http://www.lboro.ac.uk/

Bild från Leicester.

Det här är det som verkar gälla för tillfället, där jag kommit in. Loughborough University uppe i Leicester. Så det verkar nästan som om jag kommer vara kvar här i tre år till, eller inte här. Utan i UK. Uppe norr ut!

Det som gäller på Lboro är Ergonomics (Human Factors Design) en bachelor. I och för sig har Oxford inte sagt nej än, men ska vi vara sådana har jag redan gett upp hoppen om Oxford om jag ska vara ärlig.  Så, jag håller mentalt på att flyttar till Leicester a the moment.

17th February 2010 ska jag på Open Day på Loughbrough University. Jag vill att det ska verka jätte bra och att jag ska vilja börja där!

Tänkte helt appropå egnetligen inte så mycket tänkte jag lägga upp bilder från min och Jolines romantiska middag som inte var så romantisk egentligen.

Bilderna är från förra helgen.

Joline

Jag (jag vet jag stirrar men jag hade bara en bild så det får vara på det viset nu!)

Så, om du nu Robin läser min blogg, så kan du ju visa den här bilden för Peo.
Jag kan nu göra mina egna pannkakor.

Pannkaka!

Jag är nu en underbar och bra Au Pair som kan göra fina svenska pannkakor!

I was at the Star Inn to meet up with the Oxford Hash House Harriers.  While waiting for the trail to start, I enjoyed a nice beverage that I didn’t clock the name of and sat near the wood stove and chatted a bit about trail, home- and former-hashes we’ve belonged to or visited, and how, funny, but my accent doesn’t sound like Cambridge (“that’s Ipswich, that is”).

The Oxford Hash traditionally lays dead/prelaid trails, which is always a disappointment to discover but the hare did a very nice job and there are additional benefits at this hash.  First, the trail was A-to-B although B was only a few hundred meters from the start (at the Star Inn).  The circle was run with aplomb by the RA (or GM, I didn’t pay much attention) and there were a variety of songs (although they did repeat the same one a few times with a sort of fill-in-the-blank variation each time).  And, there was proper, hot food served: some delicious vegetable based soup and sausages in rolls…and, surprisingly, very few naughty sausage remarks.

I have started to get used to the less rowdy ways of the British hashers.  They are very different from most of the American hashers I’ve known and the subdued version of the circles here are probably much to everyone’s advantage.  I had a number of rude songs to add to the mix, but I think I’ll save them for when I’ve been there a few more times…no need to shock or offend when they all seem to be on best behaviour as well.

We retired to the pub again and I weaseled a pint of Red Stripe off one of the hashers (Dipstick, I believe), and settled into a long conversation on hashing and also on science with (again, I think this was her name) Home Alone, a biochemist from out around Bicester.  She pointed out that my Red Stripe benefactor was the only one there likely to set a live trail, and I will try to keep my eyes on the schedule after we move out that way and goad him into doing it (perhaps I should volunteer myself, first…).

The crowd dwindled after the first round and I decided I better go on and catch the early bus, too, maybe to stop off on the way to the hotel at another pub closer in.

The scavenger hunt thing ended mercifully at the King’s Arms and I used a pint of pale ale to wash down an Imitrex migraine pill and within ten minutes I felt pretty damn good.  We got our scores and half the group headed home to Cambridge and the rest of us stayed on at home in Oxford (except that I was actually only staying over for the next day to do some paperwork and diagnose an instrumentation problem).

The pub was large and full of sturdy furnishings and looked pretty publike.  I could have stayed on for another round, but I was meeting up with the Oxford HHH for a run in Woodstock later that evening and really needed to catch the next bus if I was going to have enough time to grab a bite to eat.  I’ll try the King’s Arms again, I’m sure, though.

Passed the King's Arms again the next morning on the way to the lab

We entered the Turf Tavern about midway through a scavenger hunt/tour of Oxford meant as a sort of team building exercise as part of the research group’s “away day.”  These things are almost completely useless for their intended purpose when levied against a group that already communicates freely and plays well together, but I had a pretty good time with it nonetheless, in spite of the massive hangover I had been fighting off all day.

Some of the group, trying to cheat on the score I bet

The Humpty Dumpty Porter at the Turf Tavern did little to aleviate the throbbing headache I had been suffering since about an hour after completing the morning run before the scheduled events, but it didn’t hurt, either.  The pub is aimed toward the tourist pound, with historic-ish markers all around purporting that Bill Clinton’s famous non-inhalation occurred on the back patio or that some Inspector Morse episodes featured the pub (which could be said of just about any pub in town).  Still, the drinks were reasonable, the inside of the pub was atmospheric, they are supposed to serve decent food, and we all got a wee break before continuing the tour (a few fotos from the event, below).

Dining hall at Exeter College, Oxford

a proper butcher shop in the covered market, Oxford

The taste of stale beer in my mouth seemed to come from the fumes exuded from my body; this is probably true because my partially rinsed toothbrush and the bit of dried toothpaste on the corner of my mouth indicate that I at least went through the motions of brushing my teeth upon returning from the mini pub crawl.  Also, the steady humming in my head was probably self inflicted, as well, and not as I tried to convince myself coming from the superconducting magnet factory next door. What I needed was some greasy, carb and protein rich food, a few glasses of juice and some coffee, and then I’d be as right as the Daily Mail and ready for my run to Oxford for the day’s activities.

Okay, so the food, a hot shower, and better dental hygiene really did very little to fix me up, but the run was very pleasant.  I left the Talbot and headed south across the toll bridge and then the River Thames bridge and onto the old tow path for barges.  This took me around the foot of the steep hills in Wytham Wood and protected me from the 40 mph winds out of the south.  By the time I cleeared the woods and entered the pastures along the Thames the wid had shifted to westerly and south westerly and actually helped me along.

The wind is a fickle mistress, though, and as I made the bend to the south the winds intensified and shifted southerly bringing me largely to a standstill during the gusts.  The rain was light but stung in this breeze and kept me from enjoying the views until I made it to town.

Entering the building and passing through the secure area I realised I felt much better.  Running is like that, helping you tap into the endorphin lode; but, by the time I had rinsed my head and changed clothing I felt certain the previous evening was going to revisit me soon.  Oh, well, the run was a good one, nonetheless.

Well, I have a few more pictures to share

Christ Church College: the cloisters with a modern fountain and an olive tree of which you can see the tips of some branches on the right

the fountain

the amazing Harry Potter staircase – walking up those was incredible

one of the best pictures I shot, I think. view from the staircase into the Tom Quadrangle. See those gentlemen in black? They were watching, making sure everyone behaved. You weren’t allowed to cross the quadrangle for example, let alone step on the grass… they look very British I think

a window in the Cathedral; St. Katherine of Alexandria in the middle. I came across her in Book Studies before. She was a martyr in ancient Rome but is known for arguing in favour of Christianity with 50 philosophers who all converted to christianity because she argued so well. She is said to have been educated well and is patroness of female students and of the arts and see how she holds a book in her right and a quill in her left? ^^

Christ Church college was what you’d call a tourist attraction. There were a lot of people and they also charged the highest price of all the colleges though I don’t remember how much it was exactly. It was still worth it as the Cathedral is quite impressive. It might have been the biggest church I’ve been in. It feels like it. Of course also as a Harry Potter fan it’s a must-visit because of the staircase and also the hall which was the model for the great hall in the Potter films.

I do think they did a great job with the paper guide to the college. It told you exactly where to go and what was special about it. Much like a real guide.

After Christ Church I went to Merton college which couldn’t have been more different =) It was free frist of all, small and cute and almost completely deserted:

I think this has to be my favourite picture. I love all these arches.

When I was in the chapel at Merton there was someone singing. It was so beautiful and serene… One of my favourite moments but then the door made noise when it shut and the singing stopped and then an embarrassed looking woman showed up ^^ I smiled at her but she left.

all for now

The programme of the conference will be available in December. We expect to have 2 or 3 plenaries, 1 roundtable with Romani activists, 1 book launch, 1 key note speaker, 1 photo exhibition and 17 panels. All in 2 days. The conference will open at 11am on 14 January and close at 5.30pm on Friday 15 January. In order to fit everything in, time management will be essential.

Each panel will be allocated a 90 min slot. It contains 3-4 papers. For each paper, presenters have 15 (max 20)minutes. This will leave a bit of time for questions and answers at the end of each panel.

In order to be included in the delegate pack, paper presenters are invited to submit their written papers by 4 January 2010 to nando.sigona@qeh.ox.ac.uk . Written papers should be no longer than 3,000 words.

            Nearly one dozen cowards in white, and other various hued, sheets defiantly protested on the steps of Fulton Chapel which is located on the campus of the University of Mississippi.

The belligerent bigots met briefly before the Ole Miss Rebels waged a gridiron battle against their overpowering opposition in the 10^th ranked LSU Tigers, a savvy move that guaranteed that the racist Neanderthals would receive plenty of press attention.

What was the hoopla all about? None other than “Dixie,” the classic southern battle chant that has been a source of white-southern pride since before the infamous “War Between The States,” of which members of the Mississippi’s White Knights of the Ku Klux Klan has been waging a very low key but public war to protect.

University officials moved to ban the song from football games after hearing the fans refused to abandon singing or reciting the tune’s racially tinged ending, “the South will rise again.”

Around 250 anti-Klan protestors were on hand to show support. The move was made to unify everyone on campus by placing relics of its intolerant past firmly in the past which would allow the university, to this day known for its racist climate, to work toward a future brightened by equality.

Protesting members of the Klan report that they were protesting to decry the lost Southern symbolism that once embodied everything that used to be Ole Miss.

Roberta and I went to the book fair at Patio Brasil in Brasilia yesterday. I like going to the fair, it only happens once a year and normally its very good. This time they didn’t seem to have so much stuff, there seemed to be a few empty spaces where no stands were too. We will go again at the end of the week, maybe it’ll have more people selling by then. We managed to get a copy of the newest Dan Brown book, it’s been selling like hot cakes and we had problems getting a hold of a copy. They are only selling hard back versions of the book in English though, not really sure why this is. Every person we asked yesterday said they were only importing the hardback copies. Maybe it is cheaper to import? Usually we bring home three or four bags full of books but this time it was just a couple of books. There were quite a few bible selling stalls, for me this was a complete waste of space, they could have put some more book sellers in these spaces – someone like Cambridge or Oxford publications. A lot of the grammars books we already have copies of, I didn’t see any conversation material either, but then this didn’t matter so much as I already have a bookshelf full of this material. I think Roberta would have liked to see more stalls selling fiction books, we both love to read and usually load up on books at the fair. Next weekend, we will see if there are more things to look at and hopefully more deals as they start to wind the fair down.

A post I’ve wanted to make for some time is how I came to be doing this at all.

I mean, I know I wrote this, right back at the beginning, which explains the why of it – but the how of it is down to the people who put me in a position even to think that someone like me could sustain a non-native bilingual existence with my first-born for a matter of weeks, let alone the 21 months we have so far clocked up between us, one day at a time (as we say in the After School Club.) 

I have been lucky and had a lot of talented teachers in all disciplines in my life, most of which was (at least, prior to the After School Club watershed) spent in full-time education. But a few of them have given me confidence that I was able to take outside the classroom, confidence which saw me through the lessons of the many rubbish teachers I have also had, and, in a way – though the faults are all my own – helped create the Francophone monster that is Papa et Piaf. 

Here they are. 

Martin was probably the first, though he came on the scene at about the same time as Nadia (see below). The first teacher to make me realise that French was a language that people actually used, rather than a verbal trigonometry. He smoked immensely and, again, his failing made him seem more human. He was a caustic, cynical man in some ways and regularly referred to hapless students as “cretins”, which was one of the many things I liked about him – he didn’t pretend to like everyone just because they were children. This meant that, if ever he did show signs of liking you, you could actually believe it might be true. 

And he was, in other ways, tremendously kind. I remember going to see him once after the lesson because I thought I didn’t understand the perfect tense (yes, I really was that much of a loser.) I ended up actually crying (a loser AND a wimp – hands off, ladies, I’m practically married!) When he saw how distressed I was, Martin spent half his break talking me through it (remember, this man was probably a forty-a-day smoker who self-medicated on Gauloises and must have lived for his breaks. )

Several years later, he also enlivened A-level by actually telling us things we might want to know, and hinting at the dirty bits in Camus. Without him, I probably wouldn’t have bothered doing French past GCSE.

Nadia arrived at our school when I was in what was then called the third year. She came to teach us Russian, taking over from a man who had learnt his Russian spying on Soviet air traffic. She was a real Russian; she was very short; she claimed to have a brown belt in karate; she was clearly mad. Nadia, again, made a language seem much more than lists of declensions (of which Russian has many). With her, we could imagine people actually living, loving, arguing, even doing karate in this then very rare language (perestroika didn’t really get underway until my GCSE year.) When I sat A level, Nadia coached me. When I applied to Oxford, Nadia gave me extra lessons, free of charge, which is basically what got me in. When I wanted to go to Russia, Nadia helped me sort it out, and gave me a few pointers on how to get extra hard currency through customs. When I thought that Chekhov was tosh, Nadia reassured me that I was not alone. And she also said one of the nicest things a teacher had ever said to me. We were flying to Moscow together. Somehow, we were talking about my family, particularly my mum. “Well, she’s done a good job,” said Nadia. It took me a second to realise what she meant and, when I did, I must have been pink with pride. A teacher thinking that I was not only a good student, but a good person? There was hope for me yet.

Mary was the one-woman welcoming committee when I arrived at Oxford. She had given me my place (when my first choice college had, foolishly, rejected me); she had patiently and politely answered some nonsense letter I had written to her before starting (about something nothing to do with her, like bedding or grants – I had so little idea about how Oxford worked that I just wrote to the only person whose address I had on paper, and it was hers, on my offer letter); and she welcomed me, along with my fellow first-year starters, into her North Oxford sitting room in October long, long ago. 

I was not, at that point, studying French. I was at college to do single honours Russian (the English faculty had decided it could struggle by without me.) I was amazed that I was at Oxford, and was liberated by having no idea what to expect. 

The intake that year seemed beyond good. A half-Russian man; a half-Polish woman; a frighteningly gifted man who had taught himself Hungarian for a laugh; and me. And this woman, Mary, was posher than anyone I knew – she had a ‘cello, for heaven’s sake! I almost gave up, there and then.

But Mary did not give up on me. Always quick with praise and measured with criticism; always acting as if my admission had been a considered choice and not a slip of the pen on some long, closely-printed list of names; always taking her students seriously, even when we spoke nonsense. After two terms, I had even started to believe her. 

Colin took me on when I decided that, though I still wanted to study Russian, the particular joys reserved for single honours students – extra linguistics, the Lay of Prince Igor and the Memoirs of Prince Avakkum, these latter two to be read in Old Church Slavonic – were not for me. He found a place for me in his already crowded French group.

As I made the group an odd number, he also agreed to see me individually for tutorials. As I began to develop interests, and as they began to align themselves with his, he would occasionally let me set my own essay title. He even gave me a 10-year-old bottle of home-made white wine, which turned out to be the best sherry I had ever tasted. This, I decided, was what Oxford was about. 

So much so that, after a couple of terms, in the last tutorial before the vacation (it was a hollow joke to call them “holidays”) I diffidently mentioned that I had been thinking of a future in academia. 

Silence. 

If, at that stage, he had turned around and started an awful, mocking impersonation of a deranged simpleton, it would not have surprised me. Of course I had been fooling myself. I was, perhaps not hopeless, but very much an also-ran, and clearly a pretentious one at that.

Instead, he said, quite quietly, “Yes, well. I was thinking of giving you a scholarship, but you don’t work hard enough.”

In a flash, several truths became apparent to me. I was not an idiot; I was not delusional; and, most important of all, the age-old myth fell apart. At school, I had been effortlessly successful. Then I had come to Oxford and had been effortlessly mediocre. I had assumed that my dear old mum was right, that the bar ha been raised and I could no longer clear it. Instead, it turned out, no-one here was effortlessly anything. The people who succeeded did so because they were very bright, but because they also worked exceptionally hard. I started taking their lead. The following term, I worked harder than ever before or since (as well as acting, rowing, and writing at a “jolly good sport” sort of level) and got my mini-scholarship (or “exhibition” as they call it). I went on to narrowly miss a First and come out of that with enough confidence intact to go on to do research at Edinburgh. Without Colin’s quiet honesty, I’d have ended up pretending to want to be a school-teacher and wondering why I hated my life (I did that anyway, years later – but at least I had a go at what I wanted to be.) 

Ian was the last one. Believed by his Edinburgh undergraduates to have it in for English loafers, he nevertheless took on an Oxford graduate, to all appearances a dilettante (it took me about a term to tell him I was working twenty hours a week and that that was why I was a bit behind on the reading) who came armed only with an undergraduate dissertation on Daniel Pennac, an author almost no one had then heard of, apparently word-processed by a five-year-old, and of which Oxford’s examiners could not decide whether it was a work of genius or the ravings of an imbecile. 

Ian gave me the benefit of the doubt and, when he realised I was broke, did all he could to enable me to make some sort of a go of my doctorate. He sent me to France twice; he found me teaching hours (my poor undergraduates, I am so sorry you were lumbered with me); he got me published; and he let me stay round his house once so I could return from Nice to do a conference paper. He also took me lunchtime drinking at the Southsider. Ian made me believe that, not only could I become an academic, but that I could live as an academic, perhaps for my whole life. The question of what the hell I was going to do with this bizarre commodity called life was finally, and to my immense relief, solved

Of course, I went on to piss all that up the proverbial wall, but that was no fault of his. And I did come out of it speaking really rather good French …

So, if any of the five of you end up reading this, thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you.

It ain't Dawkins but he raises some interesting points!

In one of the most bizarre rare book finds in Britain, a first edition of Charles Darwin’s On the Origin of Species has been discovered in a toilet. Yes, the book was sitting on a bookcase in a unnamed family’s  guest lavatory in Oxford (some would argue that is where if belongs! ). The family had purchased it about 40 years prior for a few shillings.It was only after their son-in-law went to a Darwin exhibition and noticed the spine of the book was similar to the one in the loo did the penny drop (evolution of man!). It is now up for auction at Christies and is expected to fetch around €60,000.

Psst I hope it’s fumigated.

After two fairly solid support bands (The Elrics, the bastard child of Oasis and LostProphets and Jaakko and Jay, shambolic anarchists from Finland playing a particularly raw brand of punk rock) the venue was still disappointingly empty by the time The Bronx as Mariachi El Bronx took to the stage. Donned in black & white Mariachi costumes they played the majority of the songs from the album Mariachi El Bronx and a couple of covers in such a sincere way that it was easy to forget that their past albums were closer to hardcore punk rock than the sound of traditional Mexican music that filled the venue.

It was a completely different type of experience than seeing bands playing more conventional types of music, instead of dancing or moving along to the music the crowd were content to merely enjoy the music being played for them, showing their appreciation between songs with loud applause and the occasional over-enthusiastic heckle.

Due to the small size of venue it would have been classed as ‘intimate’ by many, but what really made it deserve such a description was the warm, engaging stage banter between songs, it gave you the impression that this was something they genuinely wanted to share with everyone in the room, instead of merely just putting in the hour sweating on stage to pay the bills. They captured the true purpose of seeing a band live, to feel like you’re a part of something you love, even if only for an evening.

I was curious about how exactly such a band would pull something like this off, and after tonight’s show I am not only convinced that they are having great success in playing such a different genre of music from their day jobs, but they are also loving every minute of it.

Set List

Cell Mates
Litigation
Despretador
Slave Labor
Holy
Silver Or Lead
I Would Die 4 You (Prince)
Carmelita (Warren Zevon)
Lady Rosales
My Brother the Gun
Quinceniera
Clown Powder

Trim Fit Pinpoint Oxford European Straight Collar Button Cuff Dress Shirt Review

Feature

• Catalog Item: 870

Overview
Our pinpoint oxford is crafted from only the finest 80s two-ply cotton fibers. Single-needle stitching on all seams for a smooth flat appearance. Tailored with our European straight collar and button cuffs. Machine wash. Imported.

Nov 22, 2009 09:03:04

LX3 | ISO 80 | f8

Founded in 1610, Wadham College is one the 38 colleges affiliated with the University of Oxford. Built initially outside the city walls, Wadham College is one the bigger colleges in Oxford (the ones within the old city walls are quite small). Colleges in Oxford do not receive any subsidy from the government, only the university facilities will receive some subsidy. Instead, colleges acquire their funds through the student fees and endowment from the shops they own around the respective college.

Colleges in Oxford are required to provide accommodation, a chapel, dining hall for meals and mentors for their students. Tutorials are held by colleges while lectures and seminars are held by the university. Therefore the college itself is not a direct extension of the university, but rather a collegiate university where the university acts as a federation compromising of the 40 odd self governing colleges with its central governance by the vice chancellor.

A new stairway looks west down a side street and across St John Street

A roof top terrace looks across to the Randolph hotel; the visitors here use the same gesture as the statue over the main front entrance, shielding their eyes from the sun

At the western end of the roof top terrace there is a small patch of grass

As you know it doesn’t take much to persuade me to go to G&D’s, so when I got a tip-off via Facebook that they’d named an ice cream after me, I made sure that our Saturday afternoon shopping took us past the Cowley Road branch. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating on the fame-and-fortune front: I’ve been nicknamed ‘jaffa’ in various places for some time, and their new ice cream is ‘Jaffaholic’. We were obviously meant for each other. … Look, it’s not as if you need an excuse to eat ice cream full of jaffa cakes and cointreau, is it?

Anyway, following two scoops of in-depth research, I can report that the Jaffaholic is delicious. The mixture of cointreau-soaked jaffa cake biscuit, “tangy orangey bits” of jelly, and thick creamy ice cream, results in something containing all the good points of trifle with none of the 70s naffness. It’s a limited edition ice cream, but if they’ve run out by the time you read this, don’t worry: I’ve never yet had an ice cream from G&D’s that wasn’t delicious.

Two double-scoop servings of Jaffaholic. Not both for me, honest.

I’ve spent quite a lot of time in G&D’s recently as the St Aldate’s branch is conveniently situated between my workplace and the Cherwell Singers‘ rehearsal venue. (The choir is probably a bit off-topic for this blog, but if you felt like buying tickets for a concert of Britten’s sacred works on Saturday 5th December, that would be great… just saying.) There aren’t many places where I can spend a couple of hours sitting and reading, writing or working while eating my dinner (usually a ham and pineapple pizza bagel, but occasionally a tuna-and-mozzarella or stilton-and-mushroom melt — all equally delicious) and drinking a generous-sized latte — all for around £6.

Knowledge is good. So is ice cream. You can have both!

Look out for fun ways to get more ice cream, too: my beautiful blond research assistant swears that there’s a night when you can get a discount by turning up with a cow-related item (or maybe he’s just trying to get me to wear that cow costume…), and you can usually win a free scoop of ice cream by answering the quiz question of the week. They’re not usually as difficult as the one in the photo, which said research assistant — an Oxford maths graduate, no less! — sheepishly admitted he couldn’t answer. Fortunately, you don’t have to answer it to get an ice-cream.

So: delicious ice cream, tasty bagels, good coffee, non-compulsory maths, and a nice atmosphere — warm, bright and cheery, music not too loud (and usually good!). All in all, it’s a lovely place to sit and eat or drink, on my own or with friends. Better still, though, G&D’s is open from 8am till midnight every night. Now, I confess that the “8am” end of that isn’t really my scene (I’m normally still fast asleep), though I bet they make a mean breakfast; but at the other end of the day it’s fantastic to know that there’s somewhere to sit and drink and talk all evening when you don’t want to drink beer or fizzy drinks.

G&D’s can be found on Little Clarendon Street, St Aldate’s, and Cowley Road. Cow costumes and cube roots optional.

Hello.

I’m 19, a business student at Oxford. I’m a narcissist. I’m arrogant. I’m a general egomaniac. . You probably think I’m a bit of a dick. You’re probably right.

So why blog? Mostly because of my never ending need for attention, twinned with a desire for a platform.

Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to my platform.