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An hour ago, I was sitting here, writing a journal entry, my first in a long while, and I was thinking about it very slowly, how to explain why I haven't been here, although I have, and why I haven't been able to speak. But that's a story for another time. An hour ago, Claire came running into my room, wearing coat and boots dripping water, and said, "Iona, it's snowing, it's snowing."
I jumped up and followed her out, and then I ran back in and said I need a coat, I need a hat, and we ran into the kitchen and then she said I need shoes, not slippers, and we ran into each other and into Ben and then outside onto the Master's Field. It's huge and spreading and white. Outside on Jowett, each of the lampposts was illuminating falling glitter. There were people drunkenly stumbling into it the thick layer of white, and people waking up dazed and wide-eyed and emerging to throw ungainly snowballs.
"It must be beautiful on Broad Street," I said wistfully, and so we went. We walked down Holywell and past the rows of bikes all frosted in white, and then Claire made the suggestion: we should go up Forder's tower. So we ran down the middle of the road, avoiding the people stumbling through the snow to Hassan's, and clambered through the main door into college. (With the help of Claire's friend Biology James, who wanted to come with us to take pictures.) In the front quad the snow was untouched - every leaf and every gargoyle pristinely frosted - and the porter only smiled indulgently when we ran past, down onto the snow-covered gravel and up into the tower. Many, many flights of stairs later, we emerged on the top of the tower to see all the roofs of all the colleges covered in snow, Christ Church looking softer than usual in the streetlights, the whole sweep of the city made darkly wonderful at three am. And then, the angular, joyous jerking of someone dancing through the snow.
"Who dances like that?" James asked.
"Ben!" Claire and I yelled at the same time, and went running down to meet him. He came with us through into the back quad, which was ghostly, the snow reflecting off itself and the lamps and lighting everything from below. It was thick and untouched there too, and we walked round the trees and dying flowers and yelled to people we didn't know to come down and play.
It had stopped when we were climbing up to the top of the tower, but when I left college the flakes had started to fall again, bigger this time and making thick drifts at the edges of the roads. Round by the side of the Radcliffe Camera, I asked, "Do you suppose the dons of All Souls are playing very quietly behind the walls?"
We had a look through the gates, but we didn't see them. I guess we didn't look hard enough. Round by the High Street and then on New College Lane, everything was narrow and Narniaesque, the lamps lighting up the people snowball fighting. By the Bodleian, I was thinking about a picture I was looking at yesterday, which shows me and Claire and a few others, wearing sub fusc and red carnations, holding balloons and laughing beneath the bright blue sky. It's a beautiful picture. Tonight under the streetlights and the falling snow, we walked down the same route, the same place Ben took the picture, and it was beautiful again, dark and like ice but visually, viscerally stunning.
I reminded Ben of the picture and he laughed, and said, "I like snow, but I'm hyper-aware of the holes in my shoes."
We walked home through a snowball fight on Longwall and Holywell, and watched a poor unfortunate get a glorious handful of snow down his (drunken) neck. He didn't react for about ten seconds, at which point he said mildly, "Oh, now I'm cold", and flumped gracefully onto the road.
Back on Jowett, the snow had entirely filled in our footprints, and there were small crunching sounds of snow packing as my boots compressed it again. The porters waved, as they do, but just as we were getting in, New's bells started to chime three and underlined the note of the surreal. I said goodnight to Claire, went inside, hung up my jeans and watched in bemusement as packed ice thudded into the carpet.
It's now stopped snowing, but the thick layer of white is still evident outside the window, and it looks very much like it's going to stick. Three days ago, I turned twenty. Tomorrow, Claire and I are going out on the field to build a snowman.
I jumped up and followed her out, and then I ran back in and said I need a coat, I need a hat, and we ran into the kitchen and then she said I need shoes, not slippers, and we ran into each other and into Ben and then outside onto the Master's Field. It's huge and spreading and white. Outside on Jowett, each of the lampposts was illuminating falling glitter. There were people drunkenly stumbling into it the thick layer of white, and people waking up dazed and wide-eyed and emerging to throw ungainly snowballs.
"It must be beautiful on Broad Street," I said wistfully, and so we went. We walked down Holywell and past the rows of bikes all frosted in white, and then Claire made the suggestion: we should go up Forder's tower. So we ran down the middle of the road, avoiding the people stumbling through the snow to Hassan's, and clambered through the main door into college. (With the help of Claire's friend Biology James, who wanted to come with us to take pictures.) In the front quad the snow was untouched - every leaf and every gargoyle pristinely frosted - and the porter only smiled indulgently when we ran past, down onto the snow-covered gravel and up into the tower. Many, many flights of stairs later, we emerged on the top of the tower to see all the roofs of all the colleges covered in snow, Christ Church looking softer than usual in the streetlights, the whole sweep of the city made darkly wonderful at three am. And then, the angular, joyous jerking of someone dancing through the snow.
"Who dances like that?" James asked.
"Ben!" Claire and I yelled at the same time, and went running down to meet him. He came with us through into the back quad, which was ghostly, the snow reflecting off itself and the lamps and lighting everything from below. It was thick and untouched there too, and we walked round the trees and dying flowers and yelled to people we didn't know to come down and play.
It had stopped when we were climbing up to the top of the tower, but when I left college the flakes had started to fall again, bigger this time and making thick drifts at the edges of the roads. Round by the side of the Radcliffe Camera, I asked, "Do you suppose the dons of All Souls are playing very quietly behind the walls?"
We had a look through the gates, but we didn't see them. I guess we didn't look hard enough. Round by the High Street and then on New College Lane, everything was narrow and Narniaesque, the lamps lighting up the people snowball fighting. By the Bodleian, I was thinking about a picture I was looking at yesterday, which shows me and Claire and a few others, wearing sub fusc and red carnations, holding balloons and laughing beneath the bright blue sky. It's a beautiful picture. Tonight under the streetlights and the falling snow, we walked down the same route, the same place Ben took the picture, and it was beautiful again, dark and like ice but visually, viscerally stunning.
I reminded Ben of the picture and he laughed, and said, "I like snow, but I'm hyper-aware of the holes in my shoes."
We walked home through a snowball fight on Longwall and Holywell, and watched a poor unfortunate get a glorious handful of snow down his (drunken) neck. He didn't react for about ten seconds, at which point he said mildly, "Oh, now I'm cold", and flumped gracefully onto the road.
Back on Jowett, the snow had entirely filled in our footprints, and there were small crunching sounds of snow packing as my boots compressed it again. The porters waved, as they do, but just as we were getting in, New's bells started to chime three and underlined the note of the surreal. I said goodnight to Claire, went inside, hung up my jeans and watched in bemusement as packed ice thudded into the carpet.
It's now stopped snowing, but the thick layer of white is still evident outside the window, and it looks very much like it's going to stick. Three days ago, I turned twenty. Tomorrow, Claire and I are going out on the field to build a snowman.
