Due to my feeling title creative and generous today, everyone who is now humming the sweet, sweet soul of Eartha Kitt gets a prize! Mind you, I have to be careful what I promise ever since those unfortunate Twitter court cases. You play with fire, you get burnt they said. Funny, there was me thinking you play with Ryan Giggs, you get a crick in your neck trying to gauge his facial expression.
As you may be able to tell I've taken an interest in current affairs, even moreso than usual and usual is the BBC and Guardian as permanent tabs on my Internet Explorer. Yes, I'm still flying the flag for IE; I tried Chrome but it's just not natural, letting Google get that serious. Next thing you know it wants you to cut your hair, quit smoking and wear a suit and tie and its mother is coming round for dinner on Friday so could I please be nice!! Anway, the point is I don't like it...
No! The really salient point is I'm beginning to get ever so slightly worried about my future. The title refers to the upcoming Holy Week and our mid term break. But also rather cleverly to the last wee while I had at home at Christmas and we all know what's happened in between. Well, you know bits and pieces, I leave out the really terrible things like the UAM workload and disorganisation and the mala suerte and the OH GOD! memory repression commencing...
Picture a Hawaiin themed bar in the heart of Huertas where all the best free mojitos and sangria be on a Friday night. This is not a Friday night. This is midweek and at first you think the stylised bamboo doors are locked, but not so! They're just closed agin the ruffians in the hot Madrid night and if you open them you are greeting with a long bar by one wall and an array of parrots and wee baby turtles. You know? Hawaii...
The Escape Song is playing in the background, and if the damn EU hadn't put its Health and Safety laws where they don't belong there would be a beautifully dramatic smoky atmosphere. For those of you who think you aren't familiar with The Escape Song, don't worry. The vision perched at the end of a bar on a high stool, lei round neck, brightly coloured paper umbrella in ear, sipping from a faux coconut is hiccuping and singing it melancholy...ily;
"If you like Pina Coladas...and getting caught in the rain<hic> If you're not into yoga, if you have half a brain<hichic>lalalala"
Joaquin is wearing an explosion of Crayola as an excuse for a shirt and is wiping down glasses. He is desperately trying to make a request.
"Ca'mon Miss Devlin; I like the other wan. You Put the Lime in the Coconut? Eet is always so cheerful, the Rey Juan Carlos, he laved it when he was here, why you no sing eet? You will feel better..."
"NO!" <slams down faux coconut only to create a tsunami of rum, pineapple juice and mystery mixers which she looks at in horror> "Joaquin, you know when I'm in the depths of depression you never bring up the Lime in the Coconut incident...besides, I don't feel like being cheerful. I feel like slipping laxitive into some sod's Mojito."
Joaquin decides to compromise and stick on some hula music which at least I can't warble along to and I decide its time to head home. The reason for this impromptu (and sort of made up, but there was a Hawaiian bar, and wee turtles and parrots and leis and novelty paper umbrellas...that's why I came to Spain incidentally...to drink fun coloured drinks with all novelty paper unbrellas in and we had a well good time) visit to Mauna Loa is the sultry presence of summer on the horizon and the dawning realisation I shall soon begin my final year at the University of Cambridge. And then I shall soon begin gainful employment. I say that as a certainity, it's like Nick Clegg talking about the next time the Lib Dems are in power with his fingers crossed behind his back out the way of the cameras. Have you had a look around, my son? Until Wilbur migrates south for the winter it ain't gonna happen.
It is for this reason that I have started to muse on possibilities. Because for a long, long while the entirety of the rest of our lives was a massive sheet of blank paper and now its covered in scribbles. Well, mine is, I suppose those of you who wanted to earn as much money as humanly poss...sorry, I mean contribute meaningfully to the economic wellbeing of the nation as an investment banker have a sheet that is as neat as Al Capone's tax return. You know, suspiciously so...
More specifically I am musing on the notion that it's not too late to do whatever you want. I will never be an astronaut, but a very nice idea is that I'd know exactly how to go about doing it. I'd have to go get my A-Level Biology and Chemistry, degree in engineering, doctorate in polymer science and engineering, all education part time funded by whatever job I could get, get some gym training and SCUBA scertificate (you need one), use FlyFighterJet to pick up some jet flying experience, arrange fake green card wedding, become US citizen, apply for NASA, succeed, become astronaut.
You see? It might take thirty years but I could be an astronaut, even now. This is a very silly little thought that manages to comfort me greatly. Of course there are holes in the theory, but that's what last minute half-assed plans are for! And those are my forte...
This line of thought may be precipitated by the knowledge that this will be my last blog before exam term, that after I come back to piso from a week happy amid the gentle rolling pastures of my homeland, running wild amoung my people I must face very important exams in Spanish. And my last attempt at Spanish, about three hours ago on the Metro was ask a genteel looking Spaniard "Los trenes, no corren?" Are the trains running? And his response was to grin like a bad comedian coming up to a dire punchline and proclaim "Si, they're training for the marathon."
Oy vay (this Yiddish exclamation is funnier if you were to look inside my mind and know that I almost wrote "gentile" instead of genteel") Anywho, I'm off. The whole of Spain is on strike today (read lazing in the sunshine) and that's mucked up my schedule like nobody's business. Have only just calmed down from a wrath as vengeful as the God of the Israelites when, on asking if the next train would be here soon because I have an important exam, was told to;
"Nena, por favor, las cosas así, que valen poco. Tranquilate!"
"Wee child, please, things like that aren't worth the fuss. Reeeelax!"
Fine Senor I-have-a-badge-supporting-labourers-thus-I-must-dispense-dimestore-socialism-philosophy; that's fine. No pasa nada. But if I fail this class because the Iberian Peninsula decided it wanted a day off so help me I'll personally devalue the Euro by flooding everywhere from Donegal to Cyprus with fakes notes. Don't ask me how, it involves the Lime in the Coconut incident.
Then again, maybe I'll just have a siesta.
xo
Thursday 29 March 2012
Wednesday 21 March 2012
I Cambridge, I Saw, I Conquered; Chapter the Second
One does not simply walk into Law pre-drinks. One does not simply turn up at seven when the local calls and everyone knows the undergraduates are the real guests of honour. One does however simply tear a hole in one's tights fifteen minutes before we leave and decide that feck it, it's not that sophisticated and if anyone's sober enough to notice after half an hour they shouldn't be a lawyer.
We are in the local The Eagle, where Watson and Crick discovered DNA, got pished to celebrate, woke up in each others arms, panicked, realised they had forgotten what they discovered, panicked even more alarmingly, found it written on Watson's arm and agreed never to speak of parts of that night ever again. Oh, and also where Her Majesty's RAF flyboys graffitied every bit of the back roof they could reach. Not like there was a World War going on or anything...
Anyway this source of historical lovliness and American tourist black hole is our local and it is where we be chillin' with some vino before a champagne reception. A champagne reception which is funded by the legal moneyed elite and where the damn stuff tastes fabulous for I am a poor student who pops open some Cava to celebrate on the odd occasion. And is absolutely fascinated with alliteration and half rhymes in sentence structure. English students had you noticed?
The plushly carpeted, dark wood panelled OCR is full of suits chattering away, many of them have "come up from" the City, some of them have come in from pastures far afield and some have just come out of retirement for the occasion. There is a lack of women, a startling lack, for the hubbub is mainly composed of baritones discussing what tomfoolery the High Court has engaged in now, what! But then we must consider that Corpus only permitted the admission of female undergraduates in 1983. There will not be any corresponding Old Gals Club for a while. Even the first graduands of 1986 are still ambling about in gainful employ and not near the retirement age.
On this note I must hold forth on the ...
...I'm sorry, I'm in Starbucks, there's a lady not so much as playing footsies as thighsies and handsies and tongue-sies with her significant other. I don't need to see this shit over my only caffeinated pleasure a week. This shall be dealt with...
....notion of fancy law dinners with venerable judges and the most noted legal practicioners of our day. Those of you who know me don't know me very well because I don't believe anybody would know that on entering my first NBLS dinner I was as nervous as a baby duckling in Open Season. I needn't have worried, because far from the snobbish Old Boy's Crowd I expected my fellow dinner guests couldn't have been a nicer bunch of people. Fiercely interested in undergraduates (in an avuncular, not a saucy way) and full of amazing legal war stories if you can lead them of the straight and narrow path of changes to aviation legislation. No one wants to hear about that. But they do want to hear that the guy who paid for the reception was chased by a shotgun wielding Finnish lunatic in the world's slowest car chase (and we were only going at 30 mph, doncherknow! Panic in slow motion!) and that the particularly dour solicitor to my left once had a client try and reverse a Mercedes over him while giggling like a fool. All over £20 of taxi expenses!
These stories are pure magic; and we listen to them in a beautiful hall lit by candles and there is a susurration which turns into a confabulation as very expensive wine flows. This year proved no different to those that went before as I sat beside some wonderful conversationalists, especially a notable judge right in front of me who filled me in on various tricks to make barristers scatter like naughty schoolchildren and was aghast at the his ignorance of the academic to his left;
"Do you know, I've sat next to this chap for two courses and I don't know his name! You know what I mean, it comes to something when you sit beside a chap for two courses and don't know his name!"
I agreed that Britain was indeed crumbling and how could anyone trust a chap who sat beside them for two courses and didn't mention their name? Then I went back to the lemon sorbet whose purpose is, I was assured by a solicitor at my first dinner, to cleanse the palate. I was not aware I had a palate, but I suppose something has to tell the difference between pan fried seabass on a bed of crushed sweet potatoe and spring onion and cheesy chips and coke from thon Van of Life.
Law dinners always end too soon, especially when you're staying at Churchill College with a dear friend and are mortally afraid of offending. I am proud to say that I have been and gods willing will be one of the last to leave/be forcibly removed from the OCR at the end of the night because as Asher Roth puts it "Thou shalt not quit the domicile before the last drop of alcohol has been consumed." You know...don't leave the house til the booze gone?
Booze gone, Panther Cabs shakily called "Hello? Yes, I'd like a taxi from Corpus to Churchill please. When? Now would be good but I can't leave til I find someone with a key to let me out yousee. Whas that? No don't you worry about that, just send a taxi. Name? Who? No, no, no, I'm not Who. It's not for Who! Who's on first! Sorry, Laurel and Hardy, just send a cab for Devlin and quickly. I need to find someone to let me out...." I head out into the night breathing in close air and the aroma of old, damp stone which, though it sounds silly, is rather comforting.
The next day goes by far too quickly. I have the Sunday lunch I've been waiting for; turkey, mash, caramelised parsnips, Yorkshire pudding and custard and pud to finish. There's no rushing art, we stay there for a good hour as I ruminate. I always ruminate better when I've had my tea.
I spend the rest of that lazy Sunday either in Starbucks or lounging in our College bar. It is a treat to meet people; I love the small college in a small university town. The centre is hardly akin a proper city when you know that on your way from any given place to any given place you'll see at least one friend, two acquaintances, that one person you always want to see and that one you avoid like the plague and your archenemy. Cambridge is funny that way.
Too soon, too soon it is time to leave. And I mean too bloody soon because to catch a flight at 8am I need to be in Stansted for at least half six and the only bloody train going is at 5.17am so I have to drag myself up, looking blearily at my alarm like Lurch ("You rang?") at 4.20 ay em to get my taxi at five. Now I know there's a five in the morning, but I'm used to greeting the dawn from the front not this backwards way. But there you are, while you were all snug in your beds dreaming dreams of the nonobligatoryness of Monday morning lectures I was standing at a Costa Coffe kiosk, myself and the vendor staring in amazement and horor at the young Yank, clean in on the red/dead eye from New York, asking at six in the morning "Do you have decaff?" I shall never ever understand those above the Mason Dixie line.
But as a cartoon character we all know and love but I fear to mention because of the might of Warner Bros said "That's all, folks" I left Blighty behind; leaving on a jet plane in the words of John Denver, not entirely sure if I'll be back again, for the back at UAM the slow approach of exams focuses the mind on credits and, at times, the impassibility of the test ahead of us (did you see what I did there?)
But, sin embargo, pourtant, dennoch and however we shall gaze hopelessly at that swinging rope-bridge over a lake of boiling lava when we come to it. For now I shall fall asleep against a portly businessman who doesn't seem to mind awfully and await the touchdown to warmer climes.
xo
We are in the local The Eagle, where Watson and Crick discovered DNA, got pished to celebrate, woke up in each others arms, panicked, realised they had forgotten what they discovered, panicked even more alarmingly, found it written on Watson's arm and agreed never to speak of parts of that night ever again. Oh, and also where Her Majesty's RAF flyboys graffitied every bit of the back roof they could reach. Not like there was a World War going on or anything...
Anyway this source of historical lovliness and American tourist black hole is our local and it is where we be chillin' with some vino before a champagne reception. A champagne reception which is funded by the legal moneyed elite and where the damn stuff tastes fabulous for I am a poor student who pops open some Cava to celebrate on the odd occasion. And is absolutely fascinated with alliteration and half rhymes in sentence structure. English students had you noticed?
The plushly carpeted, dark wood panelled OCR is full of suits chattering away, many of them have "come up from" the City, some of them have come in from pastures far afield and some have just come out of retirement for the occasion. There is a lack of women, a startling lack, for the hubbub is mainly composed of baritones discussing what tomfoolery the High Court has engaged in now, what! But then we must consider that Corpus only permitted the admission of female undergraduates in 1983. There will not be any corresponding Old Gals Club for a while. Even the first graduands of 1986 are still ambling about in gainful employ and not near the retirement age.
On this note I must hold forth on the ...
...I'm sorry, I'm in Starbucks, there's a lady not so much as playing footsies as thighsies and handsies and tongue-sies with her significant other. I don't need to see this shit over my only caffeinated pleasure a week. This shall be dealt with...
....notion of fancy law dinners with venerable judges and the most noted legal practicioners of our day. Those of you who know me don't know me very well because I don't believe anybody would know that on entering my first NBLS dinner I was as nervous as a baby duckling in Open Season. I needn't have worried, because far from the snobbish Old Boy's Crowd I expected my fellow dinner guests couldn't have been a nicer bunch of people. Fiercely interested in undergraduates (in an avuncular, not a saucy way) and full of amazing legal war stories if you can lead them of the straight and narrow path of changes to aviation legislation. No one wants to hear about that. But they do want to hear that the guy who paid for the reception was chased by a shotgun wielding Finnish lunatic in the world's slowest car chase (and we were only going at 30 mph, doncherknow! Panic in slow motion!) and that the particularly dour solicitor to my left once had a client try and reverse a Mercedes over him while giggling like a fool. All over £20 of taxi expenses!
These stories are pure magic; and we listen to them in a beautiful hall lit by candles and there is a susurration which turns into a confabulation as very expensive wine flows. This year proved no different to those that went before as I sat beside some wonderful conversationalists, especially a notable judge right in front of me who filled me in on various tricks to make barristers scatter like naughty schoolchildren and was aghast at the his ignorance of the academic to his left;
"Do you know, I've sat next to this chap for two courses and I don't know his name! You know what I mean, it comes to something when you sit beside a chap for two courses and don't know his name!"
I agreed that Britain was indeed crumbling and how could anyone trust a chap who sat beside them for two courses and didn't mention their name? Then I went back to the lemon sorbet whose purpose is, I was assured by a solicitor at my first dinner, to cleanse the palate. I was not aware I had a palate, but I suppose something has to tell the difference between pan fried seabass on a bed of crushed sweet potatoe and spring onion and cheesy chips and coke from thon Van of Life.
Law dinners always end too soon, especially when you're staying at Churchill College with a dear friend and are mortally afraid of offending. I am proud to say that I have been and gods willing will be one of the last to leave/be forcibly removed from the OCR at the end of the night because as Asher Roth puts it "Thou shalt not quit the domicile before the last drop of alcohol has been consumed." You know...don't leave the house til the booze gone?
Booze gone, Panther Cabs shakily called "Hello? Yes, I'd like a taxi from Corpus to Churchill please. When? Now would be good but I can't leave til I find someone with a key to let me out yousee. Whas that? No don't you worry about that, just send a taxi. Name? Who? No, no, no, I'm not Who. It's not for Who! Who's on first! Sorry, Laurel and Hardy, just send a cab for Devlin and quickly. I need to find someone to let me out...." I head out into the night breathing in close air and the aroma of old, damp stone which, though it sounds silly, is rather comforting.
The next day goes by far too quickly. I have the Sunday lunch I've been waiting for; turkey, mash, caramelised parsnips, Yorkshire pudding and custard and pud to finish. There's no rushing art, we stay there for a good hour as I ruminate. I always ruminate better when I've had my tea.
I spend the rest of that lazy Sunday either in Starbucks or lounging in our College bar. It is a treat to meet people; I love the small college in a small university town. The centre is hardly akin a proper city when you know that on your way from any given place to any given place you'll see at least one friend, two acquaintances, that one person you always want to see and that one you avoid like the plague and your archenemy. Cambridge is funny that way.
Too soon, too soon it is time to leave. And I mean too bloody soon because to catch a flight at 8am I need to be in Stansted for at least half six and the only bloody train going is at 5.17am so I have to drag myself up, looking blearily at my alarm like Lurch ("You rang?") at 4.20 ay em to get my taxi at five. Now I know there's a five in the morning, but I'm used to greeting the dawn from the front not this backwards way. But there you are, while you were all snug in your beds dreaming dreams of the nonobligatoryness of Monday morning lectures I was standing at a Costa Coffe kiosk, myself and the vendor staring in amazement and horor at the young Yank, clean in on the red/dead eye from New York, asking at six in the morning "Do you have decaff?" I shall never ever understand those above the Mason Dixie line.
But as a cartoon character we all know and love but I fear to mention because of the might of Warner Bros said "That's all, folks" I left Blighty behind; leaving on a jet plane in the words of John Denver, not entirely sure if I'll be back again, for the back at UAM the slow approach of exams focuses the mind on credits and, at times, the impassibility of the test ahead of us (did you see what I did there?)
But, sin embargo, pourtant, dennoch and however we shall gaze hopelessly at that swinging rope-bridge over a lake of boiling lava when we come to it. For now I shall fall asleep against a portly businessman who doesn't seem to mind awfully and await the touchdown to warmer climes.
xo
Wednesday 14 March 2012
I Cambridge, I Saw, I Conquered; Chapter the First
Anil is two hours into his shift in Boots of Stansted airport at 6.20 ay em. He is dreaming of a soft bed, fluffy pillows and thinking that this is not exactly the position he meant when he filled in “opportunity to experience international travel” on his CV. He is interrupted by a voice from somewhere below his sightline;
“Hello”
“Hello”
He peers over the ridiculously high counter that I suppose is to protect against jet lagged customers and finds a bespectacled pair of eyes squinting up at him suspiciously from underneath curls that (since they were introduced to the rather damp English air twenty minutes earlier trooping down the steps of a Ryanair jet) have all the glossy sleekness of a demented hedgehog. He addresses this vision;
“Good morning...madam?”
“Do you want to comment inappropriately on my appearance?”
“Ah, no...”
“Would you like to assure me you can speak another language even though I have no real difficulty communicating in this one?”
“No”
“Any urge to answer all my customer service related questions with a shrug and a shake of the head?”
“No, no, not really.”
The vision smiles, then grins, then beams, then starts to giggle and by the time Anil can wonder what’s going on it’s laughing and dancing across the deserted arrivals hall chanting “I’m back, I’m back, I’m back!”
Of course it’s me! And things continue in this vein; the chap at the ticket office made sure to tell me to run to catch the train because like any quasi-intelligent human being he knew I may not want to wait an hour and a half to catch the next one, the inspector used Ladies and Gentlemen and Please and Thank You and when I hopped into the taxi at Cambridge train station the driver was well up for small talk and when I asked him to head for Corpus Christi he asked if I was a student to which sitting back, crossing my legs and mentally putting on Gucci sunglasses, I reply
“Why yes; yes I am.”
How to describe the indescribable? How to reduce Cambridge University which has gone on strong and beautiful through world wars, civil unrest and the brief and terrible ascension of Iain Duncan Smith to pixels on yah computer screen? How to translate architecture, the ambiance, the dreaming spires...oh Heavens above I'm sorry, that's Oxford; we have the very phallic UL tower where The Other Place has the bosom of the Bodleian. Difference between take what you're given and like it and coming to the teat of knowle... No one else think the same? Well, it's like I promised the BBC about Jeremy Paxman, its not a crime if you think it.
Anywho, though the class and elegance of the Colleges may be better left to Byron's pen I would like to try it through Disney, if you will permit me. Into our heads comes the soft violin prelude to Beauty and the Beast's opening number (Little Town, go watch it damn you, I can't do all the evocative imagery legwork) and following that, a fade to a crisp, misty morning where a black cab glides off to reveal herself, tinging a triangle for the right note, and stepping off the cobbledy pavement;
"Cambridge town, is a quaint and strange place, stay a while and you'll get to know, more and more fascinating people..who will always say..."
<chorus of Hello, hello, hello, god song parodies are sins, HELLO!>
"See here we have the front of Cor.pus.Chris.ti, and New Court's looking rather well! And outside it on the street, is a friend who's here to meet. me and oh, the Madrid stories I can tell..."
<Central Casting have by now recieved my downpayment and arranged a professional dance squad. The Old Spice Man, by personal request, will now run in front of College and proclaim "Spontaeous Dance Rountine!" in chocolatey tones>
"There go the un.der.graduates like always, the tourists slowing down the town, there are dresses and berets, academics in my way and an awful lack of gowns...Good Morning Professor!"
"MISS DEVLIN, YOU ARE A DISGRACE TO THIS UNIVERSITY!"
Music ceases, squad roam off, Old Spice makes the "call me" sign, Professor glowers...
"What have we told you to do about Intellectual Property infringement and Cambridge University no longer condoning illegal use of copyrighted material?!"
<stubs toe in front of her> "to not to..."
"Very well then...predrinks in MCR at 7pee em sharp and this dinner no arguing with seasoned academics over your status as Worst Lawyer of the Year. They and myself, cannot fathom why you want this accolade. Clear?"
"Absol-floggin-lutely..."
Of course now may be the best time to point out that not all of this strictly happened that exact way but what is true is I have taken it back to the 'bridge to attend our annual law dinner, there is a good friend waiting for me who puts up with all my usufucking law jokes (Roman law, plebs this one may pass you by) and I did get upset last year when no one would let me be the worst legal undergraduate...
Enough of that; the point is we get to go in to Corpus Christi; venerable, ancient and beautiful..like one would imagine Ian McKellen to be in drag. And we paddle around New Court and Old Court and Library Court and I appear like a vision or mirage to poor fellow Corpuscles who had no idea I was coming home but this doesn't stop delight at my return. Well I assume it was delight; could well have been frantic attempts to keep yours truly from ambling off to find people on my own and generally making a nuisance of myself.
Brunch is where the meeting old friends in earnest started and where I hardly got time to finish me egg and chips what with everyone coming over to say hello and ask how I was and generally be lovely while I tried to eat sausages with some degree of class and sophistication. This is made easier by Hall (ntoe ze captial H) which is the formal dining hall of College but also where we have our tea of an evening.
The Hall is built in the neo-Gothic style and the gorgeous blue-and-gold papering amoung the dark wood rafters we share with the House of Commons and House portraits of late Masters line the walls. Actually nicking all this info from the website where pictures may do more than my pixels. This is where we all come to Formal, dressed to the nines in gowns and stand for the solemn Latin grace. This is where I constantly pinch myself to ensure I'm not dreaming because surely I shouldn't be sitting at a trestle table with more silverware than Hyacinth's Bu-kaaaays cabinets and lit up by candleabras.
This brings us to a nice point about what I would do if I had all the money in the world and top of that list is to commission a sombre oil painting of self in a dark wooden frame to sneakily replace a particularly dull Master one day when no one's looking; just before Graduation Dinner for preference. Have mused on posing wearing gown and asking "Paint me like one of your French girls" if we can peruse the Paramount studios for that chaise longue offa Titanic. Think of the hilarity, the sudden realisation, the grudging "It's actually rather well done"...but then again I couldn't in all good conscience put people off a five course meal.
Out of Hall I head off down King's Parade to meet another dear friend for coffee in...Café Nero! I had to go the long way so Starbucks wouldn't see my little holiday fling but godsdamnit that Nero strawberry milkshake with whipped cream. Starbucks just won't experiment, had to take off my loyalty card and will buy guilty flowers for my beloved when I get back.
That walk was beautiful and touristful and cyclistful. Kings is all "Look at meh, I am the most famous sight in Cambridge! Which of you is attracted to meh?" The (creepy) Corpus Clock is like "Soon...very soon" and the punters (not east London slang for customer, actual punting-along-the-river-people) are all like "Fancy a trip on the river madam?" I appear to have brought Madrid's relentless sunshine with me and everything is dandy. I almost have to check my sepctacles for pink tints...
But enough...for I have decided to elongate this little weekend away to the best university in the world into two blogs because it's just that good. And also because I couldn't possibly do the magnificence which is the NBLS law dinner justice without a little more conversation.
So until excruciatingly soon; I remain a Cambridge undergrad wandering around the city centre, holding up traffic with impromptu musical numbers, nipping in to that amazing shop eat as much free fudge as I can and generally thrilled to be back in the 'bridge.
xo
"Very well then...predrinks in MCR at 7pee em sharp and this dinner no arguing with seasoned academics over your status as Worst Lawyer of the Year. They and myself, cannot fathom why you want this accolade. Clear?"
"Absol-floggin-lutely..."
Of course now may be the best time to point out that not all of this strictly happened that exact way but what is true is I have taken it back to the 'bridge to attend our annual law dinner, there is a good friend waiting for me who puts up with all my usufucking law jokes (Roman law, plebs this one may pass you by) and I did get upset last year when no one would let me be the worst legal undergraduate...
Enough of that; the point is we get to go in to Corpus Christi; venerable, ancient and beautiful..like one would imagine Ian McKellen to be in drag. And we paddle around New Court and Old Court and Library Court and I appear like a vision or mirage to poor fellow Corpuscles who had no idea I was coming home but this doesn't stop delight at my return. Well I assume it was delight; could well have been frantic attempts to keep yours truly from ambling off to find people on my own and generally making a nuisance of myself.
Brunch is where the meeting old friends in earnest started and where I hardly got time to finish me egg and chips what with everyone coming over to say hello and ask how I was and generally be lovely while I tried to eat sausages with some degree of class and sophistication. This is made easier by Hall (ntoe ze captial H) which is the formal dining hall of College but also where we have our tea of an evening.
The Hall is built in the neo-Gothic style and the gorgeous blue-and-gold papering amoung the dark wood rafters we share with the House of Commons and House portraits of late Masters line the walls. Actually nicking all this info from the website where pictures may do more than my pixels. This is where we all come to Formal, dressed to the nines in gowns and stand for the solemn Latin grace. This is where I constantly pinch myself to ensure I'm not dreaming because surely I shouldn't be sitting at a trestle table with more silverware than Hyacinth's Bu-kaaaays cabinets and lit up by candleabras.
This brings us to a nice point about what I would do if I had all the money in the world and top of that list is to commission a sombre oil painting of self in a dark wooden frame to sneakily replace a particularly dull Master one day when no one's looking; just before Graduation Dinner for preference. Have mused on posing wearing gown and asking "Paint me like one of your French girls" if we can peruse the Paramount studios for that chaise longue offa Titanic. Think of the hilarity, the sudden realisation, the grudging "It's actually rather well done"...but then again I couldn't in all good conscience put people off a five course meal.
Out of Hall I head off down King's Parade to meet another dear friend for coffee in...Café Nero! I had to go the long way so Starbucks wouldn't see my little holiday fling but godsdamnit that Nero strawberry milkshake with whipped cream. Starbucks just won't experiment, had to take off my loyalty card and will buy guilty flowers for my beloved when I get back.
That walk was beautiful and touristful and cyclistful. Kings is all "Look at meh, I am the most famous sight in Cambridge! Which of you is attracted to meh?" The (creepy) Corpus Clock is like "Soon...very soon" and the punters (not east London slang for customer, actual punting-along-the-river-people) are all like "Fancy a trip on the river madam?" I appear to have brought Madrid's relentless sunshine with me and everything is dandy. I almost have to check my sepctacles for pink tints...
But enough...for I have decided to elongate this little weekend away to the best university in the world into two blogs because it's just that good. And also because I couldn't possibly do the magnificence which is the NBLS law dinner justice without a little more conversation.
So until excruciatingly soon; I remain a Cambridge undergrad wandering around the city centre, holding up traffic with impromptu musical numbers, nipping in to that amazing shop eat as much free fudge as I can and generally thrilled to be back in the 'bridge.
xo
Sunday 4 March 2012
Salsa is a saucy dance
"Small child!!! If you do not open this door then so help me God I will probably just go to the bathroom and weep for a couple of hours..."
I cannot say I will remove your kneecaps and use them to fashion rudimentary marracas because even the most lenient of parents may frown on this excessive/entirely proportional use of violence. This mexican standoff has been going on for two hours now. It's half one in the morning. If his parents return now I will be sued so remorselessly the pennies in my bank account will start to cry. It all started when I wanted him to put his pyjamas on and do three english homework sentences. Then he locked himself in his room and now I don't know whether the silence is sulking or injecting heroin into his eyeballs.
Welcome to the brave new world of teaching english as a foreign language. The pay is so handsome if it were a man it would be George Clooney and I would take it to bed before you could say "Sneaky Spanish tax avoidance" And usually the children are cutie pies; call me "Hai'leen", ask me if I have to go and are almost comically scared of the dark. Also, one will be a complete player when is grown up. I sat watching him pull the infant swag on in the playground. Every small blonde spanish tot got a piece of his chocolate and a smile. Respect, my fake son...
Mind you this reluctant impression didn't stop me patting the smallest tubbiest chica and saying absentmindedly, "Don't worry, their looks will fade while you will retain your sparkling wit and good humour which are ultimately more important." She spills Coke on my dress and offers me her gominollas (picknmix) which I accept thoughtfully. There's little hope....
Anywho, that little babysitting debacle was last night and I am almost completely over the trauma apart from the occasional twitch. And I'm back in Starbucks and on that note I have never really considered the possibility for Starbucks to sue me over their continued appearance in A Cautionary Tale. That or decide it's fabulous for business and generously offer a complimentary cappucino with every thirty coffees purchased! Howard Schultz, if you're reading, call me. Or just call the branch in Plaza Alonso Martinez...I'll be here fo' a while...
Actually coffee's not hitting the stop today; despite the extra shot and experimentations with hazelnut syrup. I'm more in the mood for one of those smoky tabernas in Cheuca. The sky in grey today and because it is a Sunday everything is closed. No milk, biscuits and Sunday paper to be had. And it's a shame because I used to quite enjoy The Times crossword of a weekend. Hang about, that's not creating the right mood. The point is the sky is grey and is trapping a sullen heat and I've just come here by Metro, which would be fine if not for the presence of the duenas again. Those little besuited Spanish ladies who give you the vistazo, a very searching look that begins at the hair on your head and travels down to the height of your heels and back again.
Their disapproval is palpable but then again its not as bad as the chicos who freely give every woman aboard the carriage a long evaluative stare, mentally place a mark out of ten above your head and carry on. And I mean every woman...even the duenas...as far as I can tell it's not about easing their eyes on pretty girls but sussing out where everyone is on the scale of "I wouldn't kick her out of bed for eating crisps" to "I wouldn't hit that with a long stick." I must say, at least the Brits are damn subtle about things like that as long as they ain't falling down drunk.
I'm sure Freud would be able to tell you why my response to this Spanish scrutiny was to flee into my coffee palace, ensconce myself in the corner and stick "Gin and Juice" on disgustingly loudly in my earphones. Not by Snoop Dogg o'course; rather fantastic hick hop cover by The Gourds. If I had to psycololology myself of course I'd say means of escapism. Not chosen means of course, but the Aloha Bar in Cheuca was closed or I would be in there nursing a Cuba Libre at the bar and desperately trying to find Jose Luis who usually plays the piano so I could maybe persuade him to do that brilliant cover of the Witchdoctor song to cheer me up. But I suppose even the party district has to sleep sometime...
Enough morosity! Lessee what else is going on.. We had a rather full house this week which led to a mad night out on the town and the consumption of churros at six ay em. Considering we started it all with caramel vodka shots at nine (mmmmmmm) I'm amazed the equivalent of St John's ambulance wasn't called to the scene.We turned domestic goddesses and made the most delicious strawberry Victoria sponge and homemade lemonade known to man. Well I say we made; I squeezed a few lemons and my contribution to the cake was getting overexcited and throwing multicoloured sprinkles all over the damn thing. Tremendous fun.
Now I must away with me for verily are there many university works to do because next weekend I won't be in Madrid. Next weekend I will be making the journey back to my beloved alma mater the most venerable University of Cambridge where I shall arrive like the prodigal daughter wearing a hopeful expression and an oversize cardigan with trailing sleeves. Of course this will merit a blog entry and 'twill surely be a wonderful one; why I can feel the excitement now! And apologies Starbucks but there can only be one and it's Cafe Nero for the win! Kings Parade, I'm coming home...
xo
I cannot say I will remove your kneecaps and use them to fashion rudimentary marracas because even the most lenient of parents may frown on this excessive/entirely proportional use of violence. This mexican standoff has been going on for two hours now. It's half one in the morning. If his parents return now I will be sued so remorselessly the pennies in my bank account will start to cry. It all started when I wanted him to put his pyjamas on and do three english homework sentences. Then he locked himself in his room and now I don't know whether the silence is sulking or injecting heroin into his eyeballs.
Welcome to the brave new world of teaching english as a foreign language. The pay is so handsome if it were a man it would be George Clooney and I would take it to bed before you could say "Sneaky Spanish tax avoidance" And usually the children are cutie pies; call me "Hai'leen", ask me if I have to go and are almost comically scared of the dark. Also, one will be a complete player when is grown up. I sat watching him pull the infant swag on in the playground. Every small blonde spanish tot got a piece of his chocolate and a smile. Respect, my fake son...
Mind you this reluctant impression didn't stop me patting the smallest tubbiest chica and saying absentmindedly, "Don't worry, their looks will fade while you will retain your sparkling wit and good humour which are ultimately more important." She spills Coke on my dress and offers me her gominollas (picknmix) which I accept thoughtfully. There's little hope....
Anywho, that little babysitting debacle was last night and I am almost completely over the trauma apart from the occasional twitch. And I'm back in Starbucks and on that note I have never really considered the possibility for Starbucks to sue me over their continued appearance in A Cautionary Tale. That or decide it's fabulous for business and generously offer a complimentary cappucino with every thirty coffees purchased! Howard Schultz, if you're reading, call me. Or just call the branch in Plaza Alonso Martinez...I'll be here fo' a while...
Actually coffee's not hitting the stop today; despite the extra shot and experimentations with hazelnut syrup. I'm more in the mood for one of those smoky tabernas in Cheuca. The sky in grey today and because it is a Sunday everything is closed. No milk, biscuits and Sunday paper to be had. And it's a shame because I used to quite enjoy The Times crossword of a weekend. Hang about, that's not creating the right mood. The point is the sky is grey and is trapping a sullen heat and I've just come here by Metro, which would be fine if not for the presence of the duenas again. Those little besuited Spanish ladies who give you the vistazo, a very searching look that begins at the hair on your head and travels down to the height of your heels and back again.
Their disapproval is palpable but then again its not as bad as the chicos who freely give every woman aboard the carriage a long evaluative stare, mentally place a mark out of ten above your head and carry on. And I mean every woman...even the duenas...as far as I can tell it's not about easing their eyes on pretty girls but sussing out where everyone is on the scale of "I wouldn't kick her out of bed for eating crisps" to "I wouldn't hit that with a long stick." I must say, at least the Brits are damn subtle about things like that as long as they ain't falling down drunk.
I'm sure Freud would be able to tell you why my response to this Spanish scrutiny was to flee into my coffee palace, ensconce myself in the corner and stick "Gin and Juice" on disgustingly loudly in my earphones. Not by Snoop Dogg o'course; rather fantastic hick hop cover by The Gourds. If I had to psycololology myself of course I'd say means of escapism. Not chosen means of course, but the Aloha Bar in Cheuca was closed or I would be in there nursing a Cuba Libre at the bar and desperately trying to find Jose Luis who usually plays the piano so I could maybe persuade him to do that brilliant cover of the Witchdoctor song to cheer me up. But I suppose even the party district has to sleep sometime...
Enough morosity! Lessee what else is going on.. We had a rather full house this week which led to a mad night out on the town and the consumption of churros at six ay em. Considering we started it all with caramel vodka shots at nine (mmmmmmm) I'm amazed the equivalent of St John's ambulance wasn't called to the scene.We turned domestic goddesses and made the most delicious strawberry Victoria sponge and homemade lemonade known to man. Well I say we made; I squeezed a few lemons and my contribution to the cake was getting overexcited and throwing multicoloured sprinkles all over the damn thing. Tremendous fun.
Now I must away with me for verily are there many university works to do because next weekend I won't be in Madrid. Next weekend I will be making the journey back to my beloved alma mater the most venerable University of Cambridge where I shall arrive like the prodigal daughter wearing a hopeful expression and an oversize cardigan with trailing sleeves. Of course this will merit a blog entry and 'twill surely be a wonderful one; why I can feel the excitement now! And apologies Starbucks but there can only be one and it's Cafe Nero for the win! Kings Parade, I'm coming home...
xo
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