We all know that Oxford can feel like a bubble. Every day brings new challenges and new deadlines, to the extent that a week can pass in an instant and there is just no time to peek outside of the blinkered existence of tutorials and the occasional pub trip. But this tunnel vision can become restrictive, and even self-perpetuating.
Recently, I found myself marooned in that most demoralising of places, the NHS waiting list. I was soon falling down the rabbit hole of catastrophisation, after succumbing to the inevitable temptation of googling my symptoms (it wasn’t looking good).
Sourdough is a simple pleasure. A perfect loaf should have a chewy, light, tangy, and springy crumb. On cold days it’s a reliable and simple comfort – the kind that makes Hilary term feel a little less bleak.
'But how do you satisfy an itch in a country where one can’t order more than a glass of prosecco? I feel awkward gesturing for the bill with the ridiculous English hand gestures, let alone asking for uno handjob.'