time, it sounded almost romantic.
It's Thursday night in New College's Long Room, and several dozen students are desperately trying to master The Plough Speed, which, for the uninitiated, is a mind boggling routine of side-steps, spins and shuffles.
l've moved cities enough times to know that leaving is never just about packing boxes. After spending eighteen years in London, I found myself applying to a number of different cities, including Oxford, for university.
We all know the type, or at least the meme. The tote-bag sporting, wired-headphone wearing, matcha latte drinking, so-called ‘performative’ men flooding our social...
In delaying and avoiding writing this piece, I am succumbing to exactly what many university students are guilty of: procrastination. Though not among the...
It’s 5pm and I’m standing on a packed, unmoving train, somewhere between Swindon and Bristol Parkway, dodging questionable armpits and trying my best to...