modern history and politics

A quiet moment, 1.10am. jacinthsong says, reasonably, "There are worse ways to die than under a pile of your girlfriend's clothes."

From under a blue scarf, a red shawl, a Janpath wraparound, a couple of slogan t-shirts, pink skirt, a pair of jeans and one of his own jumpers, shimgray emerges with an expression that is equal parts resignation and doe-eyed petulance.

There is a long thoughtful pause.

Then, "There are better ways. Many of them begin 'At the age of a hundred and seventy-four...'"

I tell this story merely as evidence that we are all quite sane here, thank you, and are in no danger of falling into Finals-related madnesses. The natural question to ask is why exactly piling my clothes on him seemed like such a good idea: the answer is the fact he mentioned, possibly without even noticing, that it is no longer April. It's May. May. Ye gods. I try not to think about this too hard, because, let's face it, I am panicking now. I don't know enough, I haven't read enough. I know nothing about South Asia at all. Yeah. Moving very swiftly on from that. It is possibly not a capital crime to mention that it is a certain month, when it is indeed that particular month; but as has been noted, we are all sane here and are not overreacting in comically extravagant fashion to non-existent transgressions. And are also not planting garlic bulbs and naming them after types of quark. Or laughing ourselves into quasi-hysteria at penis jokes. Or anything. Yeah.

Approximately four hours after this incident, the sunrise was visible over the spires of Magdalen and the choir were singing the Hymnus Eucharisticus to greet the dawn. I wasn't there, alas; I really did want to, this being my last May Morning in Oxford, but I couldn't afford to wipe out the day, as I probably would if I stayed up till five thirty. I was in bed asleep and having the sort of dream that involves gunshots and machetes. (I think I may be stressed. Who'd have thought.)

But when I did get up, there was an old tradition to be engaged in, nevertheless. As well as being May Morning, today is Ascension Day. Accordingly, shimgray and I went to the University Church bright and early - nine o'clock! the city was emptying again by then, with the odd Morris dancer still jingling about - for the beating of the bounds. I don't actually live in St. Mary's parish - I live in Holywell - but this seemed entirely irrelevant to proceedings. The church was filled with a whole bunch of people - emily_shore had mustered the troops, and there were tutors and children and families and the New College School choir, that is, eighteen cheerful small boys - who were very keen to participate in tradition. It's a moderately old tradition - estimates seem to vary between five and six hundred years of its being done - that involves walking the bounds of the parish, literally "beating" them with bamboo sticks, and chalking the marker stones with the letters to signify St. Mary's. (Apparently, originally, the boys were beaten too. We refrained.)

It reminded me a lot of primary school, actually. Lots of people walking in awkward double-file, draughty churches, hesitant hymn-singing. And it had that same religious irrelevancy; certainly, when I was at school, no one had any compunction about dragging a small Hindu immigrant child to Easter and carol services, and I think my education was probably the better for it. (I go out of my way to go to Balliol carol services; they're beautiful. I digress.) Religion aside, the actual beating of the bounds was fun. We attracted attention from passers-by, from tourists, from the workman on the Bodleian - understandably so, given we were a motley crew of robed vicars, scruffy adults and a pack of small children all apparently taking great pleasure in hitting buildings with sticks. One highlight was undoubtedly All Souls - I'd never even been in there before - where I, personally, hit the Codrington Library with a stick, and the Warden and Fellows gave us tea, coffee and cherry cake. (Cherry, because the land the college bought from the parish for its own buildings originally had a cherry orchard on it.) It was remarkably civilised and unexpected before ten o'clock in the morning.

Following which, we went to Univ, where the mark to be beaten was being obscured by buildings work (as had the Bodleian's; nothing daunted, the vicar had the small boys hit the scaffolding). This proved a minimal disppointment, as we were allowed, possibly for the first and only time, on the grass in the front quad of an Oxford college. And had pennies and sweets thrown at us from the upper windows of the quad, which led to mirth, undignified scrambling and shimgray stealing sweets from small children. (Which he denies, unconvincingly.)

And, finally, Oriel, where the vicar who'd been leading the tour around the city offered some brief words of instruction. (And ice-cream! osymandias, footnoteplato and I were far too happy about this.) Oriel is the original college of St. Mary - Oriel is just a nickname, which I did know - and New College is the new college of St. Mary. The new college, he referred to it as. New College was founded in 1379. He also referred to his "predecessor" as rector - in the fourteenth century. Oh, Oxford, I do love you.

And that would have been that for my very exciting morning, were it not for one remaining detail. I don't often have to think very hard about parish boundaries, it must be said; I think when pressed I could tell you I live in Holywell and leave it at that. But as well as today's being Ascension Day and May Morning, it's election day as well. As well as a parish, I live in a ward. I took my polling card, wandered down Longwall to Magdalen in the beautiful sunshine, and I voted.

This is only the third election I've ever voted in - I voted in the last set of local council elections, I voted in my first general election aged eighteen years and three months, and I'm yet to vote in a European election - but... yeah, I have a minor thrill pretty much every time. Your opinion matters. Isn't that an extraordinary thought? This country has a functioning democracy. Of course it's flawed. First-past-the-post is grossly distorting; we don't do well with the separation of powers; parliamentary sovereignty does lead to a tyranny of the majority; some might argue that one day's enfranchisement every few years isn't enough. But we don't have punch-ups or pregnant chads or illiberalism or fear. We have quiet polling stations with three people in them, we have people deciding whom to vote for on the grounds of their policies concerning that really annoying bus-stop on the High Street. After so many years living here, I am beginning to suspect I rather like England. In its quiet way, its socialised healthcare and state-funded higher education, it's been good to me.

And as I write this, it has begun to rain. Ah, yes. Back to work, alas.