Kicking myself

So now comes that blog moment where I decide what to divulge. As much as I can appreciate my own total honesty at a later date, there are certain readers that I am loathe to... ahem... upset. Take that as you will. But for the sake of my own integrity, I have been trying to keep this a little tamer/PG than onemoreyear. Out the window then, go, fly! This will be honest, because I am angry with myself, and nothing is better than a little honesty.

So. Hmmm. I could talk about Friday, but really, after practice nearly killed me I came home and slept, Friday was spent deep in academics with little to show for it, and Friday night was more-or-less disappointing on many fronts, but still decent, nothing to report. The best to come out of it was some pleasant conversation, and that is usually the best thing anyways. AH, old Death Cab, nice. Anyways, back on track, Saturday was spent, slightly more successfully, in the library.

Saturday night. Well, let me first say that I may have finally tracked down that elusive male friend, all it takes is a complex coincidence of systems, as Noel might say, a complex ven-diagrammatic moment in space and time where circumstances slot into the centre once in a hundred times. Sweet.

So yes, yes yes yes, Saturday night. Last night. Today, with delicious Sunday Roast in my tummy and rain falling outside, its hard to believe that it was so warm yesterday night that we abandoned our sweaters soon after we set out. Bop-hopping for the evening. The kicking part comes later, much later, after our third attempt ended in crowds and a vengeful bartender, leading to what must have been the fastest, strongest drink ever. That was the tipping one, from pleasant to out of control. Terrible. See me shaking my virtual fist in his general direction. Out over the spires and winding waterways, somewhere in the heart of that old college, behind stones and closed dark wooden doors, he will sense this, and lift his head, and perhaps next time not be so silly. A girl can dream.

So my doppelganger invited us to a fourth, and we traipsed the short distance. I had my phone in my pocket, rather than in Nil's bag, and this was the first mistake of the night, a sign that I should have known that trouble was brewing. Down down into the dungeon, we blinked, looked around, no phone. Suddenly she hugs him, out of nowhere, and it is Found, back into her purse. And here I am fuzzy, but the reconstruction is the following: eyes, dancing, kissing. Intellectually I know that they would not have let me do anything stupid (read: let me kiss someone unattractive), but in the moment I was convinced that this was a bad idea, and decided that it was time to go. I can get strange ideas when I am drinking. This was the second mistake I made, proximate to the third which was not getting his name or phone number. Actually, I am sure I did get his name, but it has escaped me. Hopefully he knows mine. Not that it would help. Sigh. Fourth Mistake was not staying with my doppelganger when she arrived, she is lovely and I would have liked to stay. Sigh indeed. After dropping the offending telephone several more times in the courtyard, we wound our way to sweet sweet kebab van goodness, then home far too early.

Ben Harper, Elliott Smith, it is this kind of day so far. Sad songs. Sad day. I am lonely, for the first time here, missing that closeness of someone who I can just let it all go with. I miss Jordan, miss Anj, miss those people who know me so well, that I can forgo the thin veneer of these Oxford instances, the one that keeps good me on, all the time. It hasn't been very difficult, until now, the first time I have felt an absence like this. Wistful, lonely, tired, so so tired. I miss not watching my words, never holding my tongue, saying exactly what I think. I miss close friends that you can only make over years. But mostly I miss hugging someone for real, when I don't have to worry about letting go, or holding too long. Right now I would do anything for a long, heavy hug. And now I have to lift up again, put it all back together, and go back out there.

Birthday, round two

So last night I celebrated my birthday, again. The story goes: a teammate of mine organized a team social based on the premise that since she had celebrated her birthday in the summer, she should celebrate again with everyone here in Oxford. As if we needed an excuse to go out... then my registration came through, and it just so happened that we had the same birthday, so my name was added to the list, along with another team member who was a few days off. In true birthday fashion it was an awesome, debaucherous and wandering home at 2:30am kind of night.

Having managed a slight recap and damage control with my partners in crime, and sitting here contemplating my sore back (how it got sore is beyond me) and the possibility of me actually keeling over dead during practice, or worse, during scrimmage, it all seems very far away.

We began close to home, ventured up the road to the local version of Cafe Campus (for the McGilligans in the crowd, you would walk in and know what I mean... Jordan I will show you when you come visit!) and I received the student equivalent of being wined and dined - shooters and dirty dancing. And one glorious hour poured over into the next, we gladly supplied the gossip column with ample fodder. After the madness died down (or rather, once two of the involved parties took themselves home), things returned to business as usual. Danced the night away, and ran into some of the (gentle)men that I had met on Tuesday night... determined that the potentially 'cute and shy' one was actually 'cute and sullen' or worse, perhaps 'cute and mean'.

And walked home at 2:30, after the lights glared us from the club, having abandoned my sweater to my English doppelganger, and escorted home by someone whose name I had never discovered. A few things stand out in my mind. I heart the hockey girls, Red Bull is more effective than I appreciate, and most of all, tequila leads to debauchery.

New place, new person

So it occurs to me, as I drifted home with the wind at my back, what this strange new world was turning me into. He asked me what I'd done, I smiled, embarrassed to be flaunting it in plain sight, hockey injury. She says 'crazy person injury' and laughs, and I laugh, knowing she is right. He asked yesterday if I slept, I replied 'sometimes', and even if that isn't true right now, it is becoming moreso every day.

Between it all, and last night, I am someone else here, similar but different, somehow the socialite of the group despite best efforts to avoid it. And actuely aware that this hat isn't fitting quite right around the ears. I am not so charming, so appealing, so is this a comparitive thing? Does the hat merely fit me best, and therefore it falls to me to keep it? I can't answer. My hand hurts and to be honest I shouldn't be typing. Instead of reading this afternoon I want to sleep and run. Instead of reading tonight I want to listen and dance. And so I will. Because I am here not just to spout jargon and imbibe academic discourse. Hopefully productivity will find me, he's been elusive thus far. Tomorrow being a write-off of class, lunch and class. Perhaps in the evening I will try to find him, curled up in a library chair. Ideally on Friday he will come down to the Union with me to pirate some tv and get lost.

The enemy

The enemy was not procrastination, nor did it sneak out of the darkness, but somehow my Monday was useless. Oh I read all day, certainly, woke up at a fairly decent hour and put my thinking cap on before anything else, and spent all morning reading about Marx. But for some reason, hours passed me by without my knowledge, and suddenly it was lunchtime, and I tried to go to the libraries but none of the books I needed were in, and I tried to keep myself running through pages and time ticked past me. This needn't make sense, indeed, little in this city does, all I know is that Monday was a bit of a bust.

I'm still feeling a lack of male friends, offended that when I make it clear that 'nothing' will happen (or rather, when they realize that this is the case) they cease to be interested. And then I think, who am I as a person? What is my value? If nothing but a sexual object, something to be desired, I should dearly hope not. But here I am, Monday night, waiting for practice to start, and getting the distinct impression that me as a friend is somehow less than desireable. There is really nothing I can do.

Yesterday was mildly more productive, but only slightly so. We don't have enough copies of the books we need to read, and every time I wander in with the best intentions, I wander out again empty-handed. I am meant to accomplish more this morning after class and three cups of coffee (my ratios improving all the time), but something tells me I will fail once again. And that is actually what I should be doing right now, finding call numbers and deciding whether to bring my lappy with me on my journey into town.

Speaking of journeys. I had a bit of a journey last night as well. Off to an exchange dinner with the Hildabeasts, I turned around and found myself abandonded with strangers, totally alone. Well, no, yes, I was. And it was so strange, knowing that I couldn't very well take myself home without completely losing all hope of anyone making the return trip, so I stayed, attempting to convince whomever I spoke to that we were capable of having a good time. And met some nice people, at least, nice at the time, but couldn't determine if I was overstaying my welcome, so I left and wandered home through the streets for half an hour, alone, wondering exactly what the secret was.

Ah, there is no secret, just Oxford, and I know that the darkness now is nothing compared to how dark seven thirty will be next week, after daylight savings time ends. Off for another cup, I have to track down some available readings and start a productive day, I want to have earned a run and maybe a nap this afternoon.

Another lost weekend

Yet again this weekend disappeared into past tense, I can't really recall how or why, but its 9:30 on Monday morning and my unread textbooks are taunting me. This has to be quick, as always, there is too much to do. Between right now (or rather, when I get started) and six this evening, I intend/hope/pray to get most of my week's reading done, letting off the pressure that is consuming me. There is no routine here, no breathing room, and that is part of the trip. I turned to Fun Train yesterday and said "this is the happiest I've ever been" and at that moment I was telling the honest to god truth.

So Friday night we tumbled into Magdalen, gaping at the beauty of the place, and took an early night in hopes of being responsible. But Saturday dawned to brunch and work, and little academics occurrred, moving through to Saturday evening and all of a sudden we were cooking, eating, and off out the door. On an aside, our organic vegetable delivery on Friday has made me stupidly happy, veggies a'plenty and I don't quite know what to do with them all, but we managed to throw them togehter into tastiness, and the surprise of new veggies every week is better than christmas.

The club we went to Saturday was like Cafe Campus only not, the same vibe, only different music, and I gladly fell into typical patterns (although, sadly, without Ian to dance with). Sunday, well, Sunday we had our second installment of 'Roast Oxford', with Temple Bar gaining a whopping 4/5 for its superior yorkshires (although nothing compared to those I get at home!) and low low prices. Next week's location is still up in the air. Instead of being responsible, I joined some colleagues in a city bus tour, which was far too much fun, and learned a few things about Oxford. So now, now I am faced with piles of books. My plan for today is to finish the one sitting in front of me, hit the library to pick up two more (if they are in) and then read those, finally heading down to the library in town and maybe to Union for the rest of the day. Bear in mind that even the most carefully laid plans rarely survive the first engagement with the enemy.

A new season

And here I am on the Magdalen Bridge. I had to stop, its October, and it is fall. For the first time here, despite the rain we have suffered through intermittently in the past week or so, I finally felt the season tick over and begin. There is something about being in a place at that moment, feeling the wind with winter on the way, of knowing that you are, like the city, within time and season and spin. And just having thought about dissertations and academics and change, this is all so new and so old, so familiar. The knowledge that wherever I go the seasons will turn and leaves will fall and that smell in the air of wet leaves and time will fill my nose. And cars and people pass me by, all souls knowing the same as me, their internal rhythms pulled inside by the wind. All the world turns.

And I think of how different things are here, and wonder why, because as people we are all the same. Some have no open minds about anything, and I wonder how they can possibly come to such a place as Oxford with closed eyes, with closed hearts, and not revel in the differences, instead just wondering where their wireless internet or warm showers are. Yes my kneeling shower is strange and uncomfortable, and perhaps I would like some peanut butter, but the novelty, the difference, makes it so much better than anything I have ever had before. And as a wasted Friday turns towards the weekend, I cannot help but think how much has been created here in three weeks, and wonder what this next season will bring.

Chew slowly

Today I took another chunk off the great wheel of cheese that is Oxford University. I still have so much left to eat, and worry that I will choke to death on it all. Today. Today today today. My mind races and right now I don't have time to do anything, let alone blog. So brevity is the word of the hour.

Last night loomed large, so large in fact that it was bound to deflate in fun and interesting ways. My early class agony narrowly averted, the rest of my day was a blur of reading. What exactly did I do? What day is it? I can't even remember what happened yesterday. I couldn't tell you right now what happened between class and the evening's events, but I am sure it was filled with intensity and verve. My life here flits from one thing to the next without pause. My thoughts are as jumbled as my schedule.

And I am hungry. So last night we dressed up like schoolgirls and wove down the drive, to unlimited beer that I didn't' take advantage of, and ended up having randomness everywhere but there. Cemented a new friendship which may turn out to be super fun (or super dangerous, depending on how we see these things) as he seems quite entertaining and only slightly harmless. Deciding that sooner rather than later was the time to leave, three of us set off to find another good time, and I ended up finding Sweetness down at our Local. I couldn't take his number, but took his reluctant kiss, and intend on dropping by to claim digits on my way home from work tonight. I also ended up going for a moonlight stroll (Cowley Road Adventure number 2?) with another (hopefully) platonic friend, and I'm really excited about hanging out with him in the future. So, all in all successful, as I am finally making some male friends with no innuendos, issues or worries.

Tonight there is hockey. Tomorrow I intend to work like a little bunny all day so that tomorrow night I can take advantage of my new membership and paint the town. On the agenda this weekend: Work, brunch, work, party, sleep, work, work, sunday roast, hockey game. Looks to be a good time.

The Giant Bite - AKA Multiple Lives

As I noticed at McGill, here I have many different 'lives'. No this has nothing to do with Nightline, nor a secret identity which enables me to fight crime in my spare time (what spare time?). Its more a way of dealing with the division of time that makes everything seem longer, more drawn out, to cope with so much happening day-to-day.

Take this week. Today feels like Friday. It is Wednesday. 8 am on Wednesday to be exact. The reason things feel like Friday is because I have actually compartmentalized my time to the point where I perceive each compartment as a day. So take this week for example. Monday was, in fact, three days, and yesterday was as well, and the only reason this isn't a Saturday in my head is because (as I said) its 8am, and I have to go to school.

So Monday I had schoolwork, which I diligently chipped away at all morning, followed by class. After class I rushed home, had dinner, rushed out again to meet a pub crawl. Crawled from point A to point B to point C, where my companion and I met some rather random people who finally, to my surprise, seemed to be approximately the same age as we were. And they were odd, and intriguing, and so I went with it. Until my third day started when I went off to hockey, piling into a small car with gear and girls, and down to the rink until 2am. So I returned home, ate too much, slept it off, and awoke mentally to a Thursday.

Yesterday I had two and a half days, they blended together quite seamlessly. School, of course, followed by college, followed by back to the bar. One pint turned into another adventure, as my roommate and I traveled down the High Street in the rain to another college, our wiles gaining us entry (okay, I'll be honest, more our good timing than our wiles). So another pint and then, keeping the proverbial party going, to rooms and through gated enclosures for another drink. And we took ourselves home at a decent hour, not wishing to spoil the strange evening by overstaying the welcome we had been granted by our minds when we decided to stay.

So now I must down a second cup of strong coffee, my ratios getting better all the time, and rush off to day six. Today I have two days planned, so things might be a bit slower, but two days have a way of turning into three. The rain and clouds of last night have cleared, and a blue sky is slowly brightening outside my window as I slowly wake up, strains of David Gray and Death Cab welcoming the unwelcome morning.

Saturday Night

And so another evening fell upon this old city, and my nap turned into failures, mind flitting through opportunities, and rolling out of bed to darkness I felt like I had been waking for a thousand years. That moment where you open your eyes and see, but your mind continues to sleep.

Now, in the light, all of those events seem far away, the walk, the arrival, the comments, the dress. Fancy dress here, for everything, a rejection of the stiff British conservatism and uptight mores, thrown into madness through liquid courage. Without the same things holding me back I felt odd, and we passed through our girl-worries of the evening and out again into the light of the hallway, wine in plastic cups, from the kitchen to the lounge and back again, looking for something.

This is far too poetic, the night was none of these things and all of them. Standard, indeed, moreso than most of my nights here have been. Nothing, all night, no more than beer, friends and one raucous party. Until it began to close. Not having found anything superior elsewhere, we had returned to the beginning, hoping to discover what we were lacking. And back into the madness, lights, spilling throughout that maze of staircases and firedoors, we lost each other and ourselves. And in losing my way I found what the evening was missing, phone calls and shadows from last week, missing things I knew I didn't need, let alone want.

And walked home, silent, with my new friend and a stranger talking the whole way. A fitting ending, with the loveliest man I have met here escorting me to my corner. A gem.

And the next day on rehash we found, her and I, the sameness and apartness of the evening. A day-long event, puncutated with Sunday Roast Lunch and half-assed library time, then back to my home and that semblance of normal. Feeling so strange, just shy of three weeks, to be calling somewhere home.

My wise friend Jordan and my single-service friends

Jordan is a very wise man, in fact, he is one of my wise friends. Someone who just says things that resonate with me, and perhaps (as some have joked) my soulmate from another life. This summer, Jordan went on a grand adventure (as he is wont to do) and one of our many epic post-adventure conversations rounded onto the topic of single-service, or temporary-service, friends (those of you unfamiliar with the Fight Club reference, bail out now). Being wise, he commented that while his young companion seemed intent on holding on to everything and everyone, Jordan had realized that sometimes you don't want to hold these people. Sometimes people are only meant to be in your life for a short time, and sometimes letting them leave without trying to hold them in place is the best thing to do. We cannot, after all, have our proverbial friend-cake and eat it too.

And so here in Oxford I have been making all kinds of friends, from those I hope to keep forever, as I will Jordan, and those I know were only meant to walk me to my street and shake my hand. Let me explain. Last night, for the third time in my short time here, I walked out of a single-service situation and felt that I had found the good in people, but knowing that it could only go downhill, and futile as it would be to hang on to the sentiment, let it go. Strange, but that is the most uplifting part. That moment when you say goodbye and turn around, no names, no numbers, just a smile and a thank you. That is the real joy. And this morning at seven thirty I was rudely awoken by a single-service situation that won't leave me be, and all I think is that maybe, just maybe, some wisdom should come his way, and we could let it go, and just enjoy the knowledge that there is one more great person in the world that is in no way attached to ourselves, but floating through the days with a smile somewhere in their memories from fifteen minutes walking with a new friend that they willingly let go.

Matriculation

And so we rose, earlier than usual, to a grey morning. Clouds hung over our little house, over the yard littered with apples fallen from our tree. A very English morning. We dressed with laughter, tights, sub fusc, advanced student gowns, and carried our mortarboards into the street. Our heels struck the pavement with echoing rhythm, gowns behind us in the wind; we pondered the use of the hanging fabric and remarked that nobody on the street seemed to notice our strange appearance. That is simple, here in Oxford, academic dress is no surprise.

We were a long procession, led across the bridge and down the High Street, past Magdalen and Queen’s, the Examination School and University. Turned, crossed the Street and through the lane of Catte Street, past the Vaults, past the walls and gates of All Soul’s, where none of us were likely to set foot. We peered inwards. Past the Camera and the Bodleian, up to the gate where a man in bowler hat stood guard. Our conversation was light: of places to eat and drink, of prices and of studies. I remarked how very strange the moments were, something so old, a tradition that had been carrying on for over five hundred years, streams of students, eager and intelligent, entering into Oxford. She replied, wondering how many more would come after us, down those cobble-stoned streets, talking of these same things that our ancient and esteemed colleagues would have discussed. Five hundred more years of wondering where to get a cheap pint and organic, vegetarian food.

The tourists with their cameras. And we felt watched, somehow set apart by their lenses, a different set of people than we had been that morning. Those gowns made us up anew. And as we walked into the theatre, past prying eyes and away from the movement of time, I was overcome, something about the smell, the small stairs, the sound of our footsteps on wooden steps that carried us along with so many who had come before. And so we sat there, galleries of students in academic dress, and listened as we were inducted, matriculated, accepted into Oxford. The Latin phrasing, the lifting of a cap. It was done, it was small, but we were changed.

We took the long way home, winding through lanes too narrow for cars, just crowds of students laughing and chattering home. We were part of this now, bigger than ourselves, still the same but different inside our own minds. And going home seemed so wrong, to change out of those robes and into our jeans, to sit down at 20^th century machines and write down all of our thoughts. So we went down the road to a 20^th century pub and drank 20^th century champagne in our own honour. And then went home, to change back into ourselves, and ventured out in search of good times, as I am sure that, five hundred years ago, students did the same.

Finding routine

We were walking along the wall when it came up in conversation, that part of moving to a new place that never becomes quite normal fast enough. That part of you that refuses to settle in. And although our feet have learned the way and our heads found which way to turn, something within us refused to accept the change.

It is that inability to 'get settled', the fact that we don't know where to buy binders and highlighters, can't fathom why the grocery store doesn't have crackers, are unable to discover the ins and outs of this strange place. I still don't have a food routine, which was always part of my university day-to-day, hopping from store to store. Yes that took me a while in Montreal, but I am impatient. That almost instinctive sense has been replaced by trips to Tescos, much to my chagrin. And so yesterday I ordered organic vegetable delivery, have found out that market cheese is the cheapest and so far the best way to go, and finally that the middle eastern store down the road is not the Lobo, nor will it ever be, despite my strongest desires.

First week draws to a close so quickly, even though I could have sworn to you that Wednesday was last week and Tuesday another lifetime. Now that my classes appear to be settled, I am happily awaiting my routine. My Fridays are my own, barring field work, and so today I was going to start a routine of solid work all day. I have four libraries (four!) lined up, in true Oxonian fasion, because god forbid that I should be able to get all my readings in one library. I consider myself fortunate that they are only spread from South Parks to the Bod, Manor to Turl. On that note, I am starting finally to find my way around, with a few helpful hints from my friends. My sense of direction skewed by the old buildings and unpredictable lanes, crossing one another at bizarre angles and leaving me where I never expected to be. Perhaps there is a sort of L-Space to this city, an O-Space of age, that makes us turn around north to south and lose our way. So many ages of academics have left Oxford so convoluted that even she cannot find her own way out. Or perhaps I am just adjusting to a new town, a new set of rules.

And on that note, I will move to dress and leave this place, for my epic library journey. Perhaps, time-willing, a later update on its fruitfullness. Otherwise, tomorrow is my matriculation ceremony: a shady, secret meeting where they will perhaps teach us the handshake and the password that allow us to enter behind hallowed walls of Oxford's greatest places. Or not.

Full of babies

I just sent a text to Mack, who woke me up at 8:30 (no joke, although the fulford fire alarm woke me at 7:30... jerks) to ask how things were going, and to inquire on the scene here. "Hate to say it but a night out in ox is full of babies and is killing my love of the party." True true. Lame music, lame boys, expensive drinks, expensive everything, its just not worth the hassle of putting makeup on, trekking down there, scoping the scene, which invariably sucks, trying to have a good time, lowering one's standards, failing anyways, then trekking home! Not to mention the fact that everyone is younger than me. Lame. But on the other hand, this is an excellent development. It means that I won't spend the money, drink too much or waste my time. Time that could be otherwise spent... oh... working. Which is fine. Its just that sometimes I think back to Montreal, to my favourite holes and to all the good times we've had, and wish that I could have some of that back. Anjali used to get so stir crazy after too long without a good raucous night out, and I am afraid I may be going the same way. Desperate for entertainment.

The littlest birds...

Well I feel like an old hobo, I'm sad lonesome and blue
I was fair as the summer day now the summer days are through
You pass through places and places pass through you
But you carry 'em with you on the souls of your travellin' shoes

Well I love you so dearly I love you so clearly
I wake you up in the mornin' so early
Just to tell you I got the wanderin' blues
I got the wanderin' blues
And i'm gonna quit these ramblin' ways one of these days soon
And I'll sing

The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs...

Well it's times like these I feel so small and wild
Like the ramblin' footsteps of a wanderin' child
And I'm lonesome as a lonesome whippoorwill
Singin these blues with a warble and a trill
But I'm not too blue to fly
No I'm not too blue to fly 'cause

The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs...

Well I love you so dearly I love you so fearlessly
Wake you up in the mornin' so early
Just to tell you I got the wanderin' blues
I got the wanderin' blues
And I don't wanna leave you I love you through and through

Oh I left my baby on a pretty blue train
And I sang my songs to the cold and the rain
I had the wanderin' blues
And I sang those wanderin' blues
And I'm gonna quit these ramblin' ways one of these days soon
And I'll sing

The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs....

I don't care if the sun don't shine
I don't care if nothin' is mine
I don't care if I'm nervous with you
I'll do my lovin' in the wintertime

- The Be Good Tanyas

It's just something that has been feeling appropriate today. I cannot quite pin down how I feel about anything, and as everything feels so strangely normal, from my hockey team that fits like a glove to my college ladies popping in delightfully for tea and music to the familiarity of Turl Street this afternoon... this place is already standard. Passing through me as I pass through.

Stick on the ice

The familiarity of the rink is remarkable, in this foreign place with no history of the game. From the moment I heave my bag from the carpark asphalt, my body falling into position beneath its weight, I know what is going to happen. That pre-game apprehension, the buzz through my arms, legs, straining for the ice. They know before my head does. The smell of the arena hits me as we strain through the doors, breath barely visible in the air. It is ice, the sound of carving skates and sticks coming together, whistles blown and flashing colours below me. I am home.

And pulling on my loaner jersey, blue and white stripes, old-fashioned, like something from a black and white photograph, dressing-room smell in my nose and the sound of sock tape in my ears. The feel of my hands inside worn gloves, fingers sore from skate-laces. Through all of these sensations, hockey is a full body experience in the most subtle of ways. The trepidation, rocking back and forth as we wait, zamboni roars past us. First one skate on the rink then a push, and away, all subtle discomfort is gone in that moment, we take to the ice.

Our first game was both uplifting and frustrating, as we fell apart with six and a half minutes to go and lost our lead. But the sheer thrill of being back in the game, back on the ice, was enough. Enough to keep me going, loving the stiff arms and legs this morning and the prospect of going back for more tonight. I did not realize how much this had meant to me until now. How much I missed hockey.

Hop on Board

I know it has been a few days, the weekend just sortof slipped into Sunday without me realizing it, and now I'm here again, end of the weekend. Classes start tomorrow and I'm starting to worry about the usual things, work, school, time. But enough, let me work backwards.

Last night was a blast. After having numerous 'what amazing people' moments at dinner, I excused myself to meet a prior engagement... which turned out to have changed. So off back to our new-found local. A few beers and flirtation later, it was across the street. I wouldn't pay so much to get into a club at home, but I'm in Oxford and I get the feeling my clubbing days are numbered. So indeed, I did it anyways. And it was a good time, I pulled out my scary-girl hat and went with it. One always attracts the deep-down masochistic type. They like to think that you are an angel underneath, but secretly love that you are stronger than them. And so the dis-attractiveness of men around here led me through the evening, as my companions came and went, I finally left after two, after an argument about coming home, and took myself up the road towards my bed. He cocked his head at me. I tugged on the tie around my neck, self-aware. It went with the theme of the evening. I shook his hand, and he smiled, commented on my handshake. As if I hadn't heard it all night. We talked, amazingly, about the environment and society, as if we had known each other for years. I walked them up the road. He muttered something about destiny, I muttered something about the good in people, and we both left with a smile.

Friday night I had been a bit more of a mess, having my lip-whore hat all worked out and drinking from about two in the afternoon. After Fresher's Fair we took ourselves down to the pub, and one pint turned into three, and before I knew it we were signing our names onto clubs we'd never join, and stumbling back up the road towards home. Off to our adoptive college where I proceeded to make an ass and likely blow the teeny tiny chance that I might have had with my crush. Ah well. He was on his way to The Island anyways. So another night ending in a stumble home.

Friday had been pretty decent, what with worrying about school and rushing around. Hockey practice Thursday had left me exhausted, I am going to have to get used to the late-night exercise, which left me wired and unable to sleep until three. I think that my body clock here will adjust as it did in Montreal to late nights and decently late mornings. Indeed, that seems to be the way I work. Practice went well, I'm still delightfully sore, and was rostered to play tonight. So I have just about five hours to do what I have to do today, haven't yet decided if it will be housekeeping stuff or school stuff. Might try a bit of both.

Oh yes, and I have, as of last night, been dubbed the Hot Train. It is great on so many levels. Hop on Board.

Clean, Organized, Unsettled

So today I came home from my job intro session to find a woman cleaning our apartment. This isn't all that strange, its her job. It is just a bit disconcerting to have someone cleaning for me. I don't really like it, it makes me feel like a slob. So of course when I opened the door to my messy and somehow smelly room, I felt a pang of guilt.

Just a note on the smell. It smelled when I arrived and I have no idea why or how. I am a pretty clean person and generally, when I have places to put everything, have no trouble keeping tidy. Right now is an exception as I have nowhere to put some things so said things end up on the floor. But I digress. She explained why it was smelly: the girl who lived here before never opened her window! So, I went out to buy some things, couldn't find coat-hangers but picked up an accordian folder for my miscelaneous papers and a citrus-y smelly thingy at tescos to remove the musty smell from my room. So by the time I was back my room was clean, my stuff having been moved from floor to chairs so she could hoover. I organized my papers, and now feel a bit better about the whole unsettled thing. I am going to buy some drawers so I can put the rest of my things away, and hopefully something to put on my wall (am eyeing a hanging that is at the store up the road, figure I should bite the bullet and go buy it) and this place will finally be home.

I still feel very unsettled, as the excitement of new people fades away and I am left without my close friends and none here yet. I am growing frustrated with the group thing, the security of the crowd is not something I've ever gone in for socially, and I'm hoping to pull some people away from it all over the next while and see what we are all doing here.

Now procrastination is in full swing, so I think I will go upstairs to reclaim some mugs before I come back down here to read. Read read read.

On an aside, we couldn't find the party last night, but did manage to find out that the bar down the road has a strange number of cute bartenders. Especially one, dubbed Scorpio, who enlightened me as to his future schedule. According to Nil he looked like an Abercrombie Model, what with the longish hair and baby-face good looks. Hey, there's a reason I got called Mrs. Robinson.

Twist my rubber arm

I was going to work, but laundry took way too long AND I figure, hey, its nought week after all and I might as well enjoy myself before I lose the opportunity. And lets face it, a girl with rubber arms has to ease herself out of it, god forbid that my arms might drop off or something. So out I go.

Getting the ball rolling

It seems that by now, having been here exactly one week (only a week? This feels like much longer) that I should get ye olde academic ball rolling. So I think that tonight, since there is nothing to keep me socially occupied anyways, that I will hit the books. Montreal is writhing in the back of my head, but I think she is in her death throes. There is no reason to maintain my hard-drinking lifestyle here, not to mention no way I can afford it.

Had a lovely morning, although the weather here is already starting to get to me. Its fall with a vengeance, and I can't help but remember that its thanksgiving at home. My new Canadian friend and I wandered through the science area, and I'm starting to get my bearings. She is quite lovely, so far my favourite program buddy, and I can't wait to settle into this nice little nook I'm digging for myself. I'm starting up hockey tomorrow, which I'm endlessly excited about. So much time off skates, I gaze lovingly at them and think how soon it will be. Maybe I will throw some laundry in and make my giant lunch. A domestic day followed by an academic evening.

Enter Insanity - Oxford Style

I have been doing well, being good. And that's not easy for me, but its made much easier because the only male-friend I had, semi-friend that he was, wasn't exactly interested in me for my gender. Anyways. Yesterday we began programming. So I feel like in addition to a recap of events yesterday I should also get into a people recap. But first, my first day.

The little man inside me that has been, recently, jumping up and down saying "oh my god its Oxford" changed his tune to something along the lines of "in over my head" about halfway through the first set of talks yesterday. As the afternoon progressed, academically of course, it shifted several more times, through excitement and apprehension, through dread and boredom. I still don't quite know how I feel about it all.

My course is predominantly female, not a good sign. But some of them are undoubtably lovely, so that made up for it a little, just a little. We went for drinks at the Uni Club, which was my first taste of some perks (finally! perks!) of being a graduate. As people trickled out, my blessedly party-friendly new crew decided to tag along on a pub crawl from another college. Then madness ensued.

Four bars, several new Canadians, countless others, more than a few drinks and way too far from home later, we ended up at a cavern-like club. I was let in without my student card and wound my way through the maze, between rooms separated by archways, with terribly low ceilings, not unlike (as my new friend pointed out) the catacombs beneath the city of Paris. Led by the hand, my crush of the evening wound me through to the dance floor.

Now for the crush... ah, I come all this way to meet home grown talent. Decidedly brilliant, we had chatted a fair bit through the night, me protesting on a few occasions that I was keeping him from his flock, and he protesting my protestations and buying me beer. By the final stop I had tried to leave and he had tried to keep me around, we had already exchanged friendly phone numbers and affection. So all that was left was that messy drunken kiss on the dance floor. Fine. Until he proposed that we leave and... ahem... well you know. My drunken logic stopped me, and I waffled, wanting him but not wanting him that way. I think (drunk as I was) that I offended him in suggesting that he just wanted in my pants. I took myself home, alone, and went to bed equally alone. First night out officially ended in Drama.

So today we rehashed, and I still can't tell if he was genuinely interested or just lining me up for that assertion at the end of the evening, he was certainly forward enough about it. So off the text went into the world, we'll see what comes back to me. I actually do like the guy, so hope that we can hang out again sometime soon. Ah well, if I'm lucky I'll be off to my next dramatic evening tonight... not likely though, considering the hildabeasts are my only companions.

As Anne pointed out, he has to be a jerk, otherwise he would be cute, smart AND nice, which is practically impossible.

Potatoes are not vegetables – Cultural woes part one

I bought a cheese and vegetable item from a shop the other day. I did not find any vegetables in it. It was full of potatoes, which are perhaps classed as vegetables on this side of the Atlantic. Nutritionally speaking, I don’t think this is true, and certainly they do not constitute a ‘green thing’. A green potato would be scary. Food here has thus far been both fascinating and terrifying. I can’t find good peanut butter to save my life, nor can I track down the eggs in the grocery store (even venturing so far into the meat aisles that I feared for my soul), and I know there are eggs there because a) it’s huge and b) the guy next to me in the check out line had eggs. I want eggs! Really, I just haven’t had the chance to explore Tesco’s as much as I would have liked. This isn’t my fault. Remember how we used to think that Provigo on a weekday evening was crowded? My god, things here really are smaller. This monstrous store has been jam-packed, given that it is move-in weekend, and I have never seen anything quite like it in my life. It gives me the ‘get in and get out’ willies. The produce section is half the size of what I am used to and everything comes in plastic packages. They don’t recycle much here at all, no plastics and no cardboard or card… I am going to cry when I throw away all the things I knew could be turned into new post-consumer products for you and me to use. I think, perhaps, the grocery store has a secret bag recycling depository somewhere, and I am going to make a friend and try to find out. I also went to the drugstore (chemist) to find some necessities. Of course, as at the grocery store, everything is crowded and everything is different. It takes me twice as long as it should to track anything down, because I don’t know what anything is. I can’t find the soap I am used to, a decent toothbrush for anything less than twice what it should cost at home and god forbid that I should want something unscented to bathe with. I have no idea where to go about buying a foamie for my mattress, some carpet for my floor or one of those handy adjustable shower-curtain rods that you can just wedge between two walls above your bath. Have I mentioned the bath? Now I’m not a princess, really, and I’ve lived in scary places, but I do like a shower. I like the idea of a shower. The water pressure, the feeling of it all dripping down over your body. Its nice, its lovely and it makes me clean. I don’t have a shower. I have a bathtub with a spray nozzle attached to it. And the temperature is inconsistent. I can have a ‘shower’ by kneeling, holding the nozzle above me and hoping that I don’t soak the bathroom in the process (hence my desire for a shower curtain rod and accompanying curtain). Really, what one needs is a friend to shower with, and to take turns hosing each other off. Now that’s an idea, if I could only find an acceptably attractive individual to get in on the idea. The bright side of all this is that I can actually take the most environmentally friendly showers ever, it being necessary to turn off the water between rinses. Perhaps used one fifth of the usual shower-water, and while I don’t feel as clean as I’d like, and might resort to showers at the gym, I feel pretty clean on the inside. It kinda balances out my dirty meat-aisle soul.

PS: I still have no keys.

My New Home

I moved in today. Huzzah for a room and for England. Nothing here, I have discovered, is as simple as I think it should be. Perhaps this is my colonial backwardness, but I sincerely believe that stuff here just takes more effort. Like my struggles to get a mobile, this proved to be a challenge. Well, its not England’s fault really, but I am here aren’t I? So off I go to my new house. There aren’t any keys. Wait a minute, didn’t my lease start today? Well yes, yes it did, but apparently you have no keys. Okay… odd. So off with the spares. No key to the front door, needing a total of three keys to access my room. So back to the lodge. Isn’t that odd. So back up to the building with a porter with a master key. Into my house. Moved in, but can’t lock the door to the apartment suite. Ah well, hope we don’t get burgled. Its a bit dank, but its mine.

Am exhausted but currently off with the hildabeasts for drinks with some Lincoln peeps… hopefully some male, and I am surprisingly looking forward to seeing these girls I just met.