Members of Mansfield College JCR have voted to continue to
allow students to smoke in the college bar. Passions were raised amid divided opinion between those who
believe smoking is an inalienable individual right and those who
support the ban because of the detrimental effects of passive
smoking. The current JCR policy won a vote with a majority of 63
votes to 44. The vote has checked a growing trend to ban smoking in public
places. Early this term, smoking was prohibited in Teddy Hall
JCR. On Tuesday the Health Secretary, John Reid, angered
anti-smoking groups by saying smoking is one of the few pleasures
the poor had left. He said, “The only enjoyment sometimes
that they have is to have a cigarette.”ARCHIVE: 6th week TT 2004 

Hollywood Cocktails
124 Walton St
(01865) 511 668 As you come to the end of the Jericho “bar crawl”
from the north of Oxford into the centre of town, you are likely
to decide to omit one new addition to the scene from your
drinking schedule, on the basis of its unpromising exterior.
Hollywood Cocktails is situated on the corner of Little Clarendon
Street, opposite the more aesthetically pleasing peppermint green
façade of Raouls, and seems to promise a pretty seedy
experience. Maybe, however, this is simply a result of the
permanent dirtiness of its windows: bar owners take note: these
things do get noticed. I strongly advise that you give Hollywood Cocktails a closer,
more penetrating look and venture inside. This bar is a welcome
new addition to the Jericho bar scene, providing an oasis of calm
and a sense of groundedness amidst the sometimes overwhelming
atmosphere of those more fashionable and well-known jericho bars.
It plays vintage ‘30s and ‘40s jazz and boasts a
collection of posters of film noir & classic stars alongside
the standard huge mirrors & luxury leather seating. Hollywood Cocktails is run by a couple who decided to take the
ethos for their new venture from their favourite cocktail recipe
book, and it has certainly paid off – there is a unusual and
wide selection of dinks, including non-alcoholic versions of old
favourites – ones to try include the cinammon daquiri and
the raspberry tart. Snacks and table service are also available. Part of the charm of Holywood cocktails is the fact that it is
as yet relatively undiscovered, so it will be well worth a visit
before it becomes (as it is bound to do) more popular. The only
down side is the lack of outdoor seating, but come the winter
this will matter less. Above all, Hollywood Cocktails has
something different to offer, cocktails with a twist, and should
definitely be visited at least once.ARCHIVE: 6th week TT 2004 

The White Hart
Wytham
(01865) 244372 The White Hart is set in Wytham, (a treesy hamlet just past
Godstow), and has recently been converted into a gastro pub. The
refurbishment has removed some of its old world charm, and
compared with the cosy, smoky ambience you would expect of a
country pub, it is slightly sterile and soulless. But in the
evening its stone walls are beautifully lit and candles and
simple décor allow it to maintain a rustic feel. To start we had the beef Carpaccio with truffle oil, parmesan,
balsamic vinegar and rocket. The beef was incredibly tender and
the combination of flavours worked well. Although not usually a
fan of fish, the smoked haddock risotto was unbelievable, and the
tomato soup was surprisingly good. The mains were equally impressive. The rump steak was
succulent and was served with creamy mash, although the
overcooked ratatouille let the dish down. The fillet steak,
however, was beautifully presented and combined an unusual and
delicious array of flavours. Although pasta can sometimes
disappoint, the mushroom tortellini with truffle oil and rocket
was delicious and easily competed with the high standard of the
fish and meat. The puddings were more mixed. Both the crème
brulee and the vanilla ice cream were average, but the chocolate
fondant was obscenely good. In general, the menu provided a good variety (despite an
alarming obsession with rocket and balsamic vinegar). The
portions were generous and the standard consistently high. There
was a good choice of affordable red and white wine and the
service was excellent. Although on the pricey side for a pub and even for a
restaurant, the price was only indicative of its quality. Not
only is it the best pub food I have ever tasted, but the best
meal I have had in Oxford. On a free evening I strongly recommend
it; it is worth the taxi ride ten times over.ARCHIVE: 6th week TT 2004 

Whatever you’re doing this summer, whether it’s
strolling down the Champs Elysées, hitching a lift in the back
of a chicken truck through Jordan, or working behind the bar of
your local sweaty pub, you’re going to need to keep your
cool. What you need is versatile, adaptable, pack-able and, above
all, fashionable clothes that will take you from Paris to
Glastonbury and to the Hideous Kinkydepths of Morocco… Why is it that when people go travelling, they feel the urge
to dress up as if they were going to war? Huge, triple-zipped,
reversible, hitech, hi-gear, double combo, waterproof
contraptions with deflector and radar systems. When you arrive
all you’ll want is to look less like a traveller and throw
away the velcromulti- pocketed combats in exchange for some
normal clothes. The mosquito-repellent beige shirt will not only
repel the mosquitoes, but everyone else around you. Avoid going
to any ‘Outdoors’ shops before setting off on your
travels – the salesmen will try to convince you to buy
mysterious items, such as ‘jungle boots’ or a
‘monkey sack’. Whether you’re mountain climbing or hacking through the
Amazon, travel light, and take something that will give you a
break form the monkey- boot nightmare. Bring a loosefitting dress
for going out; try one made out of crumpled material, so you can
scrunch it up. Men should take a tip from the Bollywood star
Imran Khan and wear some kind of Indian-Kaftan top and trousers
affair, billowing in the wind. Try the dark, incense-burning
Indian shop on the Cowley Road; it’s like stepping into a
foreign country or going back to the 1970s. And if you pop across
the road afterwards, to the Greek supermarket, it might be enough
to quench your thirst for travelling altogether. Get some ‘Thai pants’, although they appear at first
to be designed by an elephant for an elephant, once you’ve
learnt how to wrap them, you’ll discover the marvel of the
design and wear them all the time. Wear them with a boob tube and
avoid the colour grey – the ultimate sweat-patch
illuminator. Black is a good travelling colour; it’s a myth
that it makes you hotter. Whatever you do, don’t wear those
‘Rah rah’ reflective sunglasses, unless you’re
going skiing, where everyone wears them anyway. Particularly
avoid them if you are dressed all in white, it’s a bit
‘scuba-diving instructor’. From the low-life of backpacking to the high life, if
you’re planning on travelling in style, romping around
Paris, Rome and New York, then leave the rucksacks behind. You
certainly can’t be a Parisian while puffing around, looking
like a Gary Larson cartoon tourist. For the styleconscious
traveller, what you need is a large Long Champsbag, £30. So, the point is to travel light and get some Thai pants. Also
take a scarf to go over a t-shirt on a cold Glastonbury night,
while swaying to Belle and Sebastian. Fashion isn’t all
there is to life and travelling, but it has its place somewhere
in that Sloaney Long Champs bag, or screwed up at the bottom of
your dust-covered rucksack.ARCHIVE: 6th week TT 2004 

The piazza was crawling with women. I would have felt like a
kid in a candy store, had they not all been wearing habits. It
was a muted rainbow of black, white, blue and brown veils waving
in the wind, as the young women alternately giggled and cheered.
They reminded me of the teens in clips of the first Beatles
concerts, both in their giddiness and in the sense that they
properly belonged in some different era. But the man inspiring
their enthusiasm was not from Liverpool. He was the frail,
octogenarian leader of a billion Catholics. And his fans had come
not just to revel, but to repent as well, in a city which melds
reveling and repentance like few others. The Wednesday morning Papal audience is usually the high point
of a trip to Rome for the pilgrimtourist. But this week was
different. This was Settimana Santa – Holy Week, the
crescendo of the Christian calendar. Wednesday was only the
beginning of a string of church services at St Peter’s. It
was my fifth trip to Rome, so the wideeyed wonder that marks the
firsttime visitor had eased a bit. The list of must-see sites
that had governed my first visits – the Vatican museums, the
Piazza di Spagna, the Forum – gave way to the aimless
wandering through which Rome truly reveals herself. More than any other time of the year, Holy Week sees a mixing
of holiday and pilgrimage. Men and women in clerical garb make
their way through groups of university students on spring break,
camerawielding tourist packs, and Clark Griswold-esque families
following a tight program from the Trevi Fountain to Piazza dei
Populi. Yet in the face of this relentless movement, this city
conserves its secrets in shadows and quiet light. Nineteenth
Century pastel buildings crowd narrow streets, with angles that
even at the height of day frustrate the sun. The calmness is
never totally overcome. Whether holiday or pilgrimage, I can never come through Rome
without a visit to the Spanish steps. From the top of the steps,
one can see the dome of St Peter’s and the white marble
heights of the monument to Vittorio Emmanuele, the father of the
modern Italian state. After a moment reflecting on the skyline, I
stroll down to the Cappuccin Church, known for the macabre
display of centuries-old monastic bones in its crypt. In it,
skeletons in monastic robes stand watch over the inscription
‘What you are, we once were, and what we are, you too will
be’. The guitars are just out of earshot. Of Rome’s many layers, faith would seem to have been
squeezed by the tectonic shifts of politics and culture: the
former with the unification of Italy and the end of the Papal
States in 1870s, and the latter in an ongoing struggle between
tradition and progress. This means a richness, one that lives in
each step across the cobbled stones of Campo dei Fiori in the
southern part of the city centre, where I spend the late
afternoon. There is nothing reserved here – all is sound and
movement, swirling around the ancient figure of a hooded Giordano
Bruno, clutching a book in both hands. His head is bowed, toward
the Vatican, but in judgement rather than reverence. His
judgement is on the Vatican authorities who had him burned for
his theological ‘errors’ at a stake set in that very
place. Yet now it seems – with the Enlightenment perhaps
vindicating his obstinacy – he should be looking up and
gloating about history’s judgement. That such a statue
stands in Rome’s centre suggests the uneasy relationship
that remains between the city’s temporal and spiritual
leaders. I make my way south from the city centre, keeping my map in my
bag, wondering which of the city’s four hundred churches
will appear before me around the next curve. After a day of
wandering, following the Pope’s morning audience, I find
relief from the hordes across the river to the south, in the
Trastevere section of the city – so named for its location
across the Tiber River, or ‘Tevere’. In the Piazza di
Santa Maria in Trastevere, lights blink on to meet the twilight.
Tables spill out of restaurants along with smells that will
capture not just the stomach but the soul. The Piazza is alive
with a spirit very different from St Peter’s in the morning.
Replete with habits of a different sort, it is more of revelling
than repentance. Around the fountain at its centre, carefully
coiffed young Italian men summon their charms to woo
scarlet-haired goddesses. These women will catch your eye and
vanish like dreams so intoxicating it hurts to wake up. While this goes on, the Church of Santa Maria rises up in the
square’s southwest corner. Its face is darkened with age,
and with the thick blackness of modernity that hangs in the air.
The church is open late during Holy Week. Inside, in dark corners
defined by clusters of flickering flame, searching souls kneel
alone. Their moving lips suggest that on this night, in this
place, solitude may be more complicated than it first appears.
Curious passers–by wander in. Some step purposefully, as if
to assert themselves. For others, steps falter for fear of
violating something – some space from another time. One woman dressed for a night out makes her way up the aisle,
craning her neck at the carvings on the ceiling as if in a
museum. Then she slips into an empty pew. Light flickers on
golden mosaics, multiplying the force of the flame. She sits
quietly.ARCHIVE: 6th week TT 2004 

As Britain’s greatest fashion export, Paul Smith is
remarkably modest. “Frankly,” he says, “I’m
not exceptional at design. I’m medium.” This comes from
the man whose collection is sold in thirty-five countries and has
over 200 shops in Japan alone. It’s true his clothes do not
have the flamboyance of John Galliano’s couture creations,
nor are they reminiscent of the bizarre eccentricity associated
with Alexander McQueen’s collections, but the Paul Smith
stripe is instantly recognisable and his much-coveted bespoke
suits are famous for their superb tailoring and idiosyncratic
detail. When you consider he works in an industry known for its excess
of pretentious luvvies and supercilious fashion junkies,
ego-maniacal designers and snobby editors, his down-to-earth
nature is surprising. He seems very relaxed and is happy to
answer my barrage of questions. I wonder if his friendly manner
is a result of his accidental entry into fashion. “I wanted
to be a professional racing cyclist, but truthfully I don’t
think I would ever have got there. After I crashed with a car I
discovered this pub where all the arty students in Nottingham
went. It changed my world.” Mixing with photographers,
graphic designers and painters inspired the young Paul Smith to
realise his creative potential. With the help of his girlfriend
Pauline, who is now his wife, and some savings, Paul Smith opened
a tiny shop in 1970 and officially entered the world of fashion.
Remarkably, only six years later he went on to show his first
Paul Smith menswear collection in Paris. Today there are twelve
different collections including a range of furniture. Despite running a huge empire, Paul Smith has clearly kept his
two feet firmly on the ground. “I have never taken fashion
too seriously. It’s important because the industry creates
jobs, pays mortgages and keeps families going.” Of course,
he is only too aware of the power of fashion, “Design
affects people in different ways: some feel sexy; some feel
slimmer; some handsome. A pilot without his uniform loses his
authority, you wouldn’t be too happy if he was dressed as a
punk. In the same way a man in army uniform looks and feels
tough. The way we dress reveals something about ourselves and can
help project an image.” And with his flair for colour and
sense of style, Paul Smith helps his customers to project that
image, whatever it may be. He stresses the importance of mixing a good business sense
with design. “It’s not good enough to be a great
designer, you have to have a head for business too. Why should a
designer know what VAT is; I thought it was a vodka and
tonic!” I think he’s winding me up, but he has a point.
“Fashion is only a small part of what I do. For me the more
important aspect is continuity in business. Keeping up the Paul
Smith quality year after year. It’s quite easy to become
famous, but it’s hard to maintain your fame and
reputation.” His world-wide success hasn’t made him
complacent. “I think I’ve been lucky with life. But I
do believe you get out what you put in: Japan was not luck; it
took eighty trips.” This man’s energy clearly has no
limits. “In fashion, it’s only about today and
tomorrow. Someone can overtake you in the fast lane if
you’re not careful. You have to keep moving to stay
ahead.” He stresses the importance of looking hard to create
something fresh, original and genuine but is keen to point out
that this rule applies to all businesses, not just fashion.
“Everything is so formulaic right now. Frankly, I don’t
think there’s much difference between the Pradas and the
Guccis and the Starbucks and the Coffee Republics. Everybody is
imitating everybody else.” Copying is apparently “the
disease” plaguing society. I ask for his solution to this modern malaise. His answer is
“individuality”. He firmly believes “you can find
inspiration in everything; if you can’t then you’re not
looking hard enough.” In fact this mantra is the title of
his autobiography, which he published last year. He’s been
inspired by cushions in Zambia, textures in Guatemala, the
colours of buildings in Lithuania and banners in China. Frequent
travel combined with photographs in books and magazines provides
an endless source of inspiration “but I could be inspired in
Birmingham if I had to be.” He admits that making money is
also an inspiration for his designs. “I like to make things
that are different, but that will sell and make money too. I try
to strike a balance between attention grabbing and classical
designs. It’s like life itself, you have to get the balance
right.” While the rest of the fashion pack are creating what he
disparaging refers to as “cookie-cutter fashion” Paul
Smith now does hand tailoring “so that every suit has its
own quirky imperfections”. And therein lies his formula for
success. His collections fuse a sense of tradition with mischief
and humour that somehow appeals to both the British as well as
the Japanese buyer. Over thirty years after opening his first (tiny) shop there,
the doyen of design is returning to his native Nottingham roots
with a Paul Smith boutique due to be opened this Autumn. Similar
in concept to his Notting Hill store, which is actually a house
divided into rooms showcasing accessories and antiques as well as
collections, the Nottingham shop “is a listed building,
built in 1736, I think. We’re opening the ground and first
floors.” Rumours abound of an underground grotto, but Paul
Smith says nothing to confirm or dispel the latest speculation.
Given that each shop is individual and unique – he even sold
Dyson vacuum cleaners in one store – grotto or not, the
Nottingham store won’t disappoint. I wonder how he sees the future of Paul Smith, the company. He
laughs. “My stepson was involved for twenty years and was in
line to takeover, but now he’s decided to be an actor. I
have a excellent management team all in place, the only weak spot
is me.” Or, perhaps more accurately, the lack of him. He has
no plans to take on a big designer, “I want someone with my
signature to carry on the Paul Smith name in the right direction.
Established names would want to promote their own visualisations;
it would no longer be Paul Smith. I have two great design
assistants, but if I’m not around, the ideas always take on
another form and become a completely different animal.” Truthfully, I can’t imagine this energetic man handing
the reins over too soon. “I know I should slow down and stop
working. I think I’ll ease out slowly. Maybe, I’ll work
a four-day week.”ARCHIVE: 6th week TT 2004 

Everyone talks about how wonderful Pimm’s and punting are
– you practically hear nothing else during Michaelmas and
Hilary, and when Trinity comes round, everyone is too busy
Pimmsing and punting to talk about how wonderful they are. You
may, however, be a novice in this most Oxonian of areas, thus
hereafter are basic instructions on how to dip your toes into the
water (or not, rather). The perfect pint of Pimm’s: the secret is to use much
more Pimm’s than you might have been told to – if you
use the recommended ratio, you will end up with something which
tastes like orangeade. The perfect ratio is one-third Pimm’s
to two-thirds lemonade. If you have ever seen a well-made jug of
Pimm’s, you’ll know that plenty of fruit is required;
if you are going to do it properly, you need lemon and cucumber
slices, strawberries, and mint leaves. As well as looking pretty
and like it may be vaguely healthy (five portions a day,
anyone?), the fruit segments will end up saturated with
Pimm’s and will wait for you at the bottom of your glass. Punting technique: a punt pole is technically called a quant.
First, get the punt, the pole, the paddle, some mats and a river.
This may sound obvious, but this is an elementary guide. To move
forwards, lower the quant into the water on the left-hand side of
the punt (if right-handed), wait for it to touch the bottom and
walk your hands down it; try to keep the quant parallel with the
side of the punt. Other methods are possible –
experimentation is part of the fun, so go wild. Once your hands
are at the top of the quant, pull it out and repeat. You steer by
pulling the quant through the water behind the punt. Enjoy!ARCHIVE: 6th week TT 2004 

In the summer of 2003, a group of five first-year students
from Somerville travelled to Ghana in West Africa. They had
planned to meet up with the 6,000 books they’d shipped over
from England and set up a fully-functioning children’s
library. If only life were that simple. To start at the beginning, the impetus and leading driving
force behind the plan for the library was cheery oxford socialite
Hattie Begg. She had previously spent four months of her Gap
year, way back in ’02, volunteering in a Ghanaian hospital
in the former British colonial capital, Cape Coast. During this
time she developed a great relationship with her jovial Ghanaian
host, Molly Yankey, whom the library was eventually named after.
In order to try to address Ghana’s chronic literacy problems
at the most local level, Molly encouraged Hattie to return with
some enthusiastic friends to set up a local reading resource
centre for the hundreds of children willing to learn but without
any real opportunity to do so. On a cold and wet English April day the draw of scorching hot
African sun certainly appealed. And hey, the charity bit sounded
well worth a whirl. So as a team we went to work that Summer like
very active squirrels desperately collecting acorns for an
extremely harsh winter. We organised the bar at the Somerville
garden party, put on charity golf tournaments and raffles, and
generally sold ourselves to fund raise money for the materials we
would need out there. With our travelwash, sun lotion and mozzie nets packed we were
ready to set off. We were gonna rock over to Africa and wack up a
library in just under a month. If we finished early maybe we
could get in a bit of beach time as well. No, actually. The
sailing was rarely plain and we faced often very demoralising
challenges every step of the way. From the outset, the expedition
got off to a disastrous start. Cancelled Ghana Airways flights
saw us grimly disillusioned whilst we camped out at a sweltering
Heathrow Airport for three whole days amongst sprawling queues of
volatile travellers, who were rapidly losing their sense of
humour at the situation. Being a group of girls, at this point
floods of tears often seemed our best option to appeal to the
good nature of the airport staff. Ghana, let alone the library,
seemed a very long way away at that point. Upon finally reaching our destination we eagerly anticipated
our first glimpse of the building that would house our library in
Abura, Cape Coast. On arrival at the location we were met with
the stark sight of solitary raw breeze blocks which encased a
floor of mountainous sand and rock, over which the odd darting
lizard scurried furtively for shelter. A month away from the opening date and the vast amount of work
required was sharply brought home to us. We were going to have to
get very busy and make a lot of contacts if we were to achieve
our objectives in such a short space of time. This became
particularly clear when we learned, with horror, that our 6,000
books (donated by the kind British public) intended for the
library were trapped in the mindboggling swirl of Ghanaian
shipping bureaucracy and top level corruptive forces. Getting our books released from the port would prove to be a
longer-term goal; in the mean time we concerned ourselves with
the here and now i.e. getting a mere shell of a room into a
groovy-looking book haven full of child-sized furniture and
horrendous clashes of bright colours. Long, hard days were spent
purchasing materials, digging, painting, tiling, eating goat etc
and keeping our Ghanaian builders motivated. If only British
builders were as receptive to gifts of bread, biscuits and
pineapples. As the work progressed, more and more of the local
children came and watched us work, often gaining a dubious
education from Glamour, Heat and Rugby World magazine, and the
assorted hits of Christina Aguilera and Disney’s Aladdin. However, it was difficult to get across the actual purpose of
the library given that its essence, the books, were still nowhere
to be seen. We were beginning to get a little panicky about this
as time slipped away from us. Eventually after numerous trips to
the shipping port of Tema, six hours from where we were based, we
decided to enlist the help of TPA (Teaching Projects Abroad)
which run several charitable projects in the area. Their
political muscle as an NGO and registered charity provided our
negotiations with new weight and this, combined with a briefcase
packed full of unmarked US dollars, eventually saw the books on
their way to the newly christened ‘Molly’s
Library’. After a month of extensive renovation work, we were ready to
open the library to the public, and promoted it on a number of
primetime TV and radio shows. Given that the project, in many
ways, was very much like BBC’s flagship interior decoration
show, Changing Rooms, we felt just like a frantic Lawrence
Llewelyn-Bowen prior to the big launch, and hoped the children
would appreciate our somewhat wild use of colour. However, these
worries were put aside. The lavish opening ceremony in front of
the local community, the village chiefs and the Ghanaian media
went fantastically well and it was very rewarding to see such
genuine enthusiasm and excitement for what had been achieved. One year later, the long-term future looks bright for the
library. This summer, four more students from Oxford are making
the trip to West Africa to continue the project. They are
planning to establish the second stage of the library, a much
needed, fully stocked reading room for college and university age
Ghanaians. We very much hope that this will be another small step
towards the provision of education that will one day open doors
for Ghana. If you have any books you would like to donate,
particularly textbooks and reference works, please get in touch
and we’ll happily take them off your hands. E-mail Maeve
Gill at Somerville College. ARCHIVE: 6th week TT 2004 

"So, do you have any exams?”Almost every day for the
past few weeks I have been confronted with this question, and the
response is always the same. “No,” I answer sheepishly,
and then proceed to give a lengthy speech explaining that even
though I’m American and only here on a one-year programme as
a visiting student and have no exams, I really am working; this
year really counts for something; I need to make sure I do
well… Chances are that at some point you’ve run across someone
like me. At times it seems that Oxford is practically infested
with us. For American university students, spending part of their
education abroad is becoming more and more common – as
popular as gap years are in England. And, Oxford is certainly an
attractive location: the rigour of the academic system, the
opportunity to work in small tutorials (quite a different
scenario from the crowded lecture halls of many American
universities), the challenge of adapting to a surprisingly
different culture, the chance to view our own country from a new
and often critical perspective, and quite simply the opportunity
to study at one of the world’s greatest universities manage
to attracts us Yanks in droves. Now that my year abroad is
drawing to a close, I realise that while all of the above reasons
factored in my decision to come here, they were not my genuine
motive. During the past few years, I have noticed that the pace of
life has been accelerating at an alarming rate. Looking back on
my first days of university orientation, I remember how
incredibly long that blissful week felt. New faces, new
opportunities – it felt like life was just beginning. It
didn’t take long for me to sink into the routine –
essays, projects, part-time jobs, summer vacations that slipped
away before I could even fully appreciate them. As much as I
detest clichés, I cannot help but asking, “Where has the
time gone?” I came to Oxford looking for newness. By immersing myself in a
completely different environment, I hoped to slow time down. And
I often think that this feeling of restlessness, this anxious
desire to halt time’s passing, plays a part in many foreign
students’ decision to study here. Is this a form of
escapism? I cannot deny it. However, like all attempts at escape,
the relief is only temporary. Time moves quite strangely in Oxford. I think most of us can
agree that Trinity is considerably shorter than Michaelmas. And
yet, I feel that somehow, I’ve succeeded in slowing time
down. America’s national obsession with success leads to a
yearning for achievement that sometimes eclipses the thirst for
knowledge; finishing with high grades is more important than
actually enjoying your subject. While all the Oxford students
whom I’ve met genuinely strive to work hard and do well,
they seem to keep life in better perspective. They play hard and
work hard. This year has given me the chance – for the first time in
a long while – to learn my subject for its own sake.
However, while I could tell you all about the influence of
Calvinism on the poetry of John Donne or Wordsworth’s
concept of empathy, these are not the most important things that
Oxford has taught me. I’ve learned that the best time to
walk though the streets of Oxford is Sunday night, when all of
the bells are resounding at once. I’ve learned that after
procrastinating for three hours and finally completing an essay
at 1am, kebabs are the best food anyone could ask for. Despite my weakness for sentimentality, the simple fact is
that soon my fellow exchange students and I will be leaving.
Admittedly, in some ways this year has felt like an extended
vacation, albeit a very work-intensive one. For finalists this is
certainly not the case. However, to a certain extent all
university students are indulging in escapism to a degree. No
matter how hard we work, we are still fleeing from the reality
that soon the situation is going to change. “Enjoy
university,” a former teacher once advised me,“because
once you get out, it’s all nine to five.” But I would rather not view life in that way. I want to
believe that there will always be chances for adventure, always
something new to learn. Saving money to travel, taking up a new
hobby in one’s forties, going back for further education
– all of these could be dubbed “escapism” to a
degree. And yet, these are things that make life fulfilling. Call
me a hedonist, but I’ve come to believe that life is
something to be enjoyed. And, in moderation, a little escapism
does no harm at all.ARCHIVE: 6th week TT 2004