The ache to remember and be remembered is one of the most important things that makes humankind human, and this hasn’t changed across the sweeping expanse of time.
Experiencing Trinifree with a proper “Trinittude” (Trinifree-attitude) means the chance to do things I would have considered unfathomable during the past two terms, like take a nap in the afternoon or resolve to never pull an all-nighter in order to finish an essay.
We don't just owe the survival of our culture to women, but our very own survival. Every homemade meal, tender embrace, wiped tear, wrapped gift, handwritten card, wise word of advice, and lullaby has raised and nourished us.
Over 150 hours of my Easter vac were spent inside the sturdy walls of one of His Majesty’s most secure men’s prisons – though fortunately I was able to go home at the end of the day.
This kind of advice doesn’t just set unrealistic expectations, but actively discourages real communication. Instead of having a conversation with our partners, we are encouraged to analyse, dissect, interpret, and ultimately to assume the worst.
Places are formed from memories etched into streets, from ghosts which dwell in between moments. They’re shaped by the dreams and aspirations which have been poured into quiet, hidden hollows, like that shop in Paris.
All tours are fundamentally flawed. Though they might be detailed and student-focused, they are utterly incapable of expressing what it is like to love Oxford.
This winter, social media encourages us to embark on the journey of the "winter arc": a self-optimisation quest which leaves little room for hibernation.