Sally Kidson 

Since their creation in 1923, 750 million pairs of Converse All Stars have been sold at a rate of 30,000 pairs per day. Much like owning a mobile, an iPod or anything in Burberry print, these shoes have become a must-have item for any self-respecting sheep in society. They’ve had a good run, but perhaps it is time to acknowledge that, as with Burberry, over-saturation of the market has devalued the product. A quick visit to urban dictionary, modern society’s grapevine, will tell you that converse are "shoes that used to be an expression of individuality, but are now an overused fad".

Usually such a damning definition would be the kiss of death, but ironically, despite now being a shoe of choice for sloanes, valley girls, and I fear even Britney Spears, Converse have managed to keep a semblance of their integrity due to the fact that they are the uniform de rigeur of the ‘emo’ kids. Unlike Burberry, which unfortunately for the brand, became a favorite of chavs and Colleen McLoughlin, generally one of the most derided and despised sections of British society, Converse are still worn by the cool kids. Admittedly, by the slightly scummy, I-need-a-haircut, unkempt looking ones, but this only lends them a slightly dangerous and subversive edge. So, despite being worn by the masses, they’re still pretentious.

Of course, Converse are even more beloved by the fashion crowd because they can be considered ethical, which is very ‘in’ right now. Made of canvas and rubber you don’t have to kill a cow to fit in with everyone. How jolly! Unfortunately, since 2003 the brand has been owned by Nike, which has outsourced their production to the heart of Asia (and we all know what that means) and hiked up the price. Never fear: so popular are these shoes that a looky-likey, ethically produced alternative has been created under the brand ‘no-sweat’. Of course, these aren’t half as popular as they lack the All Star logo and stamp of authenticity. Fashion is a fickle friend.Then again, it’s not all about fashion. Converse are practical and comfortable. Sure, they’re miserable to wear in the rain, and they begin to squeak, and they make you look like you have clown feet, but it’s always the practicality factor which comes first. Of course, this is why ballet pumps are so popular. At the end of the day I’ll happily admit that converse are a design classic, but surely by now the novelty’s worn off.

Milly West

Much as our generation might like to claim Converse shoes as its own discovery, All Stars have been around since 1917, with a lengthy and quirky history behind them. Sports stars have been wearing Converse shoes since they were invented, making them the best selling athletic shoe in human history.

Converse products were even used during World War II, when the company produced parkas and protective footwear for American soldiers on the front line. The Converse empire is far more than a fleeting success story. It’s a veritable institution, firmly entrenched in American culture and history.

Converse shoes are far more than a brand name. They have been a formidable presence within several different music genres, including the punk, indie and emo movements. There is even a Converse music festival, a yearly event which gives amateur bands the chance to jump-start their careers by performing at mainstream rock festivals.

The beauty of the Converse All Star lies in the sheer variety of styles available. This is not a static trend, unlike the painfully clichéd "tea towel" scarf or the age-old Pashmina, which leave little room for individuality.

Converse do, quite literally, come in all shapes and sizes, ranging from the conventional lo-top classic to the bolder hi-top shoe, or even the outrageous extra-hi boot-like models. And then of course there’s the pattern itself. Some of the most outrageous designs feature rotund beige elephants, yellow Batman logos and even plastic bacon-and-egg insignias for the more outgoing fan.

Consequently, the chances of bumping into someone with exactly the same style of Converse are refreshingly slight. For one brand of shoe to remain unwaveringly popular for over ninety years, the designers must be doing something right. Whether it’s how blissfully comfortable they are to wear, or how seamlessly they seem to blend in with the most bizarre of outfits, the Converse formula is nothing short of unbeatable.

Inspired by the novel by Russian author Sergei Lukyanenko, Day Watch is a fantasy horror epic in which the supernatural beings Dark and Light battle each other for supremacy on the streets of contemporary Moscow.
The Day Watch are a team of Light beings who monitor the Dark Ones in order to protect mortals. After a member of the Day Watch (played by Konstantin Khabensky) is accused of killing one of the Dark Ones, the fragile truce between the forces of darkness and the forces of light is left hanging in the balance. In order to clear his name and prevent an open war, Anton embarks on a journey to find the ancient Chalk of Fate which, according to legend, can correct all mistakes.
When initially released in Russia, Day Watch became a major hit grossing over $30 million. It is partially easy to understand why it was so popular, for one thing, the effects are very impressive; being at once visceral and fantastic. Director Timur Bekmambetov says that the key to the look of the film was juxtaposing reality and fantasy; “The Russian audience doesn’t have any experience of this kind of film, because we’ve never had any fantasy movies or comic books…So the only way for me to begin was to make everything very realistic, so the audience would believe in it enough to accept the fantasy”. Bekmambetov thus creates a world in which a run-down appartment block is the home of an evil sorceress and an ordinary repair man is a powerful wizard.
Despite a promising start however, the flaws came thick and fast until by the end of the film I was literally aching to escape. Firstly, Bekmambetov somehow managed to make a relatively simple plot so unecessarily convoluted that the main thread of the narrative was irretrievably lost by the second half of the film. On top of this at 140 minutes Day Watch is just too long – by about 120 minutes. In other words, most of the film is a collection of gratuitous, utterly irrelevant, shots set to a pounding heavy metal soundtrack that left me feeling like I was watching an extended music video rather than a film. It’s almost as if the editors were so impressed with their own work that they couldn’t quite bring themselves to cut the film properly.
All this leaves me to conclude that Day Watch was made for two specific groups of people; fans of the book and people who enjoy watching films in which narrative and character development are substituted with bright colours and dazzling effects. If you feel you don’t belong to either of these groups, I’d give Day Watch a wide berth.

Meeting Anthony Horowitz is probably the closest any of us will ever get to meeting someone who thinks like James Bond. Handsome, approachable and undeniably upper class, the creator of teenage super spy Alex Rider has a feel for adventure and an ability to charm that even 007 would have envied. Daniel Craig may have bigger muscles and the real MI6 agents may have better computer skills, but when it comes to understanding pace, people, and creative ways of killing, Anthony Horowitz wins every time. His Alex Rider novels are some of the most popular children’s stories on bookshelves today, and have been described by one critic as "every bored schoolboy’s fantasy only a thousand times slicker and more exciting". Sales of Snakehead, the latest instalment, have been so brisk that it is currently ranked 15th in amazon.com’s children’s bestseller list in spite of the fact that it won’t be released until 31st October.

But despite his double-0 mindset, Horowitz insists that he has nothing in common with his fictional creations. Indeed, he attributes much of his success to his conscious efforts to distance himself from his writing. "I think the biggest mistake any children’s author can make is to base anything or anybody on his own experiences or the experience of his own children," he says emphatically. "I’m writing about universal children, for universal children. Alex Rider has got absolutely nothing to do with me at all, except for the fact that I happened to write him."

As our conversation progresses, however, I begin to realise that the line between fact and fiction is not nearly as clear-cut as it seems. Like so many successful children’s authors Horowitz had a miserable childhood. Born into a very wealthy yet emotionally distant family, he was brought up by nannies and packed off to boarding school at the age of eight. "In my early books, yeah, I was using my own childhood," he concedes. "I think in all the books of course I’m escaping from it still, and reacting to it. Why did I become a children’s writer in the first place? Well, having a miserable childhood probably helped." It certainly did: Horowitz’s hated grandmother is brutally satirised in Granny, while his nightmarish experiences at prep school, Orley Farm, form the deliciously sinister backdrop for the Groosham Grange novels. Today, Horowitz claims to have "dumped all that and moved on". Yet his heroes remain outsiders who have been orphaned or abandoned. The Diamond Brothers, Alex Rider and even the heroes of the Power of Five books are all forced to take control and survive on their own wits, resisting unwelcome manipulation by malevolent members of the adult world.
But to draw too many conclusions from these similarities is to deny Horowitz’s talent. Alex Rider may be an orphan, but he is also a highly athletic teenage spy who speaks several languages and is equipped with gadgets that ordinary teenagers could only dream of. He can even kite surf and snowboard on an ironing board (which Horowitz assures me is at least theoretically possible). The truth is, Alex appeals to teenagers in general, not just those who happen to have had a rough time at boarding school. Horowitz is the author of 38 books and several screenplays, many of which have little or nothing to do with his own life. In his latest book, City of the Dead, the main character is a girl, something Horowitz is not and has never been. "I’ve always been quite nervous of creating a female character," he reveals. "I’ve resisted it for years; I thought I would muck it up totally. But I’ve created Scar and I’m really happy with the creation. She’s got a vitality that my boy characters don’t have. She doesn’t quite do what I think she’s going to."

While Horowitz is rightly proud of his heroes, he’s passionate about his villains. The moment I mention Nightrise, the corrupt corporation which lends its name to the latest Power of Five novel, Horowitz sits up straighter. Abandoning his glass of merlot, he tells me, "The bad guys are without a doubt the most fun a writer can have. Heroes are actually quite boring. By their very nature they have to be fairly straight-laced." Horowitz’s villains are, of course, some of the most relevant in children’s fiction today. Where JK Rowling contents herself with giving Lord Voldemort Nazi overtones, Horowitz looks to today’s political and social leaders in an attempt to create more complex villains. "I think villains have moved away from sort of stock children’s villains, who do tend to be Long John Silver with a curious disability or something, to more politically motivated villains," he explains. "That’s the huge difference between my later books and some of the books that have gone before it. In Evil Star the villain is a freak with a giant head, but he’s also basically Rupert Murdoch. The people who are causing the problems of the world aren’t pantomime villains any more, but are in corporations, in politics, in power."

Of course these days the personification of evil is a risky business. Insistence on political correctness means children’s authors have to be careful not offend. Charles Dickens may have got away with describing Fagin as "a very shrivelled old Jew" who enjoyed counting his money and consorting with small boys, but very few authors would take similar risks today. Before the collapse of the Berlin Wall things were easier, Horowitz tells me. "Villains were either Nazis or Communists, and that was pretty much that. Creating villains in the 21st century is getting harder and harder." Herod Sayle, the villain in the very first Alex Rider book, Stormbreaker, is a case in point. In the original novel, first published in 2000, Sayle is described as the son of a failed hairdresser from Beirut. In the American version which came out a year later, he is reborn as the son of a failed oral hygienist. Apparently the original description was potentially homophobic. But the biggest change is seen in the screenplay, also written by Horowitz and released last year. Lebanese Herod Sayle is transformed into Darrius Sayle, white trailer trash from California. Middle Eastern villains, it seems, are no longer acceptable. So what’s left for children’s authors? Expected to produce believable bad guys, but constrained by excessive political sensitivity, they are faced with an increasingly difficult creative task. For Horowitz the solution is a simple one: entertainment. "My original aim has always been to entertain," he tells me. "But if you are an intelligent person, and I hope that I am, you also have to look at the world and in some way reflect it. The secret is not to start writing political books, or to start propagandising young people. It’s to still write adventures and excitement and chases and violence and jokes and all the rest of it, but to inform all of that with what you see and believe." And with these words Horowitz blows away all those politically correct politicians and "thought blocking" aides in much the same way that James Bond might get rid of an enemy, setting the rest of us free to think about and even comment on religious, racial and cultural issues. Provided we aren’t too boring about it, of course.

In a line up of the greatest actors ever to have graced the silver screen it’s unlikely that 63 year-old Dutch actor Rutger Hauer would immediately spring to mind. Yet, Hauer will rightly be remembered for taking centre stage in a truly great cinematic scene.
The film in question is Ridley Scot’s cult-classic Blade Runner starring Harrison Ford. Set in Los Angeles in 2019, the film follows Deckard (Ford), an ex-’Blade Runner’ brought out of retirement to hunt down sophisticated androids known as ‘replicants’.
Eventually, only one of these remains, a commando known as Roy Batty (Hauer). He stalks Deckard through an abandoned house before a final, climactic confrontation on the rainy rooftops of a grimy, dilapidated slum.
With his programmed life expectancy about to expire, Roy saves Deckard, catching him as he falls off a roof, before delivering his monologue; a speech so achingly brilliant that it can only fail to strike a chord with people who are dead inside.

I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe.
Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion.
I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate.
All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.
Time to die.

As he speaks his dying words, you can see, with every nuanced contortion of his face, and hear, with every painful pause, his desperate attempts to grasp the meaning of his life, even as it slips away. The emotional intensity of this scene relies on many factors. The setting is perfect: the rain falls continually out of the darkened sky, a steady drumming of despair echoing across the rooftops. The score by Vangelis is deeply affecting, a penetrating, bittersweet melody that soars through the scene. Finally, Scott must be congratulated for visual simplicity, aware that this is a cinematic scene of emotional depth, not technical fireworks. The essence of the scene is captured with simple beauty; no cynicism, and no sly, satirical wink to the audience. There is, instead, a soulful integrity that is neither sentimental nor soppy, but entirely sincere. It is a classic piece of cinema.
In the aftermath of Roy’s death, there are precious seconds of reflection. Roy loved life, indeed he loved it enough to save the life of an enemy. He talks of the wondrous experiences in his short life, and he realises, in his final moments, that he will lose those memories forever; everything that has made him who he is will suddenly cease to exist.
Yet, Roy finds his humanity in the knowledge that life is transient, and in the comfort that, for every human, there will always be a time to die.

It is the plight of the techie to facilitate but never to join in. To enable, but never to be adored. Our fate is eternally to sit on the sidelines, watching the bright young things onstage, ensuring the audience have a clear view through the fourth wall. We are relegated to the dark void of the tech box, never to bask in the warmth of the limelight that we ourselves have lovingly rigged. But whilst we resent this tradition of segregation, occasionally we do our bit to keep it alive.
After a successful Edinburgh run of what ScotsGay affectionately called `camp nonsense’ (four stars), your humble techie decided it was time for some theatricality of his own, and this time it wasn’t going to be a team effort. Being hands-on types, practical jokes come naturally to us. The script called for drinking, and lots of it. Through the magic of theatre, the stage manager, accustomed to performing minor miracles, achieved the impossible in turning apple juice into wine. In celebrating a fictional Eurovision night, the cast had to get through enough alcohol to knock out a fair sized student party, and to act accordingly. Feeling uncommonly generous, I decided to give them an evening off that notoriously difficult feat of acting, at my own expense.
Up came the lights and in came the actors, brimming with hammed-up gestures, unsophisticated jokes and, unbeknownst to them, the best part of a large bottle of gin. Only someone who, from his box, had seen the show more times than he could count could have discerned the looks of panic which spread through the cast as they worked their way through their distinctly un-virgin gin cocktails.
The show must go on, and I had quite a job following the script (as, it seems, did they). In my opinion the performance benefited no end from my little intervention. For once, the characters were believably drunk and the script frankly made more sense.
It seems the cast didn’t agree: A rugby player moonlighting as a thesp landed a punch squarely in my chest for my efforts and things were icy for a day or so. I suppose it’s lucky there wasn’t enough in the budget to replace the icing sugar with real cocaine.

Sarah Kent examines the biases and stereotypes facing Oxford students. 

University is a liberating place: suddenly the overbearing parents are gone, the controlling girlfriend is miles away, and there’s no one who knows that embarrassing story about what happened at that party. It’s little wonder that many people see university as a chance to reinvent themselves. Stepping out of his mummy’s car on the first day of fresher’s week is not Craig Potts, famed at school for his greasy hair and unpleasant odour, but Craig Potts, super stud, who over the summer has had a haircut and bought some Lynx. OK, perhaps he still has some way to go, but the point is clear: university is a time to grow from the caterpillar you were into the butterfly you always knew you could be.

University is certainly a liberating place. But what everyone seems to forget is that university comes with its own baggage, in Oxford’s case some 800 years worth. While it is perfectly possible to reinvent oneself, and shed the personal embarrassments and mistakes of the past, you cannot change the attitudes and preconceptions surrounding an institution with which you are affiliated. Much like family, where you go to university will always be there, lurking in the background, ready to embarrass you the minute you hear the words, "Oh, you didn’t go there did you? My son simply loved it there, you two must meet."

Of course, having to spend painful and silent minutes with the offspring of family friends is hardly an experience unique to Oxford students. Even if you did not have the tenuous common link of sharing an educational institution, it is likely you would have been made to sit in the corner having a "delightful time" anyway. And of course, you are just as likely to have to write Cousin Bob’s personal statement because you go to Leeds, and he’s simply dying to go there, as you are if you go to Oxford. Yet Oxford has its own special identity and it comes with a unique ability to create truly uncomfortable situations the minute you admit to studying there.

Of course there is no denying Oxford’s credentials as an intellectual heavyweight. As Wikipedia helpfully points out, Oxford has been placed best in the United Kingdom for the 6th consecutive year in The Times Good University Guide (2003-2008). Quite how it has been ranked for a year which has not yet occurred is a mystery. Still, it’s certainly performed crackingly.
Indeed, there’s a lot to be said for the argument, backed by the venerable statistics supplied by The Times, that being associated with Oxford can be very very beneficial. It will help you get a job, make contacts, and generally sustain a nicely bourgeois level of existence. This is proved by the illustrious list of names to be found attendant at our careers fairs. Companies which consider only a handful of universities in the country worthy of a recruiting visit invariably place Oxford on the top of their lists. What could be better? All because of Oxford you walk out of university cherry-picked for a job, having put in hardly any effort yourself.
Or at least that’s what you’re meant to think. In this age of positive discrimination, the name Oxford seems to be losing its illustrious ring. Attending a recent talk at a top-tier London law firm I was assured that Oxford and Cambridge were afforded no special treatment, and students from these universities were certainly not at an advantage when it came to getting a job. I was inclined not to be unduly worried by these words, since this very firm had already employed me, and indeed the majority of those working with me were from Oxbridge. Still, HR seemed to find this strange, and a little off-putting. This is the discrimination that 800 years of privilege has earned us.

It is beyond an exaggeration to say that going to Oxford will damage your career prospects, but we no longer live in the age of old boys’ clubs and nepotism, or at least not openly, and it is, probably, not a guarantee of employment.
But if, in the search for a job, graduates are happy to scrawl the word Oxford all over their CVs, it is a different matter when it comes to interactions with peers and equals. Making friends is a tricky and awkward process at the best of times, and it can be made even more tricky and awkward if you are having to waste time challenging silly preconceptions. This is where Oxford’s 800 years of history really starts to make itself felt. A lot of preconceptions can be formed in that time, and many of them are not particularly positive. Even if they are, they’re not going to help you make friends. Take, for example, the people who you worked with in Tesco’s over the summer. One goes to Luton University, another reads media studies; this is not a snobbish social commentary on those who work at Tesco’s (remember one of you goes to Oxford). In this reasonably typical situation, the conversation in which you discuss what you do and where you go is going to be inescapably awkward. The response will either be, "Wow, you must be so clever," or, "I hear everyone who goes there is a posh twat." Both tend to kill conversation.

Of course you could always lie; I’m often tempted to just say Manchester and leave it at that, but then you always risk getting caught out, which tends to prove even more awkward. In these situations it doesn’t matter how much you’ve changed your hair and started to use deoderant you return to your inner Craig Potts, the generally abused outcast.

Even worse is the situation in which you’re sitting with old friends who have never quite gotten over not getting into Oxford. It’s not your fault, you have done nothing wrong, but it’ll always cause tension in the friendship. It’s even worse when the person with a chip on their shoulder is a stranger. The conversation invariably turns into a competition in which they continually try to put you down in order to prove that even though they didn’t go to some fancy-schmancy university, they’re every bit as clever as you. After being forced to prove you can name the capitals of half the countries in the world, this tends to get old.

Of course it’s not fair that something of which you should be proud can be such a stigma. Whatever its faults, whatever the flaws in its reputation, there it no denying that getting into Oxford is an achievement. And yet students here are very aware of the stigma that can go with attending such an institution. Indeed, it is ironic that many of them consider it to be true and even promote it themselves; it’s not uncommon to hear an Oxford student complain that everyone at the university is unbearably posh, when what they really mean is different. It is a shame that not only does prejudice exist within the University, but that it radiates out to reflect not just upon individuals, but everyone who studies there.It is a truth almost universally acknowledged that university is one of the most important times of your life. Even if it doesn’t actually shape the way you yourself are, which it invariably will, it will shape the way you are perceived for the rest of your life. Ultimately what must be remembered is that, however hard you try not to tick the boxes, it will always remain an inescapable truth that everyone starts life as a caterpillar.

I wanna be like Osama/ I wanna bomb a path to fame across the earth!” Not a quote from Al-Qaida’s latest video release, but a song featured in Jihad! The Musical, one of the many shows at this year’s Edinburgh Festival that sought to shock. And one of many which had, on the whole, failed to raise even a gasp by the time the curtain went down. ‘Stirring things up’ has long been one of theatre’s self-appointed roles but when the show’s title appears to have been dreamt up before its plot, the action itself is likely to be about as controversial as an episode of Richard and Judy.
Sex, Politics and Religion were the hot buttons of choice for companies on the ragged edge of this year’s Fringe, issues guaranteed to generate exposure in the mainstream press. The Tony Blair Musical, Tony! The Blair Musical, Songs About Vaginas and a show apparently exposing the truth about Scientology all vied to court controversy. But for audiences inured to cheap shots at George W Bush and evangelical Christianity there seemed to be little, even on the Fringe, which could raise an eyebrow. As it happens the most offensive thing I saw this year was a swing version of Bowie’s ‘Life on Mars’ but the only controversy there, sadly, was in whether or not the offense was intended.
Jihad! was the kind of Edinburgh show that announces itself in a blaze of un-PC glory, and promptly garners broadsheet comment. But this doesn’t detract from the fact that as a piece of theatre it was woefully defunct. As a musical parody, it ticked certain boxes, ‘The Jihad Jive’ being a musical highlight. But as a commentary on the modern world it was a non-starter, with politics so basic and unoriginal it hurt. (It’s overriding lesson: “The Americans can be corrupt too!”). Indeed, its most offensive element was that its white American writer, who looked – and sang – like a refugee from the cast of Fame, played the central young Afghan character, and seemed capable of far less expression than the play’s seductive, burqa-wearing femme fatale.
Attempt 3.4, a show devised in part by an Oxford graduate, at least had some structure, and a real tension – none of the actors knew what was going to happen each night, though full-frontal male nudity does seem to have cropped up rather a lot. Because of the contained nature of the action, set in a post-apocalyptic city, despite its spontaneity the show had a natural growth. Meanwhile, in Raz-Mataz, the Ruskin School-supported performance piece, the audience could sit secure in the knowledge that truly spontaneous madness was unlikely to erupt, if only because Health and Safety would have had a fit and fake-blood-spattered audiences would likely sue.
The main problem that beset so many Edinburgh shows that aimed at the radical market this year was that image was conceived before substance. Raz-Mataz was at times fascinating to watch, but a lack of any true passion or direction meant that its interminable shouting, counting, drumming, gallons of fake blood and use of a pantomime horse were generally greeted with mixed amusement and bewilderment from its supposedly-participatory audience.
As another Cherwell critic put it, “I’d hate to deny the Raz gang the primal joy they’re obviously having. The show is, admittedly, fun to watch, much like watching a gang of nihilistic three-year-olds wreaking havoc in kindergarten art class. But it’s missing the charming innocence which makes playground anarchy redeemable. Instead the mood prevailing is that the Razzers think the “show” is in anyway shocking, controversial or original, while in reality their performance was an affront to the words ‘provocative”, ‘controversial’, ‘experimental’, and ‘theatre’.” At least the show could never be accused of eliciting a complacent reaction.
Xenu is Loose!… The Musical was another Oxford production whose concept and posters were at least as much fun as the show- not least because it’s title was almost as long as the first act. Watching it one couldn’t help but feel -however charitably- that the production must have been cramped by the threat of the legal might of the Church of Scientology which it supposedly lambasted. The play’s only coherent comment upon the scriptural science-fiction lunacy it portrayed was to set it alongside an equally mawkish and ridiculous high school love story.
Offensive material on the Fringe comedy circuit abounded as usual, but offense in the guise of comedy seems to have gone mainstream and is worth big money. Why else would Jimmy Carr be so ubiquitous on Channel 4? No theatre show could gain the celebrated notoriety of comics like Stephen Amos or the I.F. Award-Winner Brendon Burns. What seemed to be lacking among this year’s theatre offerings was a true passion for controversy that meant anything. Laughter can be a powerful enough weapon at the best of times, but not when the targets being satirised are patently absurd on their own. There was little that seemed likely to affect the audience’s perceptions once they’d walked out the door and into a flurry of ads for the hundreds of other Festival shows. Certainly few of the shows that attracted big audiences and the attentions of the press on the pretence of sheer daring could be said to fulfill the promise of a snappy or downright bizzarre title.

 Whats love got to do with it? Gareth Peters on the gurus who would guide you to the perfect pickup. 

This summer, students approaching the second year have been getting broody as they experience firsthand the miracle of life. Luckily for them, they get to skip the sleepless nights, the breast feeding and the baby sick which usually make life hard for new parents. Instead, they get a young adult who can generally take care of themselves, although freshers’ week may result in the same level of vomiting.

Being a college parent isn’t the most complicated job in the world, but there are certainly some things to keep in mind. Whether your new child has just arrived or if you’re a new first-year with a kid due in twelve months, there are a few pointers to remember, just to ensure that your little bundle of joy manages to stay on the right road.

Some doctors suggest that talking to the unborn child in the womb can be helpful to the baby’s growth and development (it also works for pumpkins). Similarly, before you meet your own child, communication is advisable simply to establish a good rapport, whether it’s a lengthy letter or a quick e-mail. Be wary of humorous opening sentences though; "Luke, I am your father" references might be a good way to break the ice, but are perhaps not to be recommended when there’s a chance, albeit a slim one, that your kid has recently been searching for their birth parents. Everyone wants to feel wanted, so when meeting your college child for the first time, make sure that you give them more than a two minute chat. Buy them a drink and get to know them a bit, and offer advice without patronising them, especially since there’s a good chance that they’re older than you.

A child’s first years are the most important for their progress, so it’s not surprising that their first days in Oxford, freshers’ week, is crucial. Advise them on the best places to go and be the familiar face in the crowd without being too much of a crutch, and don’t be offended if they don’t jump for joy every time they see you, all birds will fly the nest eventually. If it goes the other way though, and your child wants to spend as much time as possible with you, it’s probably best not to take advantage. Committing college incest in First Week is sleazy and is more likely to have a negative effect on their reputation than yours, so if you actually manage to find your soul mate in the delivery room then at least refrain from acting for a while.

The concept of college parenting goes hand in hand with the Oxford tradition of college marriage, so if you have a spouse, then you have the opportunity to introduce the extra parent over dinner. You might want to stop there with your explanation of the family tree though, as the Oxford custom gets a little old by the time you’ve met your mother’s sister’s aunt. Also, if you never managed to find the husband-wife for you, avoid the bastard-spinster-orphan jokes; it’s just a tad pathetic, and if you’re given more than one child, then avoid blatant favouritism as no one likes playing second fiddle.Research shows that ten to fifteen percent of new mothers are depressed after birth, and some develop negative feelings towards their newborns, which raises an issue with your sprog; what happens if you hate your child? What if they’re just a bit of a loser, or a complete creep? Luckily for you, you don’t have to be best friends, but if they need some advice, it is only fair that you help out, or at least send them to someone who can. College parenting doesn’t take too much effort, and shouldn’t cost you more than a pint or a carnation come exam time. It’s all about giving someone security for a potentially scary couple of weeks, reassuring them that all will be fine. Basically, then, it’s fostering without the tax benefits.

I enter the O3 gallery in the Castle Complex and my heels click intrusively on the stone floor. The gallery is a small grey grotto, with Claire Wiltsher’s paintings hanging from the ceiling and shining, jewel-like, from the dark walls. Wiltsher left her job and home several years ago and took off on a journey around the globe recording sights and experiences in sketches and photos. These paintings are the result of this highly personal journey.
The overriding impression of these paintings is of colour and texture. The texture is rough, thick and thoroughly satisfying. Colours are vibrant, if a little stereotypical. England is typified by muddy, grey green colours whilst Cuba and hotter climates are reds, oranges and yellows. She uses collage with exquisite accomplishment, blending magazine clippings and photographs with acrylic paint.
There is, however, a trace of A-level Art about Wiltsher. The texture reminds me of Anselm Kiefer’s work whilst the information handed out about the artist cites Maria-Helena Viera de Silva as an inspiration. Both artists are favourites of art teachers across the country. Even the technique of collage, though utilised well by Wiltsher, is one favoured by art departments to the point of cliché. The personal element of this exhibition is something which poignantly reminds me of Sixth Form. You were always encouraged to explore yourself and draw on personal experiences which is exactly what Wiltsher does in these paintings, almost too much. Whilst most art is clearly a result of a personal experience, I would suggest that these paintings are too personal, so personal that they exclude the viewer from fully understanding them because they were not there with her.
There is however one exception. Isolation, a small painting to the left as you walk in, is easily overlooked. It depicts a tumultuous scene so vigorous that it is almost abstract. A man and his dog traverse this lonely scene calmly as if oblivious to the roaring wind around them. It is much freer in technique than the linear and rigid depictions in other pieces and feels more like an experience for the viewer rather than the artist.
Other pieces, whilst not as emotionally evocative as Isolation, do display the artist’s talent very well. Alluring Light, in particular, makes beautiful use of colour whilst Hypnotic explores form and space very well. On the whole this exhibition is visually exciting but not necessarily mentally stimulating. I was thrilled by the colours and the painterly skill of Wiltsher but I certainly did not experience the “energy and spiritual presence of a place” I was promised.

As the last all-girls college in Oxford, St. Hilda’s is often sterotyped, but in reality it is a community of great openness and broadmindedness. Where there may be a cliquey atmosphere at other colleges, there is little sense of that at Hilda’s, although of course friendship circles have naturally formed. The fact that St Hilda’s is all-female gives us the incentive to make many friends outside of college circles and to socialise as much as possible with as many people as possible. As a wise woman once said to me: "You don’t have to live with boys to sleep with them."

Yes we do watch a lot of Sex and the City, wander round in pyjamas, and laugh when a guy visits for the first time and tentatively asks: "Can I go to the toilet here?!", and our all-female status has always set us apart from other colleges. Yet St Hilda’s is on the cusp of change; a change that this college has never experienced before. Next year, boys will be admitted and the last all-girls college in Oxford will become mixed. Most love being in an all-female college, but I believe most will also love being in a mixed college. Perhaps then, a fantastic college could now become even better.The greatest conundrum must be… where will they put all the urinals?