Message in an e-bottle
Hiya Caroline,
I haven’t laughed so much while reading someone’s e-mail in a while. You’ve lost none of your lovingly sardonic turn of phrase in describing friends, pets and events and it carries so well in e-mail I can hear you reading it.
Hope you won’t mind my life-update e-mail being recycled as blog-fodder, but I’ve had my nose to the grindstone recently and (non-PhD) writing time’s a bit thin. I’ve also been clearing the decks for Jason’s arrival in Cambridge on Monday, which I’m sure will precipitate a whole crazy cart of chaos to rival his adventures in South American and Egypt.
… Though with significantly less chance of being bombed in the market place or having to walk in the dark 30 minutes through heavily defended border crossings. Although some college porters could give most border guards a run for their money.
Still, he arrives on Anzac Day, so much hilarity should ensue in Cambridge pubs. I'm sure we can get around octeen or so before closing. ("Octeen" being any number of drinks greater than 4 when you lose count of the total. Octeen drinks in Octeen pubs would be a worthy, if suicidal, goal. Not entirely unlike capturing ANZAC cove from Attaturk. Unless you want to be literal, in which case it is, of course, entirely unlike that.)
It is, indeed, Spring in Cambridge. That time of year when the soul can’t help but be gladdened by the returning flocks of small, colourful creatures darting about the streets and lawns of Cambridge, warbling incomprehensibly.
But enough of the tour parties of French schoolchildren.
Weather soaring to the dizzying heights of 18 degrees and the presence of sunlight (!) in quantity (!) has filled me with an unbounded exuberance and atomised all sense of appropriate punctuation. Honestly, if every day was like the last week, you’d never leave. I’ve found myself signing up for the college cricket team and dragging people to the college courts to instruct me in tennis.
Frankly, I think the tennis is more likely to rise to any level of skill. It requires less organisation and equipment to get out and have a practice. That and the man who will be preparing cricket team “lunches” made an excellent wine steward last year.
A German and guy from the US have taken to playing croquet every Sunday, for pretty much the whole day, on the lawns I can see from my kitchen. I’m going to have to join them next Sunday – if by Sunday I’ve recovered from Jason’s birthday in London on the Friday.
Or even found my way home by then.
I have proposed a “black tie and barefoot” croquet afternoon, which is gaining steam as a proposal in the grads committee at college. I don’t need approval to run one, of course, but this way others may do the work and their may be subsidised drinks.
I’ve also founded a “People’s Direct Action Committee for Cake” that meets every Thursday at 4.30 in the grads common room at college and brings cake. People keep wanting to make it “official” and approach the committee for funding. I say the day we sell out to the bureaucracy is the day the heart goes out of afternoon tea. A floating dinner party also seems to have crystallised around watching the new “Dr Who” series on a Saturday evening.
Not sure there’s much else to report, and I’m probably rambling as I just sent my supervisor an 18,000 word draft of the 15,000 word paper I have due in 8 weeks time. Yes, yes, I scare myself some days. At least it’s a reasonable sign I’m enjoying the research and am probably equipped to do a PhD.
I look forward to hearing of the delirious autumnal excesses of industrial-scale grape jam manufacture (I have visions of Sam selling it on street corners, or abandoning cases of unwanted conserve on ACTION busses) and the internecine struggles of your pets for pre-eminence.
Aye me, to bed.
Love
Doug
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Mick Jagger at the UN (or “Get me to the IMO on time”)
I’m exhausted. Twelve hours commuting in three days, the chain coming off your bike (again) and being locked out of your room (again) could do that to a person.
Despite this, I’m pretty damn cheerful.
The reason is I’ve spent those three days tootling down to the International Maritime Organisation to watch the drafting of an anti-terrorism and WMD-proliferation treaty. (Sounds a lot more exciting than “I’ve been at the IMO to watch the Legal Committee adopt a draft text on an amending Protocol to the SUA Convention which will in turn go to a Diplomatic Conference later this year” doesn’t it?)
A flatmate who interned at the Security Council said that a less-than-exciting bit of that environment was that everything that happened in the Council chamber was scripted and no-one ever speaks unless reading from a prepared text. This was rather more exciting.
Despite being “closed” the sessions routinely have student observers and everyone’s pretty friendly. While I can’t comment on anything that happened in closed session (a report summarising it will soon go up on the IMO website), I think I can make a few observations about the practicalities of treaty-making that would be apparent to any visitor, won’t upset anyone, and couldn’t breach any confidences.
The set-up is a mini-UN on the Thames embankment. IMO HQ is an architecturally uninspired building with a lot in common with a late 70s law faculty. It was opened in 1983, but I suspect the plans were approved a decade earlier and the UN ran out of funds for a bit. Still, the staff cafeteria has a lovely terrace with a view of the palace of Westminster.
The main committee room accommodated over 60 national delegations of between 2 – 10 lawyers, government officials and diplomats each. Proceedings were mostly conducted in English, but there was simultaneous translation into six official languages. Even in the visitors seat there were listening posts (after the IMO headset started making my ears sore, I switched to listening on my iPod earphones).
Long, long curved desks faced the raised platform where the Chairman, IMO secretary general, head of the Secretariat, and others sat. Each delegation had space at the table, and spare chairs behind, and a large name “card”. The cards were important in debate, you held it aloft, or turned it at 90 degrees so it stood vertically in the supporting groove at the front of your desk to attract the chairman’s attention.
The cards even crept into the use of language in interesting ways: “I raise my card to speak in support of …” or “I see no more cards, can we move on?”
While the text of the draft convention hard largely been hammered out over previous sessions of the committee (which every IMO member may attend), a lot of work had been done in “inter-sessional” working groups which had to be approved. This was not immune to amendment from the floor, or simply debate over what the States understood the words to mean. As you watched your saw States fly kites, state positions or seek clarification for the record, and sometimes make a real stab at changing things.
The other thing that sort of staggered me, but was obvious in retrospect, is that the text that was debated was an English text. Despite the treaty ultimately being produced in several official languages, all equally authentic, all States – regardless of their official language – were effectively debating shades of meaning in English.
The diplomatic culture was interesting to watch in operation. There was clearly a high premium placed on being seen to be “flexible”, and on supporting “compromise” solutions. A phrase often repeated was “we can live with this wording”, often proceeded by phrases like “while it may cause us some problems in domestic law” or “while the drafting could be improved” or “while we find the language vague”. The role of a good chairman in articulating the mood of the meeting and seeking to arrive at consensus decisions was apparent.
It was a sudden and salutary lesson that you can’t consider a treaty as a text received from on high. Problems in drafting, odd gaps or ambiguities, of the type endlessly worried at by academics represent hard-fought battles to reach something which, if not entirely satisfactory to anyone, was the best that could be achieved.
That said, there was a surprising amount of good humour in the whole process. (Proving that some jokes really do translate.) The Rolling Stones quote was even raised: “You can’t always get what you want / But if you try sometimes you just might find / You get what you need”.
Quite apt really.
I’m exhausted. Twelve hours commuting in three days, the chain coming off your bike (again) and being locked out of your room (again) could do that to a person.
Despite this, I’m pretty damn cheerful.
The reason is I’ve spent those three days tootling down to the International Maritime Organisation to watch the drafting of an anti-terrorism and WMD-proliferation treaty. (Sounds a lot more exciting than “I’ve been at the IMO to watch the Legal Committee adopt a draft text on an amending Protocol to the SUA Convention which will in turn go to a Diplomatic Conference later this year” doesn’t it?)
A flatmate who interned at the Security Council said that a less-than-exciting bit of that environment was that everything that happened in the Council chamber was scripted and no-one ever speaks unless reading from a prepared text. This was rather more exciting.
Despite being “closed” the sessions routinely have student observers and everyone’s pretty friendly. While I can’t comment on anything that happened in closed session (a report summarising it will soon go up on the IMO website), I think I can make a few observations about the practicalities of treaty-making that would be apparent to any visitor, won’t upset anyone, and couldn’t breach any confidences.
The set-up is a mini-UN on the Thames embankment. IMO HQ is an architecturally uninspired building with a lot in common with a late 70s law faculty. It was opened in 1983, but I suspect the plans were approved a decade earlier and the UN ran out of funds for a bit. Still, the staff cafeteria has a lovely terrace with a view of the palace of Westminster.
The main committee room accommodated over 60 national delegations of between 2 – 10 lawyers, government officials and diplomats each. Proceedings were mostly conducted in English, but there was simultaneous translation into six official languages. Even in the visitors seat there were listening posts (after the IMO headset started making my ears sore, I switched to listening on my iPod earphones).
Long, long curved desks faced the raised platform where the Chairman, IMO secretary general, head of the Secretariat, and others sat. Each delegation had space at the table, and spare chairs behind, and a large name “card”. The cards were important in debate, you held it aloft, or turned it at 90 degrees so it stood vertically in the supporting groove at the front of your desk to attract the chairman’s attention.
The cards even crept into the use of language in interesting ways: “I raise my card to speak in support of …” or “I see no more cards, can we move on?”
While the text of the draft convention hard largely been hammered out over previous sessions of the committee (which every IMO member may attend), a lot of work had been done in “inter-sessional” working groups which had to be approved. This was not immune to amendment from the floor, or simply debate over what the States understood the words to mean. As you watched your saw States fly kites, state positions or seek clarification for the record, and sometimes make a real stab at changing things.
The other thing that sort of staggered me, but was obvious in retrospect, is that the text that was debated was an English text. Despite the treaty ultimately being produced in several official languages, all equally authentic, all States – regardless of their official language – were effectively debating shades of meaning in English.
The diplomatic culture was interesting to watch in operation. There was clearly a high premium placed on being seen to be “flexible”, and on supporting “compromise” solutions. A phrase often repeated was “we can live with this wording”, often proceeded by phrases like “while it may cause us some problems in domestic law” or “while the drafting could be improved” or “while we find the language vague”. The role of a good chairman in articulating the mood of the meeting and seeking to arrive at consensus decisions was apparent.
It was a sudden and salutary lesson that you can’t consider a treaty as a text received from on high. Problems in drafting, odd gaps or ambiguities, of the type endlessly worried at by academics represent hard-fought battles to reach something which, if not entirely satisfactory to anyone, was the best that could be achieved.
That said, there was a surprising amount of good humour in the whole process. (Proving that some jokes really do translate.) The Rolling Stones quote was even raised: “You can’t always get what you want / But if you try sometimes you just might find / You get what you need”.
Quite apt really.
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Engagingly silly suspense: “The Interpreter”
Set your credulity to max and scepticism to zero, and this is surprisingly enjoyable and decidely entertaining.
OK, a UN-based human-rights themed thrilled just shouldn’t work. Especially when it features the following:
This should only be compounded by a truly contrived plot device: a translator - by sheer fluke - overhears an assassination plot, a whispered conversation conducted in a room filled with microphones in an obscure African dialect she just happens to understand.
This sets the film rolling when we realise a dictator from the Kidman character’s fictitious African home country may be assassinated in the General Assembly as he gives an address to attempt to avoid the Security Council referring him to the International Criminal Court. (Don’t ask.)
Why does it work? A wonderful sense of urgency, tension and menace pervades the film. Some scenes are wound tight enough to burst. Penn and Kidman bring a surprising amount of depth to their roles as individuals damaged by loss and struggling with their respective cynicism and idealism and mutual mistrust.
Even if the detail on international law and relations is occasionally a bit thin, the resonances with present international debates (human rights, international criminal law, the role of the UN) is engaging and the UN building in New York makes a unique set that astonishingly has never been used before in film.
I also have it from my flatmate who used to intern at the US delegation to the Security Council that many of the extras are genuine UN delegates who insisted on playing themselves during filming.
And if it inspires a new generation of idealists about the UN's potential in international affairs, that can only be a good thing.
Set your credulity to max and scepticism to zero, and this is surprisingly enjoyable and decidely entertaining.
OK, a UN-based human-rights themed thrilled just shouldn’t work. Especially when it features the following:
Nicole Kidman’s quasi South African accent as a UN translator with a mysterious past;
Sean Penn as a gun-toting hard bitten Secret Service Agent with a tender side;
some dodgy politics (a CIA briefing on African independence movements calmly describes their inevitable descent into autocracy – such a backward continent, diplomatic protection detail often involves protecting Asian diplomats from lap-dancers);
more than the odd glitch on international law; and
some awful dialogue moments and clumsily manouevered plot elements that almost jump out with a red flag and go “look at me! I’ll be relevant later on!”
This should only be compounded by a truly contrived plot device: a translator - by sheer fluke - overhears an assassination plot, a whispered conversation conducted in a room filled with microphones in an obscure African dialect she just happens to understand.
This sets the film rolling when we realise a dictator from the Kidman character’s fictitious African home country may be assassinated in the General Assembly as he gives an address to attempt to avoid the Security Council referring him to the International Criminal Court. (Don’t ask.)
Why does it work? A wonderful sense of urgency, tension and menace pervades the film. Some scenes are wound tight enough to burst. Penn and Kidman bring a surprising amount of depth to their roles as individuals damaged by loss and struggling with their respective cynicism and idealism and mutual mistrust.
Even if the detail on international law and relations is occasionally a bit thin, the resonances with present international debates (human rights, international criminal law, the role of the UN) is engaging and the UN building in New York makes a unique set that astonishingly has never been used before in film.
I also have it from my flatmate who used to intern at the US delegation to the Security Council that many of the extras are genuine UN delegates who insisted on playing themselves during filming.
And if it inspires a new generation of idealists about the UN's potential in international affairs, that can only be a good thing.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
MCI sports center, Washington DC
A day at the races, at the basketball
Yes that is a race-course laid out in the middle of a basketball court.
For babies.
I’m not entirely sure what I expected on going to see a Wizards’ game (Washington’s home team) while I was in DC, but my idea of half-time entertainment had not really extended to baby-racing.
It had been part of a plan to take in some local culture: a Sunday basketball game, what could be more American? The sports complex, near the Chinatown metro station, was a simply enormous affair, and we seemed to go up a gazillion escalators before finding our seats.
So, if you want proof of the short, short, short American attention span: go to a basketball game. Several things astonished me. First, the organ dude didn’t just play the national anthem – he or she provided a continuous sound-track to the entire game, meant to heighten suspense (presumably) but largely consisting of standard riffs, including, oddly, the Addams Family theme. Second, whenever a time out was called – even for 10 seconds – cheerleaders, sorry the “dance team” or some strange blue mascot would rush on court to entertain us. The Canadian was disturbed by Cheerleaders. We were sitting a long way from the ground, but in their initial outfits their cleavage was still visible from about five floors up. Later in the game they came back on in something more like Britney Spears business-wear. Presumably to keep things “wholesome”.
If not being distracted by dancing or amusing mascot-antics in the time-outs, the cameras would sweep the seating and you’d watch the big screens as people were encouraged to dance, or kiss, or wave. I’m not sure if there was a prize beyond your face being plastered on a really big screen.
And at half time? Baby-racing. Kiddies crawling along a strip from one parent to another. Two rounds of heats and a grand final with a $300 prize. It could only have been better if you could lay bets on it. Though my kid would have been the one who crawled half way down the course, took a 90 degree turn out onto the basketball court and sat down and looked bemused. None seemed frightened by the noise.
Oh, and I asked the Belgian to get me “a small sprite”. The smallest available was the size of my head. I had to go the bathroom almost continuously for the second half.
Not that I missed much. It was one of the slowest scoring first halves that either the Wizards or the Pacers had ever had, apparently. There was a cliffhanger in the last six minutes of playing time with the visitors holding a slim lead. The home team, scrambling to catch up, tried to equalise with a 3-point throw in the final seconds of the game, to no avail.
But they weren’t a patch on baby racing.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Bangkok Joe's, Washington DC
The DC adventure: hitting the town
It’s always fun seeing a city through a friend’s eyes. It’s also fun travelling in a place with a weaker currency than the pound (ie everywhere). While eating out a lot was still an indulgence, it was a far more reasonably priced one.
Led by a Belgian (see yesterday’s entry) the PhD gang hit some great restaurants once the conference buffet dinners petered out. One such establishment was the lovely, and remarkably reasonable, Bangkok Joe’s (see photo). Excellent Thai. We repaired afterwards to the fabulously funky Mie N Yu. Check out the online tour (we were in the Moroccan Bazaar bar).
With my Australian host I saw the inside of several bars, one of the better was Local 16. Including having the experience of a head waitress/bar-person cross the room to give him a hug, have a chat and wave our little party past the ID check to the rooftop bar. (He’s clearly spent some time and money in a number of places.)
And I managed to buy clothes, again. An amazingly sleek grey wool overcoat with duffle-coat toggles and (wait for it) a blue cord jacket with fawn suede elbow patches. Perfect junior academic regalia. My host’s comment on the latter was: “When I heard cord with elbow patches, I feared the worst. But that actually looks like rather funky streetwear.”
A change in my routine
I am attempting to be good this week. Recovering from jet-lag, and still being inspired by the conference and my interviews about my research - it seemed a good time to try and form new habits.
Part of this process is that I’ve come up with a totally new plan of what I want to do for my first year paper, so I’m trying to pull different things together and get a lot of new research done.
So, my new daily routine. Wake up 7.00 or 7.30, 10 minutes yoga followed by a 10 minute run round the sports-ground. Shave, shower, breakfast. Coffee and the online newspapers until 9 am. 9-1 work in my room, mostly writing.
Then lunch from 1-2, and in at the law school library by 2 chasing references, looking things up, photocopying and reading. Leave around 5.30 or 5.45.
This is proving frighteningly productive, and means I am finally and definitely treating the PhD as an office job. Let’s hope it lasts.
Tomorrow: a day at the baby races.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Coming full circle in Washington DC
Ah, Washington when the cherry blossom is in bloom: when it can be a sunny balmy 21 degrees one day and belting with rain the next.
My time in DC (I got back on Wednesday) was something of a homecoming. The last time I was there, nearly a decade ago, I was a law student competing in the Jessup International Law moot. It was an astonishingly stressful week, but which culminated in my team reaching the grand final. Presenting arguments before the Whewell Professor of International Law at Cambridge (now my supervisor), a judge of the International Court of Justice and a prosecutor from the Yugoslav war crimes tribunal was exhilarating. We lost to the State University of Mexico, but managed to walk away with a number of prizes other than the runners-up trophy.
I had never studied international law before the gruelling four months of my life that the Jessup moot eventually consumed. Part of the thrill of even being at the international rounds was that they were held in conjunction with the American Society of International Law conference – the academic conference in the field. People you though of as names on a textbook were all there, milling about, talking.
So, returning to go to the ASIL conference as a PhD student from Cambridge was accompanied by an odd, quiet sense of having come full circle. I wasn’t at all hyped about the Jessup dimension to proceedings until a Canadian friend and fellow Cambridge-Phud type convinced me to go see the final. Not only had she done the international rounds of the Jessup the same year as me, but the problem this year overlapped with both our research interests (the law of the sea, piracy, terrorism and State responsibility).
When we arrived, we wound up watching the final in an overflow room on a giant screen: the big advantage of this being we got an extremely good view of the advocates and close-ups on the judges during questions. What really got me though, was the grand final was an Australian (UQ) against a Malaysian team. There was a strong sense of déjà vu, as I and the Canadian sat and muttered and twitched and whispered comments on points of law to each other. We left satisfied as to which team had won, and decided to look up the result on the web later.
Curiously, I also wound up staying in much the same district, Adams Morgan near Dupont Circle, as I had last time I was in DC. Not a lot appeared to have changed, but with my “native” (Belgian and Australian) guides to the city, the night life was certainly a lot more interesting. But more of that later.
Ah, Washington when the cherry blossom is in bloom: when it can be a sunny balmy 21 degrees one day and belting with rain the next.
My time in DC (I got back on Wednesday) was something of a homecoming. The last time I was there, nearly a decade ago, I was a law student competing in the Jessup International Law moot. It was an astonishingly stressful week, but which culminated in my team reaching the grand final. Presenting arguments before the Whewell Professor of International Law at Cambridge (now my supervisor), a judge of the International Court of Justice and a prosecutor from the Yugoslav war crimes tribunal was exhilarating. We lost to the State University of Mexico, but managed to walk away with a number of prizes other than the runners-up trophy.
I had never studied international law before the gruelling four months of my life that the Jessup moot eventually consumed. Part of the thrill of even being at the international rounds was that they were held in conjunction with the American Society of International Law conference – the academic conference in the field. People you though of as names on a textbook were all there, milling about, talking.
So, returning to go to the ASIL conference as a PhD student from Cambridge was accompanied by an odd, quiet sense of having come full circle. I wasn’t at all hyped about the Jessup dimension to proceedings until a Canadian friend and fellow Cambridge-Phud type convinced me to go see the final. Not only had she done the international rounds of the Jessup the same year as me, but the problem this year overlapped with both our research interests (the law of the sea, piracy, terrorism and State responsibility).
When we arrived, we wound up watching the final in an overflow room on a giant screen: the big advantage of this being we got an extremely good view of the advocates and close-ups on the judges during questions. What really got me though, was the grand final was an Australian (UQ) against a Malaysian team. There was a strong sense of déjà vu, as I and the Canadian sat and muttered and twitched and whispered comments on points of law to each other. We left satisfied as to which team had won, and decided to look up the result on the web later.
Curiously, I also wound up staying in much the same district, Adams Morgan near Dupont Circle, as I had last time I was in DC. Not a lot appeared to have changed, but with my “native” (Belgian and Australian) guides to the city, the night life was certainly a lot more interesting. But more of that later.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Un-American activities
I wonder if I'm randomly searched at Dulles and my copy of Phillipe Sands "Lawless World: American and the making and breaking of global rules" is found in my hand-luggage whether that will constitute grounds for being summarily deported?
I wonder if I'm randomly searched at Dulles and my copy of Phillipe Sands "Lawless World: American and the making and breaking of global rules" is found in my hand-luggage whether that will constitute grounds for being summarily deported?
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Fun days in international law
"It's great that the law of the sea has got exciting again."
These were the words of a senior academic to me on Tuesday, on discovering that several PhD students working on law of the sea issues had trotted down to London for a symposium on the law of the sea. For a field with a dry, technical reputation the place was - as academic affairs go - buzzing.
WMD proliferation, terrorism, the environment, fisheries disputes have all put the law of the sea back on the agenda in terms of issues with a lot of political currency and academic interest. Of course, it's symptomatic of law that "interesting" usually equates to - "things may go badly wrong sometime soon."
On average, the papers were very good. Presentation quality, though, was variable. Some academics do not make the greatest public speakers.
Anyway, as much as anything it was good to make a few connections, both with senior academics and peers. Similarly, about a month ago I went to a highly informative round table session on the Proliferation Security Initiative at Chatham House - where I was, I think, able to participate in a discussion with academics and other lawyers without coming across as a moron.
And on Tuesday I'm off to the intellectual theme-park that is the American Society of International Law conference in Washington DC for a week. While I'm over there it also looks like I'll be interviewing lawyers in US government agencies who work in my field - and having a supervision meeting in the conference venue lobby to discuss my term's work with my supervisor.
The level of weird in my life just keeps rising.
PS Went punting again today. And watched the new Dr Who episode as it went to air with another Australian brought up on that heady Tom Baker vintage.
"It's great that the law of the sea has got exciting again."
These were the words of a senior academic to me on Tuesday, on discovering that several PhD students working on law of the sea issues had trotted down to London for a symposium on the law of the sea. For a field with a dry, technical reputation the place was - as academic affairs go - buzzing.
WMD proliferation, terrorism, the environment, fisheries disputes have all put the law of the sea back on the agenda in terms of issues with a lot of political currency and academic interest. Of course, it's symptomatic of law that "interesting" usually equates to - "things may go badly wrong sometime soon."
On average, the papers were very good. Presentation quality, though, was variable. Some academics do not make the greatest public speakers.
Anyway, as much as anything it was good to make a few connections, both with senior academics and peers. Similarly, about a month ago I went to a highly informative round table session on the Proliferation Security Initiative at Chatham House - where I was, I think, able to participate in a discussion with academics and other lawyers without coming across as a moron.
And on Tuesday I'm off to the intellectual theme-park that is the American Society of International Law conference in Washington DC for a week. While I'm over there it also looks like I'll be interviewing lawyers in US government agencies who work in my field - and having a supervision meeting in the conference venue lobby to discuss my term's work with my supervisor.
The level of weird in my life just keeps rising.
PS Went punting again today. And watched the new Dr Who episode as it went to air with another Australian brought up on that heady Tom Baker vintage.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
A fine three-day weekend
When you’ve suffered through a five month British winter, even when you did get to go home for Christmas, even when you’ve promised your supervisor a frankly silly amount of work by Monday – nothing is going to keep you indoors when the mercury hits 17c and the sky is pristine blue, like the shrink wrapping just came off.
So, I cheerfully threw my Friday away and got myself out into the sun – snapping some photos included over here under “End of Lent Term”. By far the best moment came with bumping into another couple of sun-delirious Aussie international lawyers. One had just finished applying for research exchange programs to the States, the other had just finished a term’s teaching and had booked a week’s lastminute.com skiing in Austria.
We sat at the riverside near Magdelene college and watched a guy accidentally spear a bike on the bottom of the Cam with his punt pole and drag it up from the weedy depths.
I had Jasmine and Peter up for the weekend from London, and despite abandoning them for a few hours on Friday to go to a formal dinner at Downing, we had a fine old time in Cambrige.
Besides, they gave me a long awaited excuse to tackle a 1999 Royal Hungarian Tokaji I’d been saving for a special occasion (never has a dessert wine been so smooth and apricot-y). For double the fun, we even teamed up with some friends of my sister’s over from Oxford for some Saturday punting action.
I didn’t spear any bicycles, but got us without mishap through an hour of tourist-fuelled mayhem on the river. We were rammed once by an undergrad punting a whale of a barge of a punt, but everyone stayed in the punt, including, happily the guy attached to the punt pole – me.
As always, there was some poor Japanese dude, first time in a punt, at 90 degrees to the current and the traffic just prodding about helplessly with the punt pole while his girlfriend looked amused. I tell you, there's one every sunny summer weekend day.
We happy three also got through a hit-parade of Colleges, pubs and ducked through King’s Chapel and the Fitzwilliam Museum, and more or less rounded off the weekend in Cambridge with an outstanding pub lunch at the Free Press, one of the few non-smoking pubs in Cambridge.
Anywhere three people can have two courses and wine for £40 is great by me, especially when the lamb shank portions are so huge Jasmine had to declare defeat.
Very full of food and sleepy now, time for some West Wing DVDs and an early night.
Hopefully, tomorrow will be a fabulous day for international law: I’m certainly well rested and gloriously fortified for it. If it's sunny again though, my productivity may be ruined. (My flatmates have been checking sites obsessively: weather.com is picking rain; bbc.co.uk/weather is backing sun. Go figure.)
When you’ve suffered through a five month British winter, even when you did get to go home for Christmas, even when you’ve promised your supervisor a frankly silly amount of work by Monday – nothing is going to keep you indoors when the mercury hits 17c and the sky is pristine blue, like the shrink wrapping just came off.
So, I cheerfully threw my Friday away and got myself out into the sun – snapping some photos included over here under “End of Lent Term”. By far the best moment came with bumping into another couple of sun-delirious Aussie international lawyers. One had just finished applying for research exchange programs to the States, the other had just finished a term’s teaching and had booked a week’s lastminute.com skiing in Austria.
We sat at the riverside near Magdelene college and watched a guy accidentally spear a bike on the bottom of the Cam with his punt pole and drag it up from the weedy depths.
I had Jasmine and Peter up for the weekend from London, and despite abandoning them for a few hours on Friday to go to a formal dinner at Downing, we had a fine old time in Cambrige.
Besides, they gave me a long awaited excuse to tackle a 1999 Royal Hungarian Tokaji I’d been saving for a special occasion (never has a dessert wine been so smooth and apricot-y). For double the fun, we even teamed up with some friends of my sister’s over from Oxford for some Saturday punting action.
I didn’t spear any bicycles, but got us without mishap through an hour of tourist-fuelled mayhem on the river. We were rammed once by an undergrad punting a whale of a barge of a punt, but everyone stayed in the punt, including, happily the guy attached to the punt pole – me.
As always, there was some poor Japanese dude, first time in a punt, at 90 degrees to the current and the traffic just prodding about helplessly with the punt pole while his girlfriend looked amused. I tell you, there's one every sunny summer weekend day.
We happy three also got through a hit-parade of Colleges, pubs and ducked through King’s Chapel and the Fitzwilliam Museum, and more or less rounded off the weekend in Cambridge with an outstanding pub lunch at the Free Press, one of the few non-smoking pubs in Cambridge.
Anywhere three people can have two courses and wine for £40 is great by me, especially when the lamb shank portions are so huge Jasmine had to declare defeat.
Very full of food and sleepy now, time for some West Wing DVDs and an early night.
Hopefully, tomorrow will be a fabulous day for international law: I’m certainly well rested and gloriously fortified for it. If it's sunny again though, my productivity may be ruined. (My flatmates have been checking sites obsessively: weather.com is picking rain; bbc.co.uk/weather is backing sun. Go figure.)
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Keys and porters, once again
So I lost my keys on Wednesday. I’d just been to Oddbins on Kings Parade with a friend to buy a bottle to take to the Blind Wine Tasting Society Annual Dinner (it was super, thanks for asking) – unlocked my bike, cycled down the Road to King’s, unlocked my lock, looped my lock through front wheel and frame and went into the King’s café.
Forty minutes later – no keys and a stationary bike. I checked, neither Porters nor café staff had seen them. So I wheeled my bike (on it’s back wheel only) round to college. It had gone five and the workshop was closed. The Porter’s bolt cutters had weary old blades that came about 2 mm short of meeting in the middle – making it impossible to completely slice the cable core of my lock.
So, I dumped it, mutilated lock and all in North Court, borrowed a gown and went to grad hall in turtle-neck and cords. (I had a guest, a lawyer from Queensland who did the LLM with me last year. We were joined in the bar afterwards by two medics. Three words: very messy night.)
The next day I finally managed to catch one of the maintenance guys in the workshop as opposed to out on call. The workshop is through an old stairwell, round a corner, down three flights of stairs and through a cage door. Getting my bike down there – less than super fun.
Seeing a maintenance dude sever those last 2 mil of cable with an angle grinder: fun. Orange sparks everywhere and a safety briefing amounting to: “You probably shouldn’t look straight at this.” Then a ride back up to the garage in the maintenance lift. (Thanks for telling me earlier.)
Oh, and my bike now has a combination lock.
On seeing the new lock one friend said: “Aren’t you afraid of it getting stolen now you have a thinner lock?”
“My bike is basically a mouldering piece of crap,” I replied. “I doubt anyone’s going to want it that much.”
“I thought it was your trusty steed.”
“Oh it is. I just have no illusions that my trusty steed is anything other than a mouldering piece of crap.”
At which point she offered to sell me her bike when she leaves in the Summer. Farewell, trusty steed.
So I lost my keys on Wednesday. I’d just been to Oddbins on Kings Parade with a friend to buy a bottle to take to the Blind Wine Tasting Society Annual Dinner (it was super, thanks for asking) – unlocked my bike, cycled down the Road to King’s, unlocked my lock, looped my lock through front wheel and frame and went into the King’s café.
Forty minutes later – no keys and a stationary bike. I checked, neither Porters nor café staff had seen them. So I wheeled my bike (on it’s back wheel only) round to college. It had gone five and the workshop was closed. The Porter’s bolt cutters had weary old blades that came about 2 mm short of meeting in the middle – making it impossible to completely slice the cable core of my lock.
So, I dumped it, mutilated lock and all in North Court, borrowed a gown and went to grad hall in turtle-neck and cords. (I had a guest, a lawyer from Queensland who did the LLM with me last year. We were joined in the bar afterwards by two medics. Three words: very messy night.)
The next day I finally managed to catch one of the maintenance guys in the workshop as opposed to out on call. The workshop is through an old stairwell, round a corner, down three flights of stairs and through a cage door. Getting my bike down there – less than super fun.
Seeing a maintenance dude sever those last 2 mil of cable with an angle grinder: fun. Orange sparks everywhere and a safety briefing amounting to: “You probably shouldn’t look straight at this.” Then a ride back up to the garage in the maintenance lift. (Thanks for telling me earlier.)
Oh, and my bike now has a combination lock.
On seeing the new lock one friend said: “Aren’t you afraid of it getting stolen now you have a thinner lock?”
“My bike is basically a mouldering piece of crap,” I replied. “I doubt anyone’s going to want it that much.”
“I thought it was your trusty steed.”
“Oh it is. I just have no illusions that my trusty steed is anything other than a mouldering piece of crap.”
At which point she offered to sell me her bike when she leaves in the Summer. Farewell, trusty steed.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Dr Who and class
Most of the actors playing the Doctor played a slightly foppish eccentric, who if not exactly an aristocrat, certainly had an RP accent and a distinct belief that the rules did not apply him.
One of the delightful things about Christopher Eccleston’s Doctor (yes, I’ve cheated and seen the new episode) is that he has a Northern accent. In his really interesting interview on the BBC website he displays a great sensitivity towards the show’s place in UK culture. He talks about the innocence of the time in which the character was born, an innocence in the face of rapid technological change. He also speaks about his own youthful enjoyment of the show as escapism, but feeling distanced as a council-estate kid from the Britain the foppish Doctor moved in. Eccleston also comments that he wanted to portray a Doctor who was neither assertively working class, nor an aristocrat, but somewhere between. (Apt, really, for the outsider the character should be.)
With a very light touch, the new Doctor Who series is negotiating issues of class and reaching out a little more directly to the child Eccleston was. The Doctor’s new companion, Rose (Billy Piper) is an assertive, self-confident girl who’s left school without A-levels. She lives with her mother (no visible Dad), works in a department store and has a black boyfriend.
In a gorgeous moment she asks why, if the Doctor’s an alien, he has a Northern accent. “Plenty of planets have a North,” comes the reply. Not only does the Doctor now have a regional accent, he has relatively unremarkable (even faintly cool) dress sense. Eccleston in his leather jacket is going to be the first Doctor since Pertwee to completely spurn a hat, and could actually walk down Oxford Street and catch the tube without anyone batting an eyelid.
The initial episode, or the edit of it circulating the internet, has some problems. The incidental music is heavy-handed, the special effects variable, the sense of humour occasionally far too slapstick. However, it has an exuberant sense of fun, and some genuinely creepy moments. It honours the old show, without being subservient. It brings back that sense that the real world is a strange place, that at any moment an eccentric seeming-Englishman might burst from a flimsy wooden blue box and transport us into a dangerous world of adventure.
I’m rather looking forward to it.
Most of the actors playing the Doctor played a slightly foppish eccentric, who if not exactly an aristocrat, certainly had an RP accent and a distinct belief that the rules did not apply him.
One of the delightful things about Christopher Eccleston’s Doctor (yes, I’ve cheated and seen the new episode) is that he has a Northern accent. In his really interesting interview on the BBC website he displays a great sensitivity towards the show’s place in UK culture. He talks about the innocence of the time in which the character was born, an innocence in the face of rapid technological change. He also speaks about his own youthful enjoyment of the show as escapism, but feeling distanced as a council-estate kid from the Britain the foppish Doctor moved in. Eccleston also comments that he wanted to portray a Doctor who was neither assertively working class, nor an aristocrat, but somewhere between. (Apt, really, for the outsider the character should be.)
With a very light touch, the new Doctor Who series is negotiating issues of class and reaching out a little more directly to the child Eccleston was. The Doctor’s new companion, Rose (Billy Piper) is an assertive, self-confident girl who’s left school without A-levels. She lives with her mother (no visible Dad), works in a department store and has a black boyfriend.
In a gorgeous moment she asks why, if the Doctor’s an alien, he has a Northern accent. “Plenty of planets have a North,” comes the reply. Not only does the Doctor now have a regional accent, he has relatively unremarkable (even faintly cool) dress sense. Eccleston in his leather jacket is going to be the first Doctor since Pertwee to completely spurn a hat, and could actually walk down Oxford Street and catch the tube without anyone batting an eyelid.
The initial episode, or the edit of it circulating the internet, has some problems. The incidental music is heavy-handed, the special effects variable, the sense of humour occasionally far too slapstick. However, it has an exuberant sense of fun, and some genuinely creepy moments. It honours the old show, without being subservient. It brings back that sense that the real world is a strange place, that at any moment an eccentric seeming-Englishman might burst from a flimsy wooden blue box and transport us into a dangerous world of adventure.
I’m rather looking forward to it.
Tuesday, March 8, 2005
Back from the trenches
The play ended Saturday, and I’m still tired. Also, I’m realising how many things I foolishly said “yes” to, on the basis that they were in that infinite expanse of time marked “after the play”. So, this week I have two graduate halls (Wednesday, Thursday), a cast reunion (Friday), possibly a house party (Friday), the blind wine tasting society annual dinner (Saturday) and a Jeeves and Wooster themed gathering to read Wodehouse (Sunday).
I’ve also organised a “people’s direct action committee for cake”, to see that it is possible on Thursday’s at 4 pm to eat cake in graduate common room in college. So yes, still tired, still shaking my second (third?) cold of term and still procrastinating.
I did, foolishly, attempt some research today. After spending a few hours writing in the morning my afternoon consisted primarily of an hour spent chasing down a footnote to an irrelevancy.
This took me to that place where all good intentions go to die, the University Library. I understand the Bodleian Library at Oxford is a marvel of architecture. The Cambridge UL is a marvel of hideousness and was used as the exterior of the Ministry of Truth in a French TV production of “1984”. (True.)
The bookstacks are of the ugly metal shelving cabinet variety, and have very narrow spaces between. There are ugly green carpet squares on the floor, and lights on timer dials one can never find. In the South Front section of the building the actual corridors at the head of stacks are so narrow it is only possible to sit across the short side of a table while consulting a book.
Admittedly, there are some nice reading nooks on the ground floor and the rare books room is pretty. But the main stacks – claustrophobia, seventies archival ugliness and the pervasive smell of dust.
In addition, the e-catalogue is not entirely reliable pre-1978. The old catalogue consists of huge books with tiny slips of paper pasted in in three columns and runs to hundreds of volumes. I kid you not.
Some people complain about the modernity of the law library: bring it on I say.
The play ended Saturday, and I’m still tired. Also, I’m realising how many things I foolishly said “yes” to, on the basis that they were in that infinite expanse of time marked “after the play”. So, this week I have two graduate halls (Wednesday, Thursday), a cast reunion (Friday), possibly a house party (Friday), the blind wine tasting society annual dinner (Saturday) and a Jeeves and Wooster themed gathering to read Wodehouse (Sunday).
I’ve also organised a “people’s direct action committee for cake”, to see that it is possible on Thursday’s at 4 pm to eat cake in graduate common room in college. So yes, still tired, still shaking my second (third?) cold of term and still procrastinating.
I did, foolishly, attempt some research today. After spending a few hours writing in the morning my afternoon consisted primarily of an hour spent chasing down a footnote to an irrelevancy.
This took me to that place where all good intentions go to die, the University Library. I understand the Bodleian Library at Oxford is a marvel of architecture. The Cambridge UL is a marvel of hideousness and was used as the exterior of the Ministry of Truth in a French TV production of “1984”. (True.)
The bookstacks are of the ugly metal shelving cabinet variety, and have very narrow spaces between. There are ugly green carpet squares on the floor, and lights on timer dials one can never find. In the South Front section of the building the actual corridors at the head of stacks are so narrow it is only possible to sit across the short side of a table while consulting a book.
Admittedly, there are some nice reading nooks on the ground floor and the rare books room is pretty. But the main stacks – claustrophobia, seventies archival ugliness and the pervasive smell of dust.
In addition, the e-catalogue is not entirely reliable pre-1978. The old catalogue consists of huge books with tiny slips of paper pasted in in three columns and runs to hundreds of volumes. I kid you not.
Some people complain about the modernity of the law library: bring it on I say.
Thursday, March 3, 2005
The Home Front
Rifle drill (me far left)
My flatmates rock. They threw me flowers at curtain call tonight: tulips and lilies. They kind of caught me in the head, but never mind.
The front two rows of stage right were college friends. A trifle intimidating, but the Americans loved the “Texan pirate” accent I attempt for my American role.
Anyway, some extremely good photos from the play are now up over here. I can’t claim credit for them, they were taken by a photographer for one of the two student papers here. The one of me sitting and reading featured in today’s rather favourable review. I was praised for my “confidence”, though my name was misspelled.
What is it they say about publicity?
For those who don’t know “Oh What A Lovely War!” it’s a musical satire of the first world war (and implicitly, all war) but is framed as an end-of-the-pier Edwardian pierrot show (hence the clown outfits), which becomes more militaristic and dark as it progresses.
Rifle drill (me far left)
My flatmates rock. They threw me flowers at curtain call tonight: tulips and lilies. They kind of caught me in the head, but never mind.
The front two rows of stage right were college friends. A trifle intimidating, but the Americans loved the “Texan pirate” accent I attempt for my American role.
Anyway, some extremely good photos from the play are now up over here. I can’t claim credit for them, they were taken by a photographer for one of the two student papers here. The one of me sitting and reading featured in today’s rather favourable review. I was praised for my “confidence”, though my name was misspelled.
What is it they say about publicity?
For those who don’t know “Oh What A Lovely War!” it’s a musical satire of the first world war (and implicitly, all war) but is framed as an end-of-the-pier Edwardian pierrot show (hence the clown outfits), which becomes more militaristic and dark as it progresses.
News from the Front
"Oh What A Lovely War!", despite a major last minute crisis, is playing to full houses and an amazing reception from audiences. We’re two nights down and three to go.
The rewards of sacrificing up to 12 or 15 hours a week on rehearsal over the last 5 or 6 weeks are becoming wonderfully apparent as the show goes off each night largely without a hitch.
The hideous crisis, though, was that we’re doing a musical with live piano and drums accompaniment and the night of the technical rehearsal our pianist fell really ill. By the next morning he’d been hospitalised with sort of stomach infection, the poor guy.
As a friend of the director and producer, I spent the morning of the dress rehearsal frantically e-mailing musicians (then friends of friends of musicians) while they chased around Cambridge. Eventually I got an ad out on a musicians’ e-mail list – and we found someone who knew the piano score for the show already, so all was well.
And the show really has come together. The liveliness of the Edwardian popular songs and comedy in the first half are going over really well in the intimate (and very oddly shaped) space of the Corpus Playroom, and contrasting nicely with the much darker humour of the second half.
It’s also fabulous that we’d sold out the run, other than 20 seats on the first night, before the show opened – and not only sold out the first night, but had to turn people away. True, the venue only sits 80 or 90, but over a 5 night run it’s still a big achievement. (Our producer is a PR genius.)
I’m really beginning to relax into my second-half role of Sir Douglas Haig, and have got some praise for my surprisingly convincing “rah rah” toff’s accent. I did come out with an utterly Australian “ab-Zurd” instead of the UK RP “ab-Surd” as a British naval officer on opening night, but otherwise I’m giving the order to “AD-vance” (with a short plosive "a") instead of a drawling “ad-VAH-nce” nicely. My comic accent for the American war profiteer (think John Wayne meets a pirate in Texas) is also playing well.
The cast is amazingly talented, and has bonded really well. We don’t so much whistle as we work (we have 20 minutes to get-out the set and all props before the late show comes in) as sing tunes from the show.
I’m quite exhausted, but loving every bit of it. As with reading Sir Isaac Newton last term, though, I still get a really stupid buzz out of being an Australian in Cambridge playing significant figures from British history.
Revenge of the empire, wot.
"Oh What A Lovely War!", despite a major last minute crisis, is playing to full houses and an amazing reception from audiences. We’re two nights down and three to go.
The rewards of sacrificing up to 12 or 15 hours a week on rehearsal over the last 5 or 6 weeks are becoming wonderfully apparent as the show goes off each night largely without a hitch.
The hideous crisis, though, was that we’re doing a musical with live piano and drums accompaniment and the night of the technical rehearsal our pianist fell really ill. By the next morning he’d been hospitalised with sort of stomach infection, the poor guy.
As a friend of the director and producer, I spent the morning of the dress rehearsal frantically e-mailing musicians (then friends of friends of musicians) while they chased around Cambridge. Eventually I got an ad out on a musicians’ e-mail list – and we found someone who knew the piano score for the show already, so all was well.
And the show really has come together. The liveliness of the Edwardian popular songs and comedy in the first half are going over really well in the intimate (and very oddly shaped) space of the Corpus Playroom, and contrasting nicely with the much darker humour of the second half.
It’s also fabulous that we’d sold out the run, other than 20 seats on the first night, before the show opened – and not only sold out the first night, but had to turn people away. True, the venue only sits 80 or 90, but over a 5 night run it’s still a big achievement. (Our producer is a PR genius.)
I’m really beginning to relax into my second-half role of Sir Douglas Haig, and have got some praise for my surprisingly convincing “rah rah” toff’s accent. I did come out with an utterly Australian “ab-Zurd” instead of the UK RP “ab-Surd” as a British naval officer on opening night, but otherwise I’m giving the order to “AD-vance” (with a short plosive "a") instead of a drawling “ad-VAH-nce” nicely. My comic accent for the American war profiteer (think John Wayne meets a pirate in Texas) is also playing well.
The cast is amazingly talented, and has bonded really well. We don’t so much whistle as we work (we have 20 minutes to get-out the set and all props before the late show comes in) as sing tunes from the show.
I’m quite exhausted, but loving every bit of it. As with reading Sir Isaac Newton last term, though, I still get a really stupid buzz out of being an Australian in Cambridge playing significant figures from British history.
Revenge of the empire, wot.
Monday, February 28, 2005
I don't believe it ...
It's taken just over two years of on-line publishing to achieve (and several months of private writing before that), but I've done it. I've finished a first draft of Naylor's Canberra.
It's been a long, long trip and I hope if you've been reading and have made it this far, I hope you've enjoyed it. If you have any comments on this first draft of Naylor please do leave a comment or e-mail me at reallyquiteunlikely AT yahoo DOT com DOT au.
In fact, please leave a comment even if you're just one of the silent, regular readers. It would be great to know how many people the Naylor project has reached.
I'm off to cycle through snow and help deal with theatrical crises now.
PS A shout out and special thanks to Marissa (for support, and setting in motion the train of thought that culminated in Naylor's Canberra), Jason (for regular comments, and equally regular badgering every week I missed) and Dan at quantum meruit (for regular comments, and legal advice when I got rusty).
It's taken just over two years of on-line publishing to achieve (and several months of private writing before that), but I've done it. I've finished a first draft of Naylor's Canberra.
It's been a long, long trip and I hope if you've been reading and have made it this far, I hope you've enjoyed it. If you have any comments on this first draft of Naylor please do leave a comment or e-mail me at reallyquiteunlikely AT yahoo DOT com DOT au.
In fact, please leave a comment even if you're just one of the silent, regular readers. It would be great to know how many people the Naylor project has reached.
I'm off to cycle through snow and help deal with theatrical crises now.
PS A shout out and special thanks to Marissa (for support, and setting in motion the train of thought that culminated in Naylor's Canberra), Jason (for regular comments, and equally regular badgering every week I missed) and Dan at quantum meruit (for regular comments, and legal advice when I got rusty).
Sunday, February 27, 2005
I am the logistics king!
Two recent examples of why I manage to top most of my friend's list of "most scarily organised people."
(1) I have managed to organise a group booking of 20 for one of the smaller, but very pleasant, May Balls - thus securing everyone a discount-priced ticket. (Discounts were for groups of 10. Just try imagining the logistics, and potentially the politics, of putting together 2 groups of *exactly* 10.)
I am even doing reasonably well so far at rounding up payment from everyone, thus avoiding footing a 1300 pound bill on my own. (Gulp.)
All this while spending around 13 hours a week rehearsing a play that has led me to, as I've put it, "cancel my life" from 6 pm Thursday gone to 11 pm Saturday coming. (PhD, what PhD?)
(2)Speaking of the play, an emerging issue in "Oh What A Lovely War!" was props management - every character each actor plays (and most have 6+) has different props and hats. Multiply that by a dozen actors in a small space and it's - well, primordial chaos, really.
Anyone would think there was a war on.
I happened to be the first to think of, and give breath to, the blindingly obvious thought: "Wouldn't it be great if everyone brought in a cardboard box to keep all their hats in?"
Result: I am still hailed as a logistical genius.
Small ideas, executed with little fuss. Some days its amazing what will impress people.
Naylor tomorrow, with luck.
But the War commences Tuesday, so maybe not.
Two recent examples of why I manage to top most of my friend's list of "most scarily organised people."
(1) I have managed to organise a group booking of 20 for one of the smaller, but very pleasant, May Balls - thus securing everyone a discount-priced ticket. (Discounts were for groups of 10. Just try imagining the logistics, and potentially the politics, of putting together 2 groups of *exactly* 10.)
I am even doing reasonably well so far at rounding up payment from everyone, thus avoiding footing a 1300 pound bill on my own. (Gulp.)
All this while spending around 13 hours a week rehearsing a play that has led me to, as I've put it, "cancel my life" from 6 pm Thursday gone to 11 pm Saturday coming. (PhD, what PhD?)
(2)Speaking of the play, an emerging issue in "Oh What A Lovely War!" was props management - every character each actor plays (and most have 6+) has different props and hats. Multiply that by a dozen actors in a small space and it's - well, primordial chaos, really.
Anyone would think there was a war on.
I happened to be the first to think of, and give breath to, the blindingly obvious thought: "Wouldn't it be great if everyone brought in a cardboard box to keep all their hats in?"
Result: I am still hailed as a logistical genius.
Small ideas, executed with little fuss. Some days its amazing what will impress people.
Naylor tomorrow, with luck.
But the War commences Tuesday, so maybe not.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Dining all Blade Runner style at the Science Musuem, London.
A weekend in the Metropolis
It’s been snowing in Cambridge. OK, not in a way Canadians do anything but fleer and scoff at, but since Sunday there have been regular flurries of snow, which mostly just turn to slush.
You know you’ve acclimatised (or had a couple of pints), when at closing time you’re standing outside a pub in nought but a wool jumper and brown velvet jacket (well, and trousers and such obviously) chatting amiably while the snow settles on you. Fortunately, you can usually brush it off before it melts, making it much more convenient than the rain if you’ve forgotten your Gore-Tex.
Anyway, there was also the odd snow-speck while I was in London over the weekend, visiting Jasmine and Peter. The number of guys I know from undergrad in Canberra who are now in Washington, New York, or London/Cambridge/Oxford is getting spooky, but is also rather cool.
The nicest part of the weekend was just staying with old friends and taking it easy. I’ve been a little anxious about Phud progress this term, and hadn’t left my tiny home-law-school-college triangle of Cambridge for a month. Saturday was the least disturbed sleep I’ve had in ages: seven hours, out like a baby. Funny the amount of security old friends can give you when you’re a long way from home in an environment as weirdly transitory as graduate study.
That and it was nice to have a huge hot bath (and brilliant Chinese take-away, mmm … duck pancakes).
Sunday we hit a Café Rouge for breakfast, and tramped ourselves footsore about the Science Museum, which had Stephenson’s Rocket, sunflowers being preserved in something that remained liquid at – 15 degrees centigrade, and the weird Blade-Runner café pictured above. Next door the Natural History Museum was a weird fusion of high-tech multi-media madness, dioramas clearly assembled in amateur taxidermy hour, and elegant Victorian cabinets full of what happens when you let nineteenth century Britons explore foreign lands, “discover” strange new creatures and kill and stuff them.
The Dodos next to a weird combination of sea-dwelling dinosaur skeletons and a cabinet full of stuffed hummingbirds looked exactly like the one in that episode of “The Goodies”. The dinosaur exhibit was also rather cool, the skeleton in the lobby being a special favourite.
The early evening passed in Kensington pub, where I got to catch up with a variety of LLM and undergrad friends, all now lawyers or management consultants in London. Gosh only knows how, but alcohol was consumed and the event horizon of my return to Cambridge kept receding. Yummy bar snacks didn’t help.
Jasmine and Peter eventually got me reunited with my luggage and back to Platform 9¾ at Kings Cross, where I bumped into a college friend just back from skiing in France with his family (as you do). Somehow all four of us managed to stand on the platform trading bad jokes until it was time to find seats for trip back.
A most satisfactory weekend.
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