There's nothing like the exquisite cold joy of returning home after a holiday. The place is empty, and lacking in colour, but it's still comforting and familiar. It's a shell at the moment, but it will just take a few hours to breathe some colour back into the room.
In case I haven't mentioned it, I've been in Sidmouth for the Christmas period, but am now back in frosty Oxford. (I might invent some kind of character called Frosty Oxford. He could be a University Don dressed in tweed, who is also a snowman - but that might be a bit obvious).
We left some milk in the fridge whilst we were away, but it didn't smell too bad. I thought about using it, but some kind of superstitious propriety made me pour it down the sink. That milk is of the past. It's time to let it go. You can never go home again, my creamy friend. (That last line might be Frosty Oxford's debut single - but that might be a bit obvious).
I'm surrounded by unpacked bags. Well, four. And I'm not literally surrounded by them. I think you need a little bit of time with the bags to ease you into your new life. Things will be different now.
Before Christmas, things were just so. And now they're not so. Now they're like so. So, it's just a matter of adapting to the new so without forgetting the lessons of the old so.
So there.
The period between Christmas and the New Year always seems like a bit of a limbo time. I think you should be able to commit any crime in that period, and have it ignored. People go a bit crazy in the late-December limbo. We drove through Exeter this morning, and the clothes shop Next had been opened since 5am.
That is too early. I've never woken up in a cold sweat at 5am thinking: "Cardigan! And a flat cap! Quickly".
I have on occasion woken up screaming the name of The Cardigans, but that's probably a result of the time I spent in prison with Baz Luhrmann.
His new film, Australia, is out now (or soon). It's advertised everywhere. I've seen massive billboards for the film, and cross promotions with travel agents and wine companies. I wonder if they regret getting involved with such a terrible film. Maybe they should have looked at his track record of producing terrible films and extrapolated. But they didn't. That's why Jacob's Creek will never prosper.
They're not even in the top three best creeks:
1) Cruiser's
2) Dawson's
3) Jonathan
Man, this entry has been all over the place.
Why stop now?
The Journal of Frosty Oxford - March 14th 1971
Oh, what a day! For the first time, I am starting to understand what my parents meant when they said Oxford was no place for a snowman.
Every time I try to accentuate my point during a tutorial by puffing on my pipe, my lips start to melt, and some of my jaw falls to the flaw, rendering the whole scene ridiculous. No-one can respect an academic for whom melting is an everyday occurrence.
At one point, a pair of cheeky undergraduates stole my clementine nose, and started a game of catch right there in my office! I struggled to retrieve my citric appendage but, forgetting momentarily that I had no legs, tumbled to the floor in a white heap. I tried to reclaim some dignity by cheekily asking them if they got the drift, but the joke seemed to fly over their heads (like so much me in a snowball fight).
In the end, I had to call the Dean, who returned my nose, and stoned the boys to death. I suppose that's the only way to teach them, but I was peeved at having to postpone my analysis of John Locke's work on identity until some new students could be found.
All flustered, I made myself a cup of milky coffee, which only exacerbated the melting problem. I had a nice digestive biscuit as well.
The warning of my parents may well have been correct, but I still believe I can make a difference here amongst the dreaming spires. If I can get through one tutorial without a student fatality, I'll consider my residency here a success.
Cool!
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