This is the first of what will become two or even three lengthy thought-splurges about Oxford finals and, specifically, Oxford firsts. Because it turns out - I'm going to graduate with one, and at no point, no point AT ALL, did I ever think that was on the cards. Low marks from mock exams early in Trinity term (which on reflection was probably my tutors being pernickety just to drive me to aim even higher) popped into my head at all hours, and in fact I bent an awful lot of ears about how I was “definitely going to get a 2.2.” So I thought I’d write the kind of blog post I would have wanted to read before and during Finals year - a little practical advice, a lot of reassurance.
Disclaimers: this is not the only (or necessarily even best) way to get a First. These are practical tips that worked for me, and reassurances that I would like to have read on a blog in the summer before final year. A First is also NOT the only result worth celebrating. Getting to final year is worth celebrating, getting through exams is worth celebrating. 4 years later and I’ve finished my Philosophy and German degree. Two excellent things have come out of this.
One, an abundance of trashing photos for Instagram. Just the thing to pep up my slightly-neglected-during-finals account: unbridled, foamy, confetti-splattered hedonism sponsored by Gillette lemon-and-lime. Secondly, I think I’m on the brink of bringing a little more peace into the world. It might seem a surprising source but Philosophy of Mind has helped me to settle a 92-year-old conflict. The great question hanging over every British kitchen cupboard. Jaffa Cakes: cake or biscuit? I am rather far from tee-total.
I’m a bit of a wine buff, I have the most generous pouring arm (I cannot remember the last time a G&T of mine was actually fizzy) and a Henry VIII-esque thirst for port. Granville Bennett from All Creatures is my icon. Those “save water drink champagne” coasters you see in gift shops and on Etsy were made for me. Now then, a few people in my close circle are tee-total or only drink very little. This has its advantages. At parties where alcoholic drinks are pushed into every guest’s hand upon arrival, I always get two. At a meal a few weeks ago where the wine flowed as if from a tap, I routinely swapped my empty glass with my non-drinking companion’s and watched it refill with Sauvignon Blanc every five minutes or so, in a scene slightly reminiscent of the 1961 sketch “Dinner For One”. And no, it’s never a problem, they don’t cramp my style - let’s ditch the idea that tee-total = boring. My boyfriend (who’d been on soft stuff all night) was the first on the dance floor at a recent white-tie event, shamelessly dad-dancing to Sinatra. But what I cannot stand on their behalf is that they’re immediately lumped in with the children the second “got anything soft?” passes their lips. I was at a function with a tee-totaller recently - we both made our way to the bar, I scooped up a champagne flute for myself and he was handed fresh orange juice in a tumbler. What? Infantilisation aside - why give us boozers the expensive stuff when by the end of some nights we’d struggle to drink out of a sippy cup? Let the cut crystal stay in the safe hands of the drivers, the abstainers, the I-just-don’t-like-the-stuff-ers. And orange juice, really? Why do bars’ pockets run to unlimited champagne while their imagination doesn’t stretch beyond fruit juice? Paradox of tee-totalism: people complain you’re not adventurous, then refuse to serve you adventurous drinks. St Catherine’s - a baby among the Oxford colleges, existing in its current state since 1962 - hosted nearly two thousand partygoers last weekend. Guests were invited to ‘leave time behind’: Catz seriously took its motto ‘Nova et Vetera’ to heart with a 'Continuum'-themed ball.
I love a roast dinner as much as anyone - my blood-gravy level is off the charts at any given moment - but this week, I did Sunday the NYC way at Dirty Bones in Westgate, Oxford. After the excesses of the St. Catz ball on Saturday (there's a behind-the-scenes blog post about the entire night coming soon...) the messy, unashamed, get-it-all-over-your-face indulgence of a huge burger was just what the hangover ordered. And after a helping of garlicky skinny fries, crispy mac and cheese balls (with the dreamiest, stickiest chilli sauce), and cheesy truffle fries, I was rejuvenated enough to get back on the cocktails - the bourbon with a pickle juice chaser sounded a little beyond me at this point, as did the Dirty Mary, a brunch speciality with a rim of crushed sour cream Pringles, but The Fab (instagrammably pink, and surprisingly delicate to say it was gin, Cointreau, and Martini Rosso) was bang-on. You really shouldn't leave anywhere without a pud - and, still rather weary from walking home from Catz college at four o'clock that morning, I had two: a big cup of sticky toffee pudding, with a glass of butter rum sauce on the side, plus the peanut butter gelato cup, drowning in chocolate sauce and topped with crumbled cookies. Big enough to be indulgent in the true NYC style, small enough to really let the quality sing.
The verdict? I'll be back: there's a few more cocktails with my name on, and from the swish, squashy-chaired, artsy interior to the guest book filled with cheery notes from strangers and cartoon doodles, it's just a downright comfortable place to have a meal. Order yourself a Mac Daddy burger, a big enamel dish of fries, and just indulge - this isn't the place to be worried about carb overload. I so enjoyed my trip to Victors last night that it's inspired me to write my second post in a fortnight! I think that's probably high enough praise in itself - but read on for the ins and outs!
Hilary Term can be – and often is – a real stinker.
In the week before term starts there’s a more-than-usually horrific scheduling nightmare – a Mexican standoff, via email, between three tutors who all want to schedule a class at the exact same time and are all waiting for confirmation from one another. Emails pile up and you’re suddenly scheduling so many classes you’re left thinking Did I miss a directive? Are there now forty hours in a day? – it’s the uncomfortable intersection of new modules still happening, and revision tutorials starting up. I started this blog as a platform for all my writing updates, envisaging monthly posts about fanart and book signings and international releases. Huh.
Not to go total conspiracy theorist on you - but I'm pretty sure my phone is sentient and listening not only to my every word but also my every thought.
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The official website of Yorkshire-made, Oxford-based writer Isabel Parkinson. Want fewer words and more pics? Follow me on Instagram!
(Header Photo: Radcliffe Camera, Oxford - Isabel Parkinson 2016)
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