It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
Part 3 of the America Trip is coming up very soon, with some stimulating thoughts on Sin, but for the time being I offer one of the happier outcomes of the whole jaunt, which is:
http://theapocalypseandme.blogspot.com/
Explanations later, but they involve toy soldiers, bears in bags and surprising amounts of courage.
I spent most of the weekend conducting practice interviews for Oxbridge candidates. This is a seriously wearing process, and it must be quite draining for the candidates as well. Eleven on Saturday were followed by nine on Sunday (which should have been more, but two helpfully didn't appear), and by the twentieth student the conversation was something like this:
Candidate: And we can use archaeology to investigate the reality of literary descriptions.
Me: Hmm, that's interesting. Can you give me an example?
Me (thinks): Oh God, my head hurts...just smile and nod...hope he talks for a while...
Candidate: Well, for instance, when Homer describes Troy, we can use archaeology to determine the sea level at the time, 'cause he describes Troy as being close to the sea, but by using archaeology we can prove that at the time he was writing the sea level was different...
Me (thinks): Don't yawn...DO NOT yawn...hope he doesn't notice I'm pinching the skin between my fingers...
C: ...and so by excavating the site we can compare that with what Homer says and see if perhaps it might be Troy.
Me: (nods) Yes. Let's turn to your personal statement...
Me (thinks): Shit, I've used everything I know about Classical Archaeology and Ancient History...oh fuck he's got nothing on his Personal Statement...hope he thinks this silence is high-level cogitation and not blind panic...
Me: (turning and frowning) I see you're part of a Buddy Scheme at school?
C: Yes. Would you like me to tell you about it?
Me: (nods sagely; smiles condescendingly) If you would.
Me (thinks): Oh crap there's still ten minutes of this interview left...why are there no cute guys in the room?...will he notice if I start looking somewhere else...DO NOT yawn...
Fortunately most of my interviews were in English, about which I know quite a lot, although most of the students have morphed into one nebulous female blue-stocking who is terribly keen on Women in Shakespeare.
My latent identity crisis was not helped today when an elderly man stared intently at me as I rossed the road in search of breakfast (thus answering the question: Why Did The Badger Cross The Road?). I was immediately fearful that he'd seen my profile on a dating website, as I seem to exclusively attract old people, which wasn't quite the constituency I was after; yesterday I had a message from a married man who described himself as a 'bum virgin.' I mean, what have I done to attract these people? Nowhere on any of my profiles does it say 'seeking a slightly overweight guy, must be at least 37, with view to slobbery sexual experimentation.'
Actually I think it's my photo. There are no good photos of me, imho - why do you think I'm on accutane? - but I can hardly put that as a caveat on my profile. 'Sorry I don't look very good on these photos, but you should go for me above all the hot guys in their early twenties because I can discuss Women in Shakespeare.'
Fortunately this particular old man had merely mistaken me for Stephen. Not sure who Stephen might be, and for all I know he may be on a gay dating website as well, but I am not he. And then when I went to buy breakfast I found I'd forgotten my wallet.
This sort of absent-mindedness happens too frequently for my liking. Fortunately there was a lovely lady called Meryl working at Barclays, who allowed me to withdraw £10 on the basis that my school ID had the same name as the cheque I was paying in. Hurrah for local banking.
Speaking of lovely middle-aged ladies, my poor mother, already troubled by her inability to create an inventive way of writing this year's Christmas letter, had to undergo a colonoscopy. I nearly txtd a sympathetic message on the lines of 'even I wouldn't like that' but decided that would be just too crude. My mother is dealing very well with her baby son not being sexually normative, but there are limits. She txtd this morning to confirm that she was ok, but it had probably not been a good idea to 'go into tillage.' That's so often the case, especially with a parent who hasn't quite grasped the intracacies of txt-messaging.
Reporting on the Russian spy poisoning, Sky News had the marvellous formulation that people 'want to see the dead hand of the Kremlin at play,' which is a wonderfully sinister image, albeit I suspect unintentional.
Today's biggest mistake was to look out of the window, see the sun and assume that it wasn't going to be freezing cold. This assumption led me to take the senior boys' football session in a white t-shirt and tracksuit trousers. Goodness knows what possessed me to do this, but I have a horrible fear that it was a twisted sense of machismo caused by the nature of the responses I'm getting from these websites. I've survived winters in Cambridge and New Haven, but it was not long before my hands were turning orange and purple (I've got Raynaud's Disease) and I was idly wondering what would happen if the circulation actually ceased.
Today's best idea was to schlep along to the school's Choral Society, which commenced rehearsals for 'Messiah,' to be performed in March. I was somewhat alarmed to discover that Handel had thoughtlessly neglected to write a baritone part, so I snuck in with the basses on the grounds that the number of low notes I couldn't reach was smaller than the number of notes I couldn't reach in the tenor part. Now, my musical ability is not instinctive, and I have as much trouble locating middle C as the proverbial straight guy has locating the clitoris, but the session generated that rare and beautiful sense of exhilaration gifted when you begin on something that will clearly be a challenge but which promises something wonderful as a reward. It has happened when a foreign language first begins to make sense; when a book seems to open a door to the rightness of the universe (Barth's Epistle to the Romans, for instance); when experiencing a really good net in cricket (there must be somebody who knows what I mean by that); and especially when, after the inevitable stumblings and misdirections, a play finally begins to come together.
And then Celtic beat Man Utd, which deserves its own little Hallelujah Chorus.
http://theapocalypseandme.blogspot.com/
Explanations later, but they involve toy soldiers, bears in bags and surprising amounts of courage.
I spent most of the weekend conducting practice interviews for Oxbridge candidates. This is a seriously wearing process, and it must be quite draining for the candidates as well. Eleven on Saturday were followed by nine on Sunday (which should have been more, but two helpfully didn't appear), and by the twentieth student the conversation was something like this:
Candidate: And we can use archaeology to investigate the reality of literary descriptions.
Me: Hmm, that's interesting. Can you give me an example?
Me (thinks): Oh God, my head hurts...just smile and nod...hope he talks for a while...
Candidate: Well, for instance, when Homer describes Troy, we can use archaeology to determine the sea level at the time, 'cause he describes Troy as being close to the sea, but by using archaeology we can prove that at the time he was writing the sea level was different...
Me (thinks): Don't yawn...DO NOT yawn...hope he doesn't notice I'm pinching the skin between my fingers...
C: ...and so by excavating the site we can compare that with what Homer says and see if perhaps it might be Troy.
Me: (nods) Yes. Let's turn to your personal statement...
Me (thinks): Shit, I've used everything I know about Classical Archaeology and Ancient History...oh fuck he's got nothing on his Personal Statement...hope he thinks this silence is high-level cogitation and not blind panic...
Me: (turning and frowning) I see you're part of a Buddy Scheme at school?
C: Yes. Would you like me to tell you about it?
Me: (nods sagely; smiles condescendingly) If you would.
Me (thinks): Oh crap there's still ten minutes of this interview left...why are there no cute guys in the room?...will he notice if I start looking somewhere else...DO NOT yawn...
Fortunately most of my interviews were in English, about which I know quite a lot, although most of the students have morphed into one nebulous female blue-stocking who is terribly keen on Women in Shakespeare.
My latent identity crisis was not helped today when an elderly man stared intently at me as I rossed the road in search of breakfast (thus answering the question: Why Did The Badger Cross The Road?). I was immediately fearful that he'd seen my profile on a dating website, as I seem to exclusively attract old people, which wasn't quite the constituency I was after; yesterday I had a message from a married man who described himself as a 'bum virgin.' I mean, what have I done to attract these people? Nowhere on any of my profiles does it say 'seeking a slightly overweight guy, must be at least 37, with view to slobbery sexual experimentation.'
Actually I think it's my photo. There are no good photos of me, imho - why do you think I'm on accutane? - but I can hardly put that as a caveat on my profile. 'Sorry I don't look very good on these photos, but you should go for me above all the hot guys in their early twenties because I can discuss Women in Shakespeare.'
Fortunately this particular old man had merely mistaken me for Stephen. Not sure who Stephen might be, and for all I know he may be on a gay dating website as well, but I am not he. And then when I went to buy breakfast I found I'd forgotten my wallet.
This sort of absent-mindedness happens too frequently for my liking. Fortunately there was a lovely lady called Meryl working at Barclays, who allowed me to withdraw £10 on the basis that my school ID had the same name as the cheque I was paying in. Hurrah for local banking.
Speaking of lovely middle-aged ladies, my poor mother, already troubled by her inability to create an inventive way of writing this year's Christmas letter, had to undergo a colonoscopy. I nearly txtd a sympathetic message on the lines of 'even I wouldn't like that' but decided that would be just too crude. My mother is dealing very well with her baby son not being sexually normative, but there are limits. She txtd this morning to confirm that she was ok, but it had probably not been a good idea to 'go into tillage.' That's so often the case, especially with a parent who hasn't quite grasped the intracacies of txt-messaging.
Reporting on the Russian spy poisoning, Sky News had the marvellous formulation that people 'want to see the dead hand of the Kremlin at play,' which is a wonderfully sinister image, albeit I suspect unintentional.
Today's biggest mistake was to look out of the window, see the sun and assume that it wasn't going to be freezing cold. This assumption led me to take the senior boys' football session in a white t-shirt and tracksuit trousers. Goodness knows what possessed me to do this, but I have a horrible fear that it was a twisted sense of machismo caused by the nature of the responses I'm getting from these websites. I've survived winters in Cambridge and New Haven, but it was not long before my hands were turning orange and purple (I've got Raynaud's Disease) and I was idly wondering what would happen if the circulation actually ceased.
Today's best idea was to schlep along to the school's Choral Society, which commenced rehearsals for 'Messiah,' to be performed in March. I was somewhat alarmed to discover that Handel had thoughtlessly neglected to write a baritone part, so I snuck in with the basses on the grounds that the number of low notes I couldn't reach was smaller than the number of notes I couldn't reach in the tenor part. Now, my musical ability is not instinctive, and I have as much trouble locating middle C as the proverbial straight guy has locating the clitoris, but the session generated that rare and beautiful sense of exhilaration gifted when you begin on something that will clearly be a challenge but which promises something wonderful as a reward. It has happened when a foreign language first begins to make sense; when a book seems to open a door to the rightness of the universe (Barth's Epistle to the Romans, for instance); when experiencing a really good net in cricket (there must be somebody who knows what I mean by that); and especially when, after the inevitable stumblings and misdirections, a play finally begins to come together.
And then Celtic beat Man Utd, which deserves its own little Hallelujah Chorus.
posted by BoB at 2:41 PM
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