Big Talk

There’s lots to do in Oxford. A feminist poetry evening, art at the community garden, comedy in a basement cafe. Someone will lend their allotment keys, and I’ll spend the afternoon picking enormous courgettes. At the bike co-op, I’m learning the ropes.

This makes Oxford a great place to spend your twenties, but there's also stress. Insecurity - financial, domestic, emotional. Less free time. Graduate life is different, and we have to adapt. 

One of adulthood’s constants is small talk, which gets tiring. The time we easily spend together is crammed around other commitments. Friendships sometimes stall. How close could they become if our circumstances were different?

Secondly, it’s harder to keep learning. Without tutorials to keep my brain awake, sharing ideas is ever more important. Personally, I can find these discussions hard to get round to, especially with newer friends. Instead of holding back, how can we use our ideas to learn about each other? 

How do we protect our energy, intellect, and empathy for meaningful conversations? 

This is what we’ve come up with. 

the book club without a book 

Text from Amelia. “I had a thought - a monthly book club, but we don’t all read the same book, you just talk about whatever book you’ve read that month.” 

Six of us met at the Jam Factory a week or so later. We took turns, spoke about our books, and let the tide of discussion take us. 

This was a great idea because: 

Talking about books means talking about yourself. The books we choose show so much about us. They’re a springboard for our own ideas. They allow people to ask us questions. 

 Books give us a reason to share ideas. Day-to-day, we don’t necessarily expect a thoughtful conversation. But throw an idea to someone who's ready and they'll bounce new ideas back. Ideas you’ve never thought of! Ideas you disagree with! Ideas that change the way you think forever. 

Sharing a book gives you an experience in common. Several of us had read The Power - we could spend an evening just on that. When I borrowed an ethnography of a Stockton food bank, I was glad to have someone to discuss it with. 

I’m excited to see friendships grow as we allow ourselves to be interesting. Recently I experienced this with strangers, too. 

 the empathy dinner 

Recently, I went to a Tribeless Conversation. Rachel called it an "empathy dinner." Conor laughed at me and called it "deep speed dating." Basically, it was a space for strangers to have discussions without small-talk, facilitated by cards. I was apprehensive, but it was great.

We each took a prompt card: words like achievements, isolation, family, control. We had reaction cards, played only when someone had finished speaking. The prompts were the basis of our stories - but perhaps ‘story’ is too specific a word. Usually, there was no clear narrative arc, and often no resolution. We spoke about ideas, lessons, thoughts. And we listened. 

Being human is universally confusing, joyous, heartbreaking, and illuminating. The degrees shift, but so much is common ground. In this context, I felt confident to fill a space I knew I was welcome to, then listen without selfishness. 

The evening filled me with creative fuel, brought my ideas to the boil, added more to the mix. Maybe we’ll meet up again - but if not, we’ve still benefited. 

getting past ‘how are you?’ 

Meredith Park said, “I’ve learned not to ask how are you, but how are you feeling today?” 

There’s a time and a place, but I like this. It makes the usual opening line genuine.

What can we ask to help us share ideas? “What are you thinking” is boxed as the classic needy-girlfriend phrase. It’s overwhelming. 

Perhaps by asking, more often: “what do you think about this?” 

But what’s also important is the power of chatting - and the power of quiet, too. Small talk can be dull, but it’s often a crucial stage of gaining trust. Light conversation is important when you need social contact but your energy is low. Or if you just need to warm up first. 

And sometimes, you don’t want to say how you are. Sometimes, you don’t want to say what you’re thinking. Privacy matters, and silence is valuable - closeness isn’t always built through words. 

I’ve been in Oxford long enough now to know myself here. I’m glad I’ve made it this far. These are times to learn new ways to learn, to share, and to be.

May the road rise to meet you

When I arrived in Oxford for my job interview I was spinning with excitement. I chatted to the Classics department, ran full tilt down the High Street, loopholed my way into Christ Church for free. I did my interview and joined two friends in a café. I bought them drinks, three stamps on a loyalty card, and gave it to one of them. “Since you’re local. You’ll be back.”

He gave it back to me. “No. You’ll be back. You’re getting that job.”

And I did.

Saying goodbye to Scotland for now is harder than I anticipated. I used to only describe myself as British, an identity my vague accent inflicted upon me: Scottish in England and English in Scotland, I’m ever the outsider. But I feel Scottish, really. I might not sound it, but I’ve lived here since I was four.

I’m moving to my hometown, on paper. I was born in Oxford and spent the first few months of my life in Wolfson College, my father a junior fellow. I was born there, but England wasn’t home for long.

I’ve never been one for nationalism – yesterday in the kitchen over a smoothie my sister and I derided the concept of pride in a place you inhabit by mere chance. But I have a deep love for Scotland, its traditions, its forthrightness, its sweeping hills and sullen skies. The south of England just seems… less. And I’ll be so far inland. How will I clear my head without the smell of the sea? What background noise will I become so accustomed to that I hardly hear it, to replace the absent crash of waves?

J.M. Barrie’s 1922 rectorial address concluded with the following:

“Were an old student given an hour in which to revisit the St Andrews of his day, would he spend more than half of it in lectures? He is more likely to be heard clattering up bare stairs in search of old companions. But if you could choose your hour from all the five hundred years of this seat of learning, wandering at your will from one age to another, how would you spend it?”

In St Andrews yesterday I sat on a bench overlooking West Sands and wrote:

The salt smell hit me as I reached the Scores and I love it here, I love the sand and the seaweed and the open water, and I love the ancient town that sits behind it. I love the familiar suck and pull on my cold ankles paddling at East, the castle sunsets where I thought through my dissertation, the exhilaration of hitting 10k on the coastal path. It’s been difficult but I’ve been so happy here.

My favourite memories from my busy, hectic, friendly, stressful years are all moments of peace. I have a quote clipped from a travel guide in my scrapbook: “Slow down: you’ll miss it if you’re just passing through.” I’ve been thinking about it often, taking it out of context, applying it to everything.

In Edinburgh Mairi and I climbed Arthur’s Seat and looked down on the city, grey under the shadow of the volcano. I dangled my feet out over the edge of the Crags and into the beyond, windswept and sweaty and content.

Between Edinburgh and St Andrews, I’m leaving two of my favourite places behind, but I am moving somewhere I think may become a third. I’d always hoped to live there one day. I love home, but I’m ready to go. It’s time for something different.

January

Edinburgh

New Year bursts forth from a confetti cannon. We dance to an indie band and Christina tells me that everything is beautiful. Upstairs, they've left the microphone on, so we take the stage and sing terrible songs to an audience of each other. We meet so many people that night: Mairi is a butterfly, and she makes us move easily through crowds she met through simply saying hello. On the first day of the new year, the sun sets at the castle over the golden streets below. The trees along Grassmarket are lit Silvester-silver. By evening we are exhausted. The prawn crackers go uneaten and we drift gently from conversation into sleep.

January is busy. In Berlin, I sing karaoke with Kati and we wander along the Wall. In Dublin Eilis and I spot seals, drink hot chocolate, and walk on the beach in the dark, catching up after a year apart. In England I have work placements in two museums. And then it's back to St Andrews, a week late for my final semester.

Eilis and me at the river by her house

Henley 

The walk to the museum takes me along the Thames, high from recent rain. The air is cold and blue sky and water fade together with a golden morning mist low over the gentle waves. At the Marsh Lock the water rages into sudden rushing torrents, and the thin wooden bridge seems a paltry defence against the tides. 

I'm working in the museum's education department, shadowing various school visits and nursery groups. For the first time, I am 'Miss'. The kids are easy company. A nine year old boy tells me about his pet hedgehog. A thirteen year old girl says I laugh the way her uncle does. A three year old boy  tells me he knows magic to turn me into a skeleton. I would love to stay, showing young groups around the museum and rolling clay into balls for crafts, but sadly I have a train to catch. 

The prettiest little house on an island in the middle of the Thames

St Andrews

I walk along the beach, foam scudding across the sand faster than the rolling clouds, the North Sea white and belching up breakers as far as the mist-drenched horizon. At the end of the pier the town slips into fog. There are so many of us here, in this beautiful, hectic little place, yet for such a short time. In September, I wrote in my scrapbook ONE MORE YEAR, reminding myself how fast time passes. 

Now it has, but I've spent it well.

Photo by Fed.

Meeting Hugh and Wearing Blue

October greeted me with a birthday picnic, five kinds of cake spread out on a blanket in the park.

This birthday was a good one. Although it had a rocky start. Not many people can say they’ve been rejected by Hugh Grant, particularly Sallies girls, but the conversation on the first morning of the Dunhill golf championship went something like this:

‘Could we have a picture, please?’

‘Yeah, in a minute, just give me a sec.’

We nodded politely as he went to tick off whatever it was from his to do list. But Hugh had deception on his mind. He proceeded to the first hole of the Old Course and promptly teed off.

Come on, Hugh. Stop toying with us. We all know you can’t do the Old Course in a minute. We all know it, Hugh. We all know.

So over it.

...

Over summer, Imogen stayed, and in the time that wasn’t spent washing dishes and serving school dinners we took photos. Since Melbourne, my clothes are all bright. I often look ridiculous, but I don't mind. It keeps the warmth with me.

I bought this jumper upon my arrival into Glasgow under January cloud. I was desperate for something bright. It has seen me through many a grey day. There is nothing that lifts my mood more on a gloomy morning than dressing like an over-saturated photo.

 I was walking along this little mini pier being all artsy for Imogen's camera and we found a rope. I envisaged scenes from Moulin Rouge, but it looks more like i am winching myself out of Davy Jones' Locker. I'll take it.

Then we found this perfect little corner of colour coordination and I put on my best glower. Who wore it best?

...

This semester is going incredibly slowly - each day seems to last a week, and I'm perpetually busy. But this last year is a good one. I am forever being blown away by a very simple realisation:

I am happy to be here.

summer and smiles come back to me shyly

I have a flat.

Commuting didn’t seem so bad at the time – it’s easy to trudge along and accept the present. Now I’m living on my own again, I realise I missed the freedom of organising my own time, the little responsibilities which, added up, make you an adult. I am enjoying doing the boring things: writing lists, washing up, unpacking my suitcase and assigning each item its own proper place.

Now I see I missed my morning cycle, propelling myself into the day instead of being pushed forward, half-asleep, on an early bus. I’m living in the east end for the first time, and my bike takes me through a park, in sight of the beach, then up a wide curving slope with the old city wall and the cathedral to my right. I cycle uphill into the wind, gears too high and seat too low, feeling the push in my thighs and enjoying the fleeting chance, once again, to exercise by accident.

Our living room is blue-green, and our poky little kitchen is painted bright yellow.

I visited family in Jersey.

I know the island as a childhood friend. We visit my grandmother’s house and it hasn’t changed since the photos in which I sit, baby-cheeked and serious, on the living room step. The photos come out, the medals from the wars. Stories slip gently through more practical conversations. In the prison camp in Shanghai my great grandfather ate maggots for protein. Matthew, could you help close the garage door? My great uncle, spurned, wrote my great aunt a poem: I am in love with a cold green stone. And perhaps my mother could lend a hand sorting out this paperwork?

I know the island well, but this time I saw it from two different vantage points. By bike we clattered and weaved to Corbiere, where blue tides recede and yield the lighthouse path to dry feet. At Anne Port we threw the bikes aside and floated face up under blinding sun. It rained two days later, but we rode on anyway.

Then my uncle, a pilot, showed us the island from above. The lido at Havre de Pas where we swim daily; Mont Orgueil Castle where Imo once lost a teddy bear; Pontac Slip where we let ourselves get sucked into the black ocean at midnight – these familiar sights were spread out on the map below, all small parts of one great picture.

Now I am back, and in St Andrews too I have bike and beach and sun. 

An exam looms and the holiday is done, but summer is not quite over yet. 

The blue sky peeks at me from behind cloud-blots, 

and I treasure fleeting frequent moments 

within which I feel 

like spinning 

again.

May Dip

St Andrews is full of weird traditions, from wearing ridiculous gowns in ridiculous ways to refusing to walk across particular cobblestones where a Protestant man was once burned at the stake. I could go on – but my favourite of these traditions is May Dip.

Anyone fancy joining me to run into the North Sea at dawn? It’s two degrees air temperature and the familiar biting wind is howling through your ribs. The tide is out and slipping away further, so it’s a long run across numb sand to get to the water. But there are bonfires all along the beach and a pink and orange glow is starting to spread across the sky, while the wet sand is gleaming with firelight and the first rays of dawn.

We ran in together and held hands as we submerged ourselves. The shock of the cold knocked the air out of me. I emerged gulping for air, mind blurred and fuzzy, but the air seemed warm now, and the sun was rising too. We whooped and laughed and sloshed away, frog-legged and numb, in search of hot showers and pancakes.

Where I’ve been

I’ve not written here in over a month, which is a little ridiculous. But I have written! Example 1: let’s talk about Labelled.

Labelled Magazine is all about body positivity, inclusivity, feminism, ethical fashion, and happiness. We’ve got two issues out and I’ve written for both.

Ethical fashion: Read my feature on Pineneedle Collective blogger Annika here even if you’ve already heard me rave about her blog.

Ethical fashion again: I also did a feature on ACHIK, a student-led ethical clothing venture stretching from Guatemala to St Andrews – read here.

Opinion: I think this article kind of sucks, but here are my thoughts on the idea that ‘everyone is beautiful.’

Finally, I’m going to be fashion blogging over summer (sort of). You heard me! Soon you’ll be inundated with posts about where I got my clothes and why I think that’s important. Get keen.

Easter Sunday snapshots

It is eighteen degrees on the sunny side of the street.

Shadows hint of winter across the road.

Sunlight glances off pale skin, white and blinding bright, soothed only by the glitter of orange-golden hairs gleaming like jewels upon a stranger’s arm.

My goose-pimpled mother thaws, and takes off both her jumpers.

It is Easter and spring has risen indeed.

on commuting and living with parents

Since the Easter break, I’ve started commuting properly rather than sleeping most nights at a friend’s. As a result, my experience of St Andrews has changed considerably. During the day, I’m in the library, the union, or the bistro. I’m studying, volunteering, or working. In the evening, I’m at home with my family in Dundee. The space and time between is filled by two buses and one long bridge. While crossing this bridge I have never managed to avoid thinking about the one that fell down, passengers and all, during a storm in 1879. 

But let's not dwell on the past. I already spend about ten minutes of my day staring at the stumps of the fallen bridge poking out of the water like thuggish fists, failing to quell the stalwart modern optimism of the University of Dundee's rather renowned architecture and engineering courses. This is what I've learned from commuting so far.

Uni is tiring, and commuting brings that out.

I’ve always loved going home to see my family, but the difference in the past was that it was during termtime peace. I’d set aside a weekend or a day or even just an evening when I wasn’t thinking about uni and could enjoy the company of my sisters and my parents and the little rabbit who makes my day when she hops up to me and asks me to stroke her ears. Or, even better, I’d spend the holidays at home, the weight lifted from my shoulders for weeks at a time. Now, when I go home, it’s not to catch a break.

At the moment, I’m arriving home and I’m tired and stressed and ready to tick the day off my calendar. I don’t have the energy to converse properly, let alone joke and sing and dance the way I normally would before going home was a daily occurrence. My family often say that although I myself am not particularly loud, I bring a lot of noise with me, but I’m not sure that’s happening now. Between studies, work, and volunteering, I just don’t have the energy. But it’s only been two weeks, and already I can feel myself adapting to my new volunteering role, which I started at the same time as I started commuting properly. That bodes well, so hopefully I will adapt to this too.

Commuting encourages self-care.

Although home is no longer something I can compartmentalise as separate from uni life, commuting certainly has a lot of benefits. Life is simpler living with my parents. I don’t have to make time for shopping or cooking (two things I loathe with an equal passion) and eating doesn’t happen alone (the reason I’ve never learned to love to cook). My parents have their rules, and the internet goes off at midnight each night. Eight hours’ sleep is suddenly, miraculously, yet oh so easily attainable. I no longer have to worry about paying for heating, and it's amazing what warmth does for your mood. Finally, Dundee’s weather is much milder than St Andrews’ – it’s amazing the difference crossing the bridge makes – and I’m motivated to run again. Looking after my health – and, as a result, everything – is so much easier at home. And sure, that's because my mum’s doing half of it for me. I’m not ashamed to admit that.

But even if I wasn't living with my parents, I think I would still be taking better care of myself than I did when I lived in St Andrews. When you know you can't just go home, you have to plan your day. This means packing food which is going to keep you going. This means sleeping - as we've established, commuting is tiring. When I had a flat within walking distance, my relatively unplanned days would become weeks, and I'd always come home for the holidays exhausted and slightly underweight. Most people probably have a better handle on their lives than I do at this age, sure, but commuting is forcing me to take proper responsibility for my day, and as a result, my wellbeing.

Social time doesn't come quite so easily.

Socialising is the hardest part, so far. I've barely found time to meet friends since coming back since Easter break. If this continues, it’s going to be a pretty lonely end to the semester, and I don’t want that to happen. I can see myself having to actually reserve myself some friend time in my diary at this rate. When I’m living in Dundee, I’m not just going to bump into my uni friends. But living in St Andrews can be lonely in other ways. In the past, several times, I’ve gone days and days without seeing my flatmate. I’m going to have to be much more proactive about socialising now, but it’s also less vital now that the house I’m going home to is full of people. When you’re a family of six, there’s always someone there. It’s much nicer.

.

St Andrews is tiny, and being in Melbourne taught me I’m definitely a city person. It’s important to get breaks from the small-town commotion, to go somewhere bigger and calmer and gentler. Equally, being a visitor to St Andrews rather than a resident has shown me a different side to it, and I am very lucky to get to study in this old boarding house by the sea. I’m glad I get to spend each day both in a town and in a city. I'm also very lucky to have this option - it's a real money-saver and having parental support just 40 minutes away is something most students just don't have. It was definitely the right decision to commute this term.