Banging spoons

I have been spending a very pleasant couple of days in the nineteenth century. That's what it's felt like, anyhow; it's mostly to do with the fact the Politics department have decided I don't need a fourth tute on Theory, and we can have a reading week with class on Friday. This is joyful, because it means I can do my Macro ahead of time, and have a crack at Data Analysis before going down from Oxford at the weekend, having had Thursday to Saturday off. I'm planning to take the whole of next week off before getting back to work at home, but that's all in the future. This is all a long-winded explanation for why I jumped at the chance, yesterday afternoon, to go down Christ Church Meadow for Torpids. Claire is in Leeds, having a lovely time by all accounts, so Pat and I left college late in the afternoon to be met by an absolutely beautiful day. Freezing, icy cold of course, and I had adopted the always-amusing idea of wearing tights under jeans, but wonderfully sunny too, and it made much more sense to give up on Macro and go for a walk through the meadow.

Of course, it wasn't exactly peaceful, what with every single college screaming themselves hoarse on the riverbank, and because the weather was so nice everyone was out on the towpath eating scones and waving very big flags. Pat and I embarrassed ourselves momentarily by failing to spot our own college colours, but there was enough screaming from the Balliol boathouse when the boats zoomed by for no-one to notice. They - the boats, that is - are such fun to watch, because it looks so effortless. I know it's not, due to two terms of rowers getting up at six am most days, but it really looks impressive. The sunshine and still water helped make it absolutely idyllic, sitting by the water's edge cheering with lazy enthusiasm and eating the scones, which were homemade and very good. I remember walking down by the Isis - it's actually the Thames, but it's called the Isis when it's in Oxford - when I was very young, with my parents, and I hadn't been back since, as it's always the Cherwell I find my way to when I go wandering. I'm told that Balliol doesn't usually do very well in Torpids, but both crews bumped without anyone seeing, way down the river away from the spectators, and drifted triumphantly into the jetty only to get pushed off it by New. The crew eventually emerged stage right carrying their boat and shrieking with joy. It was very much fun, and we came back via St Aldates dodging tourists in time for hot chocolate. Hot chocolate and messing about on the river - hence, the nineteenth century, and oh, my, my life is so rock 'n' roll.

Speaking of tourists and my life being rock 'n' roll, there is a muted sense of summer about the place. The bright sunshine and the hordes of Japanese and American tourists give rise to this impression, although it may just be because I spent much of last week in the Bodleian. It was World Book Day on March 2nd, and I was shocked to realise I'd almost missed it, consdering I spent two years of my life as a bookshop employee and a sixth form librarian. (Any of you lovely people who's been with me a while may remember last year and the year before.) But I would have bypassed it altogether had I not spotted a small sign in the Divinity School on my way out (I've never seen the place the same way since Goblet of Fire). Apparently in honour of WBD, the Bod had decided to take Shakespeare's first folio out of the vaults, and at eleven am, there was no-one there, so I tiptoed in to see. The pages I could see through the glass were yellow and very battered, but perfectly readable and open on Sonnet 116, the one that begins "Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments", and my favourite of them all. So I stood there for ten minutes and read it to myself, and no-one else came in at all. It wasn't very well publicised, or maybe there were hordes of people hiding themselves under the pews. I really don't know.

Other than that, my life has been mainly Macro, and the encroaching feeling that the end of term is coming. Unlike this time in Michaelmas, I don't feel so exhausted and desperate to get away from here as I did. I'm looking forward to going home, but a little sorry I'm going, and looking forward to being back in the summer. The general themes of convesersation are turning to Trinity and the very disparate joys of prelims and punting, and all the wonderful things we shall have to do when the nice weather is finally here. But right now, there is a week to go and you can feel it in the air. The plan for this week involves a lot of gin and chocolate and having breakfast at least twice, most days. I'm going to weigh twenty stone by the end.

Tonight, I think I'm going to see Balliol college choir singing Bach's St John Passion. Because of the choir singing, the Master dined with the undergraduates for the first time in many years, and according to tradition, the entire hall banged their spoons on the tables for five minutes solid before he said grace. I think I may be slightly deaf. I'm going to listen to the choir regardless.

(Before I go: I'm uncomfortably aware that for the last few weeks, I've been talking pretty much exclusively and rather uninterestingly about my life, and I don't know if people would rather I posted about fannish things. I can only say that this is due a change, as Doctor Who will be back on telly pretty soon, and I'm sure I shall start rambling about remixredux pretty soon as well. Just a thought.)