Rebecca BuckTurrill GardenSummertownIt is a long bicycle ride from the town centre up to the Turrill Garden, behind the SummertownLibrary, but once you arrive, you do find yourself in a surprisingly pleasant and tranquil spot. The Turrill Garden is a well-designedgreen space for the public to use and enjoy, and is regularly used for exhibitions. Presently, the work of Rebecca Buck is being displayed, a sculptress born in the USA but educated in both Eengland and across the Atlantic. She has an impressive CV, with a long list of accomplishmentsin southern Italy and Malaysia aside from her work in and America, and now works out of her Osprey Studio in Wales.Her work is abstract and guided by music, using weatherproof clay to design a range of sculptures, many of which reflect her background in portrait and figure studies. Indeed, the work on display at the Turrill Garden seems to perfectly encapsulatethe broad range of themes she covers.Her sculptures of metaphorical objects, under the title of Life’s a Beach, are shaped with smooth contours that simultaneously mimic the rise and fall of waves, the curve of a sunbather’s hip, the crest of sand dunes. Similarly, the sculptures named Wind, Water, Fire, although solid and upright, skilfully capture an image of licking flames or cascadingwater with a look of fluidity that makes Buck’s sculpting seem effortless.Similar artistic skill is evident in her two depictions of Icarus who, accordingto the Greek myth, flew too close to the sun, and consequently melted his waxed wings, causing him to plummet to his death. The mythologicalcharacter is depicted in a pose of bold confidence with his arms flung back and his chest flaunted to the viewer, like a cocky bird pluminghis feathers. His danger-defying demeanour is powerfully expressed in the artist’s violent, vigorous style: slashes in the ceramic depict the wings’ feathers, sharp grooves give the bodies a slightly contorted shape, and the faces are moulded into an amorphous clump. The striking refusal to give the sculptures a face combined with her rough method gives us ancient mythological heroes but without the serenity that typicallygoes with a Classical style.The most striking works on displayare those called Figures From Yesterday’s News. They are images of despair: a pregnant woman protectivelyhugging her swollen belly; a desperate man, his knees drawn up with his face held in his hands. The lines of these sculptures are aggressive: they seem to have been created as a catharsis, jabbed as well as moulded, pained as well as calm. Ddepicting the human in varying states of aggression and retreat with such a natural, energetic style, the best work is fervent, violent and instilledwith the artist’s own passion.The diversity of Buck’s sculpture is extremely apparent, and perhaps some would say that this is evidence of her ability to look at the beauty and horror of this world. However this creates conflict within the exhibition as a whole: there are two distinct sets of art on display that represent completely different themes. Separately, they work well in the garden environment, but together, the themes seem to clash. More importantly, it is a small display that exists not to attract visitors but to provide a pleasant environment for users of the Summertown library to read in. If you do find yourself in Summertown and can afford the time, do call in to the gardens and sit and admire the diversity of the exhibition, but the bike ride up there specifically with sculpture in mind is not recommended.ARCHIVE: 5th week MT 2005

IT IS with an impeccable single tear that we announce the untimely death of the Celebrity Wedding, though it far outlived the marriages of most of its participants. Much in the same way that the epic was killed off by Paradise Lost, the Celebrity Wedding self-imploded after the recent well-publicised superlative and surely insurmountable example of all it stood for.Swathed in spangly pink taffeta, demurely showcasing the monumental chest that is as much a feat of modern engineering as the London eye, our modern-day fairytale princess Jordan walked up the fuchsia aisle to take as her husband, till tabloid gossip do part them, her equally unfeasibly orange Nineties Smash Hits popster beau. The couple beamed with happiness as they realised they would get to spend the rest of their lives with the reported £1 million from an exclusive photo deal with a certain reputed magazine, and that they could spend a honeymoon basking in the knowledge that they had probably outdone Posh and Becks.All the prerequisites of the Celebrity Wedding were there: grand and quasi-aristocratic setting (borrowing from its sister-phenomenon, the Royal Wedding), an unconventional twist on a traditional form of transport (not just a horse and carriage but an actual pumpkin) and a small child from the bride’s former relationship with a footballer (note: in the history of the Celebrity Wedding the footballer and pop-star are interchangeable in the roles of past-lover and husband-to-be). We have witnessed such scenes many a time, when taking up the centre pages of tabloids, but this one couldn’t be topped: the cake was bigger, the rings were shinier, the bridesmaids had representatives from more girl bands than ever before and the skirt was so monumental it had to be whipped off, Bucks Fizz-style, to reveal a skimpy mini so that the groom could dance with his bride to a version of a certain disney ballad the pair had recorded themselves the week before.Though this historical occasion exemplified the true ‘Girlhood dream’ aspect of the Celebrity Wedding, the matrimonial institution has adopted many and various forms in its lifetime; there was the Beach Wedding, the Secret Wedding and, of course, the Vegas Little White Chapel wedding (though an expert like Jordan may deem this a little passé). The Celebrity Wedding is at its biggest and best when, like Jordan and Peter, celebs marry within the trade. With this comes the potential for events boasting almost exclusively celebrity guest lists, be it the cast of Friends, elton John or just Gazza and Shane Richie. In keeping with its life, the funeral of the Celebrity Wedding promises far more sparkle, mystery and guests wearing sunglasses indoors than any of us mere mortals could ever wish for. We can’t substantiate anything because all juicy details have been promised away with large sums attached to them, but we believe mourners to include the accountants of at least two glossy magazines, several disgruntled pre-nup lawyers, and the runner up from x-Factor whose single is out on Monday.
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I work at St Hilda’s College library and a lot of what I do involves making sure that the library runs efficiently. That’s not just putting books on shelves and stamping them out. It’s also co-ordinating all the things that make it possible for the library to function, for example buying and ordering books, deciding library policy and trying to respond to people’s ideas, from carpeting and better lighting to buying books for subject areas. There is also a lot of administrative work. Our college has just built a new extension, and our staff have been involved in the planning and design right from the beginning. Apart from that, I’m also a fellow of the college, which means that I’m involved with a lot of College activities, including sitting in on Governing Body, while being dean of degrees means I go to the Sheldonian and present people for their degrees.I enjoy the library aspect most of all because it supports people in their academic work. I very much like to see people coming up for their three years. They change a lot over that time and it’s quite interesting to see how their styles and fashions change. You also see people in the libraries weeping over essays and revision, then you see them at the other end when you’re taking them up to get their degrees. It’s a slightly more personal relationship than perhaps with some of the University libraries, and when alumni come back they nearly always say they have fond memories of our library, which I find gratifying.I’ve always worked in Oxford. I started off at the Taylorian, and that was my first taste of how pleasant working in a library could be. But the fun thing about being a college librarian is that you’re very hands-on and get to meet the students. I don’t think I would like to be in a job where I was just an administrator behind the scenes and never saw anybody. You also have more autonomy than you probably would in the larger organisations, and you feel very much involved in what’s going on. I also enjoy being the dean of degrees, because it’s such a happy family occasion. You meet people’s parents, which is always interesting, and you can see why some people are the way they are. The most common question we get asked, besides "Where is this book?" is actually "Can you come and un-jam the photocopier or the printer for me?" I’ve seen many unusual things, but I think I’ll draw a veil over those! Someone started a fire in a wastepaper basket once, which was an exciting moment, but usually people leave all their interesting possessions outside. I think we see a very different side to the students, mostly the quiet side: people who fall asleep at their desks is as riotous as it gets.I think librarians often just fall into the career. Personally, I’m not a natural librarian: I spend half my life looking for things and I’m not calm. What I really enjoy is reading, and that’s something that you don’t have time for when you’re working. You see so many books that you would like to read because of your work, and yet you just don’t have the time to do that. everybody always says, "Oh you’re a librarian, you must read a lot of books," and it makes me furious. If only that were true! There are some terrible stereotypes of librarians going around, and I hope we don’t conform to them too much here. For a librarian, I’m an incredibly noisy person; I don’t think I’ve ever said "Shush" to anyone in my life!work at St Hilda’s College library and a lot of what I do involves making sure that the library runs efficiently. That’s not just putting books on shelves and stamping them out. It’s also co-ordinating all the things that make it possible for the library to function, for example buying and ordering books, deciding library policy and trying to respond to people’s ideas, from carpeting and better lighting to buying books for subject areas. There is also a lot of administrative work. Our college has just built a new extension, and our staff have been involved in the planning and design right from the beginning. Apart from that, I’m also a fellow of the college, which means that I’m involved with a lot of College activities, including sitting in on Governing Body, while being dean of degrees means I go to the Sheldonian and present people for their degrees.ARCHIVE: 5th week MT 2005

For many, Michaelmas term signals a return to a lifestyle we know so well that to describe it again would see innumerable clichés rehashed unnecessarily. Returning students, whether suddenly conscientious finalists or second years planning to make the most of college life with neither prelims nor mods to bother them, are joined by hordes of unsure freshers, baffled at the prospect of penetrating the bubble for the first time.Not because I cannot bear to leave the place, but because it seems all too much as if I have been prematurely ripped from a city I had not quite finished with. The majority of my friends will prepare for and take their finals during my year abroad; Oxford will move on without me, taking in two new sets of freshers before I return and only finally allowing me back as a frightened fourth year with nothing to look forward to but another marathon of exams similar to the twenty-four hour session I endured at the end of my first year.Nevertheless, if I have no choice in the matter, then I might as well make the most of it. If I have to be exiled then I plan to come back conjugating verbs better than a grammar book and with more utterly useless vocabulary than a bilingual dictionary. Mortals will gasp at my grasp of the most complex grammatical structures and my pronunciation will no longer be met with furrowed brows and disconcerting glances. This, however, will be thanks to me and the people who tolerate my pidgin tongue here on the Continent, rather than the tuition I have received in Oxford. It is no wonder that thousands of university students are churned out abroad every year to perfect their chosen languages. during the entirety of the last academic year, my college offered a total of eight hours of tuition in German conversation, during the majority of which I was either hopelessly hungover or stubbornly half asleep and where I had to share our one native speaker with on average five others, all equally desperate to try and remember how to speak German before, well, moving there.In my experience, complete immersion in a language is the best way to acquire it. On the days when I am not teaching english at school or I manage to resist the temptation to meet up with english-speaking friends, I even find myself thinking in German, although I still have to wait for that elusive first dream in a foreign language. My German flatmates ensure that even when there is nothing I would rather do less, every word we exchange is in the language of Goethe. My integration is almost complete, and it seems to have only taken a month. I appear to have even convinced myself that I look like a German as I ride to school on the over-efficient trams each morning at seven. Indeed, I have even been stopped twice to help with directions.Of course, there are difficult times: the delicate social situation of buying communal food becomes a headache several hundred times more throbbing when the key words evade you at just the wrong minute. The experience is all the more bemusing when despite studying the language for over nine years I have to admit to having no real affinity with the country or its culture. I am as indifferent to Germany as I am to any other country. I would rather look left first when I cross the road and could easily do without almost incessantly having to breathe in second-hand smoke.But as I become one of the people I begin to find them more and more charming. They are polite, in a different way. Pushing and shoving are fine, but woe betide anyone who forgets to offer their seat to a granny on the tram. You have to pay for plastic bags in the supermarket but people in the street will go out of their way to be helpful. And prostitutes are free to advertise in local papers.If this were Oxford, I would be in the fifth week of my first term. In all honesty, that is perhaps where I would rather be. Perhaps choosing a course with a mandatory year-long excursion was not my wisest move. But perhaps it is foolish to expect to achieve the near-native fluency required for the final oral exam without some sort of sacrifice. And perhaps, after a year, I won’t want to leave.However, it could be suggested that what characterises the first term of a new academic year is the noticeable absence of students who are no longer with us. All over the country, indeed the world, last summer’s graduates are holding down well-paid jobs, sponging off their parents or taking one last opportunity to finally discover the most far-flung corners of the world before inevitable immersion in a pre-planned career. But one other group of students are also nowhere to be seen this Michaelmas, and the vast majority of them will not be seen again until roughly a year from now.The year abroad has claimed its next generation of participants, whether willing or not. In schools worldwide, those working as language assistants are taking into their own hands the teaching of english of thousands of children despite being entirely unqualified to teach. elsewhere, others are registering at foreign universities, sitting in offices or calmly realising that, even after ten years of study, they are still unable to order a baguette. Personally, I am living between an Erotikmarkt and a cannabis accessory emporium in Freiburg, Germany, spending twelve hours a week as a walking dictionary in a nearby school. The obligation to spend a year living abroad is far from the mind of most future students as they leaf through the glossy prospectuses of Oxford’s language departments. even the reappearance of returned linguists fails to make the year abroad register as an inescapable future prospect. Once you begin to hear yourself referred to as a departing linguist, your tutors start to talk of nothing else but your plans for your time abroad and even people you barely speak to are keen to enquire as to how exactly you plan to split your time between Portugal and the Czech Republic. A fearful panic sets in, amplified by the fact that suddenly becoming a native speaker overnight is the only way to be excused from this obligation, and before time has been found to revise your irregular verbs you are sitting on a cheap flight bound for the armpit of europe or the crotch of South America. There are different reactions: while some are desperate to finally become the Spaniard they have always wanted to be others are to be found on the cobbles outside the Oriental Institute, crying in their sub-fusc.This might all seem like too much complaining. Many would jump at the chance to abandon studies for a full year to experience life in the shoes of a citizen of another country. Surely the possibilities are endless? But when your college’s only response to the fact that you have absolutely nothing planned two days before the end of Trinity is "Why not ask the fourth years what they did?" you begin to realise that this year of opportunity might just resemble an endless holiday you never wanted to go on.I stopped counting the number of times I heard "Oh yes, the year abroad was the best year of my life", quietly thinking to myself that perhaps some lives must be duller than others if the equivalent of being sent down for twelve months is able to stand head and shoulders above countless other years. Spending a year abroad is actually no problem: homesickness has never affected me (Surrey tends to stay with you wherever you go), I travel keenly and genuinely enjoy the challenge of making a home in a new place and carrying out daily life as if I were in a GCSe listening exercise. The reason I am currently overwhelmed with pessimism is not that I miss home, nor that I doubt my ability to teach German children how to speak proper english like I do, but rather that I would just prefer to be in Oxford.ARCHIVE: 5th week MT 2005

Professor Jim Horne of Loughborough University recently addressed the Oxford University Scientific Society with the question: "Why Sleep?" A room full of bright, talented Oxford students suddenly looked remarkably blank. It may have been the fact that the lecture was held at 8:30pm and so, somewhat ironically, many of those present were already droopy-eyed before the talk even began. Still, probe the minds of Oxford students, or anyone in the general public, and the overall perception of sleep appears extremely limited. Preconceptions are replete with inaccuracies, assumptions and mythology. Sleep is a phenomenon that pervades our everyday lives, altering the way we act, the way we speak and the way we feel. Yet even science is at a loss to explain its intricacies. So how does sleep work? Why do we do it? How much are Oxford students getting? And, more importantly, are we getting enough?In order to get some answers rofessor Jim Horne of Loughborough University recently addressed the Oxford University Scientific Society with the question: "Why Sleep?" A room full of bright, talented Oxford students suddenly looked remarkably blank. It may have been the fact that the lecture was held at 8:30pm and so, somewhat ironically, many of those present were already droopy-eyed before the talk even began. Still, probe the minds of Oxford students, or anyone in the general public, and the overall perception of sleep appears extremely limited. Preconceptions are replete with inaccuracies, assumptions and mythology. Sleep is a phenomenon that pervades our everyday lives, altering the way we act, the way we speak and the way we feel. Yet even science is at a loss to explain its intricacies. So how does sleep work? Why do we do it? How much are Oxford students getting? And, more importantly, are we getting enough?PIn order to get some answers I performed some basic field research on undergraduates. The survey was a simple set of questions designed to see how much sleep students get during term time. The first and most striking discovery from the data was the response to the question about how much sleep students would ideally have. Of the 78 people that took part in the survey, almost 27% stated they would prefer to have ten or more hours in bed if they had the time, with 4% saying they would like to sleep for 12 hours or more on a regular basis! Most people say that sleeping longer means you are more rested and mentally sharp when you wake. But is this really the case?Sleeping is split into two defined phases that cycle throughout the night. First there is the deeper sleep known as non-ReM. This is divided into three stages, the first of which involves a very light sleep that only lasts about ten minutes. The body then enters true sleep, a deeper unconsciousness where the heart rate drops and the breathing pattern slows. This stage makes up the majority of our time sleeping. Twenty minutes later the body enters deep sleep, when breathing and heart rates reach their lowest level of the night. Critically, brain functions are also affected. When we are awake the delta waves which signal brain activity typically have very high frequency and a low amplitude. The high frequency of the signals means that the ‘refresh rate’ of our consciousness is greater during the day. during deep sleep these turn into slow, large-crested waves. Within 90 minutes of falling asleep, the second phase is initiated: ReM, or Rapid eye Movement sleep. The delta waves are extremely similar to those of someone who is awake; in fact their frequency can even exceed that of a fully conscious individual. Blood pressure rises, the breathing rate increases and as the name suggests our eyes dart wildly from side to side. Hence, ReM is characterised by very shallow sleep and it is during this period that most dreams occur. despite the intensity of brain activity at this stage, the body is effectively paralysed and so the individual is prevented from acting out their dreams. This cycle replays itself throughout the night, until we wake.It is also worth considering the difference between sleep and resting. Very little energy is conserved by sleeping. In fact, the amount saved each day by sleeping for eight hours is a mere 50kCal, about the equivalent of a piece of toast. Resting is a chance for the body to recuperate resources, repair tissues and redistribute supplies around the body. This can be done by simply reducing the level of activity for a period of time, rather than by sleeping. Sleep has a much larger effect on the brain than on the rest of the body.Individuals suffering from sleep deprivation typically suffer from grogginess, irritation and forgetfulness. Their ability to hold articulate conversations also suffers, as does their attention span and levels of concentration. The decrease in mental agility observed in a person going 17 hours without sleep is equivalent to that after two glasses of wine, the legal drink driving limit in the UK. However studies show that if subjects are kept awake for a few days without sleep, though they exhibit many of the neurological symptoms described above, there is no effect on the body at all. Contrary to popular belief even the immune system functions normally. Only the stress of not sleeping, rather than the lack of sleep itself, causes immune suppression. Hence, whilst rest aids the replenishment of the body, sleep aids the recovery of the mind, and the two concepts are entirely separate.According to the findings of the survey, students in Oxford tend to go to bed late and get up relatively early. The former (with 93.6% of those sampled still up and about after midnight) comes as no surprise, and only reflects the late-night culture of students. More surprisingly though was the finding that only 20.5% were still in bed after 9am. However, though there is a tendency to give ourselves a pat on the back for not conforming to the typical student stereotype, the survey does reveal that we are getting, on average, only around 7.5 hours sleep per night – over an hour less than we would like. Though the survey’s sample size is relatively small, it still shows that there is a discrepancy between how much sleep we want and how much we are getting.Furthermore just over 55% of students asked reported suffering from insomnia at least once a month. eating late at night, drinking alcohol, caffeine and smoking all have a detrimental effect on our sleep, as do noisy neighbours or housemates. However, the most significant causes of insomnia are psychological: grief and stress can lead to an over-stimulated mind and an inability to fall asleep. These cerebral factors are likely to be most influential in a university environment such as ours. Sleeping difficulties affect around 25% of the overall population, so such an incidence of insomnia here in Oxford should probably be expected. Still, it is worrying to see a large difference between students and the wider public, especially when the longer term physiological impacts of sleep loss are not fully understood.A less severe, but certainly more common occurrence is the effect of alcohol on sleeping patterns. Alcohol disrupts the intricate cycling of the sleeping stages. Going to sleep drunk means you are less likely to enter the deep sleep stage, instead flitting around in ReM sleep for most of the night. during the second half of the night you will sleep fitfully, awaking abruptly and struggling to regain deeper sleep. Though this may not manifest itself in actual consciousness, the depth of sleeping is invariably shallower as a result.So why do we sleep? Why does the body and mind shut down if the energy savings by doing so are only equivalent to tomorrow’s breakfast? due to the imprecise nature of the science there are many theories being thrown around. The famous suggestion by Francis Crick was that the purpose of sleep is to allow the brain to "take out the trash," for the brain to deprogramme the events it does not wish to store in the long term memory. Though this may not be physiologically accurate, the purpose of sleep does appear to be entirely based on the recalibration of the cerebral cortex. The sheer quantity of information absorbed after 16 or so hours of consciousness is staggering, the brain has been rewired extensively. Sleep may be a simple way for the brain to calm its activity and to decipher its position in the context of the world; in essence, to reaffirm its identity. It is the reordering of the brain’s synaptic superstructure thatthat seems to be the most pivotal aspect of sleeping.Finally: how much sleep do we need? Napoleon, who was not a good sleeper, once declared: "six hours sleep for a man, seven for a woman and eight for a fool." Given that the cycling of the deep sleep stage ends after around four hours, then the need for twelve or more hours of sleep per day comes across as questionable. Professor Jim Horne himself concluded that six hours of quality sleep should be enough for most of us. A surprising response perhaps, and one which according to our survey is only shared by 20% of students. Perhaps though our desire for a long lie-in has more to do with avoiding that impending essay than recovering from yesterday’s exploits.ARCHIVE: 5th week MT 2005

The best thing about the Café Metropole is the chairs. They are wicker, made out of real straw and have armrests which slope into a gentle incline. I can sit in one of these chairs for hours without feeling in the least uncomfortable. They’re sufficiently upright to allow you to work on the marble table top without feeling awkward and the waiters check all of them regularly so you needn’t experience the annoying see-saw effect when one of the legs is too long. The cast iron tables are good and sturdy too. Couches along the walls cater to those in languorous mood. No one objects if you have a short nap stretched out on one of these beneath the crisp folds of a newspaper. Gazettophiles are well catered for at the Metropole. The management places a comprehensive selection of newspapers and periodicals at our disposal. everything from the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung to Mad magazine is on offer. All these publications are suspended from the walls attached to solid oak rods so they cannot be dismembered. Not that the clientele of the café would be so thoughtless. Those with time on their hands – students, artists, writers – are well represented. Professionals escape the tedium of their offi ces and conduct conferences on one of the couches. The café is big enough for small children to be unobtrusive so that families feel welcome. Workmen take their morning café at the zinc-topped bar. Men of letters (even journalists) get a ten per cent discount. That is unless the major-domo, a red haired Italian called elio, has taken issue with that morning’s editorial. Always ready with a bar of Pavarotti, he reserves choice verses of Catullus in the original Latin for initiates. If anyone has had a book published or even a single poem, a glass of prosecco is obligatory. The service is always impeccable at the Metropole and the same waiters and baristas have been there for decades. They like to talk to the customers without prying into personal details. The manager doesn’t instruct them to pressure idlers into ordering more drinks to justify taking up a table. In truth, there is no manager. The Café Metropole has been owned and run by its staff for as long as anyone can remember. Profits and tips are split equally: no one gets a bigger share. They all have an interest in the café’s continued popularity. Indeed, they are rich men. elio spends August in a Tuscan villa and the sports cars beside the door belong to the waiters. Their wealth does not come from ripping us off. An espresso costs 70 pence at the Metropole. I have never had a bad one there. It arrives in a small white cup and saucer. It is short and strong. Anyone stupid enough to order a double will be given two separate cups of coffee. The surface of the coffee is coated in a thick brown cream. When I pour on the sugar, it remains suspended there for a few moments before sliding to the bottom. You shouldn’t stir coffee like this. It is intended to be a tale of two flavours; down it in one and savour first the robust bitterness and then the slow flowing sweetness. They take such pride in their coffee at the Metropole that often I have been presented with a perfect looking espresso only to have it whipped away by the same waiter. He goes to berate the barista and returns with another sumptuous espresso, this one on the house, apologising that the previous effort hadn’t reached his standards. For eight pounds you can get the dish of the day, a glass of house wine and a coffee at lunch time. The food is always good and simply prepared. A cassoulet on Monday perhaps, fish pie on Tuesday, spaghetti carbonara (prepared in the proper way, without cream) on Wednesday, mushroom risotto on Thursday and maybe fresh fried mackerel on Friday. I find myself eating there every day for weeks on end. The head chef is Greek and called Bruna. She speaks six languages with twelve accents. Ask why she doesn’t dish up any Keftedes or Moussaka and she’ll say, “Go to Athens if you want gas.” On the last Friday of each month, regulars are invited to an eight course feast. The last one began with tuna carpaccio coated in truffl e shavings and ended with the largest raspberry souffl é I have ever seen. In between, chicken with slivers of foie gras inserted under the skin was particularly memorable. elio scurries continually with a succession of oddities plucked from the Metropole’s cellar, insisting we try each one. We pay forty pounds for the privilege but this can barely cover the costs. No one arranges to meet anyone at the Metropole. You’re always bound to see someone you know. Many come to work there but it’s accepted that conversation takes precedence. Strangers are always welcome to join in. Anyone looking forlorn at the adjacent table will have their opinion solicited. Many a beautiful friendship has begun this way and more besides. Elio proudly declares that the Metropole has been responsible for at least 24 marriages (seven divorces, alas), 67 children and one Nobel Prize. They don’t sell cigarettes at the Metropole but if you ask them they’ll produce a wooden box of cigarettes gratis. No one takes advantage of this generosity. The tables are spaced well enough apart and the domed glass ceiling is high and well ventilated so that abstainers barely notice the smell. Pipe and cigar smokers have a refuge at the Metropole too. The only music at the Metropole is the jazz band that plays on Thursday nights and the occasional string quartet. There is a transistor radio behind the bar on which the waiters listen to football but the thought of introducing a sound system throughout the café has never occurred. When one of the waiters suggested introducing a television for the big games, he nearly lost his share in the business. The Metropole opens at seven and closes at two. Often have I woken after twelve and gone to the Metropole for a soporific cognac though I tend to see a friend or at least elio looking for advice on the sonnet he’s writing. I forget why I came there and stay till after closing time arguing some finer point of versification. If anyone ever gets out of hand as the night wears on, elio knows exactly when to call a taxi. everyone’s been in the same position so no one looks down on a drunk. The incident is never recalled when the beleaguered party returns to the café and elio will feign ignorance if he or she attempts to apologise for their conduct. The walls of the Metropole are hung with photographs, drawings and paintings donated by customers. These are all of a high quality, elio has good taste. Indeed, artists regard it as an honour to have a work accepted by the Metropole. The café is acknowledged to have accumulated one of the city’s best art collections. Only a small portion of this can be displayed at any one time. I have seen such treasures in the back rooms: a signed Cartier-Bresson print, paintings by Bacon and Hockney, Giacometti sketches, and one remarkable early Picasso provided by a lifelong customer in his will. In fine weather, most choose to sit on the terrasse. Beer is the drink for thirst; anyone showing off with the wine list outside will go out of elio’s good books. I’ve spent whole days sitting in the sun out there. The seats are arranged in rows so people watching is natural. The Metropole is in a secluded square in the centre of the city. There’s no traffi c but people are always walking through. On average, I’d say one in four stop at the café. I never expect to pass by the Metropole without stopping for a drink. even if I am going to an appointment elsewhere, someone I know will inevitably call me over for a half pint. did I mention they only serve half pints? It’s no more expensive to have two half pints at the Metropole than a whole one in a pub. “Festina lente, festina lente” murmurs elio if anyone ever asks why. Astute readers will have grasped by now that the Café Metropole does not exist, at least anywhere that I know. It is my ideal café. I know a few cafés which have some of the qualities of the Metropole but nowhere are they all combined. Some of its qualities are unlikely to be found anywhere. An ideal is to be aspired to, if never obtained. In Oxford we are particularly poorly served for cafés. No one seems to regard café-going as an assumed daily activity like brushing your teeth or walking the dog. Nowhere is there even a hint of the Metropole’s social dynamic. People don’t go to cafés alone because they’re unlikely to bump into a friend in a similar position. It is surprising that, of all people, students can’t master the art of stylishly idling the day away. The Oxford student’s life is certainly a tale of woe. He or she will, in a typical week, sit at their desk working until the early hours nearly every other day. Such a lifestyle is tiresome and many rely upon a much-loved stimulant to help keep them alert. In Oxford, coffee is the industrious student’s most common companion during the long, long winter nights.ARCHIVE: 5th week MT 2005