Lunch at an Oxford college

I had an interesting experience the other day--a friend invited me as her guest to lunch at an Oxford college. It proved quite an eye opener.

What very soon became apparent was that tradition is certainly not dead at Oxford (just in case you were in any doubt!). As a part-time college lecturer my friend is permitted three free lunches per week in college, and she can bring one guest with her per lunch.

She (and others) may well be permitted free lunches, but hierarchy abounds in the system. First off, there are two dining halls. The one my friend attends is the ‘senior’ dining hall, which seats all staff who hold sufficiently senior positions within the college. Below this is the ‘other’ dining hall, which seats students and those members of staff who are not sufficiently senior to merit admittance to the ‘senior’ dining hall. (When I say ‘below’, I mean that literally as well as metaphorically--diners entering the upstairs dining hall are able to gaze down on the plebs below via an elevated viewing platform.)

There is also a form of hierarchy at work within the ‘senior’ dining hall. This centres on the (silver!) napkin rings, which are numbered. The more senior you are within college, the lower the number of your napkin ring. As a part-time, fixed-term college lecturer, my friend was languishing somewhere in the seventies, followed only by hourly paid tutors and junior research fellows. As a guest, I had no ring, but I did have a napkin. Thick white linen, no less!

The lunch itself is pretty full on—a hot main course with vegetarian option (or you can have a salad if you prefer), followed by a hot pudding (or fruit or cheese and biscuits, if healthy eating is your thing). There’s a choice of still or sparkling mineral water and tea/coffee (cappuccinos and lattes available too!) to conclude. As soon as you've finished, your dishes are whisked away by one of the hovering, dark-suited waiters.

After lunch my friend gave me a tour of the college. I saw the beautiful drawing rooms in which people relax with a cup of coffee and the paper, the Fellows' Garden (students are admitted, but must keep noise levels to a minimum), the rolling mound of a recently-discovered underground wine cellar in the grounds of the oldest part of college...

It was more like a stately home or a top notch hotel than an educational establishment. It was a treat to be a guest, but I'm not sure that I would have liked to be a student there. My alma mater, the University of Edinburgh, despite its ancient roots was fully integrated into modern life, even in the 1980s, when I was there. And I rather liked that.

The politics of the playground

Relationships in the context of school can be very difficult, sometimes, it seems.

Having two children, and having experienced the same things with both (and having discussed this with other parents), it seems quite normal that young children change their friendships on a regular basis. A best friend seems to be a very transitory concept at this age, with 'best' friends sometimes changing on a weekly basis. They can be pretty nasty to one another, too. Once someone is out of favour, they are often ostracised from the whole group. But then, of course, this changes again in a few days. I understand that this is all connected with learning about relationships and friendship. Getting a grip on empathy and people's feelings and loyalty. But it's quite a tough learning process.

It can be tough for parents too, as you spend a good deal of your time comforting your upset offspring and, on other occasions, gently explaining to them that, perhaps, they didn't handle that situation with their friend as sensitively as they might have done. Some parents, though, take things to extremes, snubbing other parents in the playground whose children are no longer friends with their children. This seems a pity. While there's a developmental reason for kids behaving like this, their parents should surely be well past the developmental stage. Shouldn't we be setting a good example for our children, rather than a bad one?

Oh, how easy it is to misinterpret via email!

Interesting incident at work the other day.

Via email to a small group of people:

Me: 'Please can you have a quick look at the attached list of interview questions. Let me know if you want to make any changes – otherwise I will print them and put them in your interview packs.'

An unnamed respondent: 'I will take a look at the questions. However they should not be sent to the candidates as they should not be able to prepare answers beforehand!'

Me 'Of course I wouldn't send them to the candidates! I mean the interview packs for you (the panel)!'

Utter. Email. Silence.

Why are people so dishonest?

We've had a bad week this week due, largely, to people's dishonesty.

First off, it was our gutter. This had been leaking for a while and we thought it was time to get it fixed, particularly as the run off was falling just over onto our neighbour's house. We called up a company that looked reputable, had reasonable reviews, etc., and they said they could fix it. But they certainly didn't. A couple of days later it rained and, lo and behold, the gutter was still leaking. We called up the company to say we weren't happy with the job they'd done and were promised that the owner would ring us back. He didn't. We tried ringing their land and mobile numbers again several times, but to no avail -- no one answered. So, we're back to square one (gutter still leaking) and, furthermore, minus £144. (Yes, we shouldn't have paid on the spot and yes, we did try to stop the cheque once we'd realised that the gutter hadn't been fixed, but it was too late. Lesson learnt.)

The second thing was my scarf, which I mistakenly left on the bus on my way home from work. (I was too busy worrying that my bag of shopping was going to fall on the floor and then trying to negotiate descending the stairs of the double decker with said bag of shopping in hand.) I rang the bus company's lost property department the next day, but the scarf wasn't there. Clearly, someone on the bus had picked it up and taken it. The scarf wasn't particularly special,  but I'd had it for years and really liked it. So did someone else, apparently.

Hence this week, in the absence of money and scarf, I'm rather despairing of the human race. Why, oh why, are people so dishonest?

The Judas Kiss

It was my birthday last week and my husband and I had a cultural night out in London to celebrate.

We went to see ‘The Judas Kiss’ by David Hare, which was playing at the Duke of York’s Theatre. It had unreservedly good reviews and, as per the reviews, was indeed excellent.

The play focused on Oscar Wilde’s later years, while he was being tried, and afterwards, once he had served his prison sentence and was living, impecunious, in Naples. As you might imagine by its title, the central theme of the play was betrayal—largely the betrayal of Wilde by his lover of the time, Lord Alfred Douglas (Bosie). Another prominent theme was that of ageing, with the vitality and inconstancy of youth (personified by Bosie) contrasted sharply with the slower pace and resigned acceptance of one’s fate that is more typical of middle age (personified by Wilde).

Rupert Everett played Wilde and he was superb. His portrayal of the spent, stooped playwright was utterly convincing. Hare’s dialogue was witty and razor sharp and, predictably, Everett’s delivery proved spot on. It was a sparkling performance and my husband and I left the theatre feeling highly satisfied and with plenty to talk about. Always a good sign!

If you are able get tickets, I would definitely recommend seeing ‘The Judas Kiss’.

Psychiatric hospitals: what are they really like?

Before Christmas, we spent quite a bit of time visiting a psychiatric hospital. One of our elderly relatives was ill--suffering from schizophrenia--and we travelled to see her when we could at the weekends.We learnt an awful lot over that period, not only about the illness itself, the therapies used to treat it and the legislation surrounding mental health, but also about the physical institutions in which people suffering from severe mental health problems reside.

People's perceptions of mental illness have, I think, softened over recent years. There probably still exists fear of mental illness, but not to the same extent. It's talked about more openly--is in the media even--and is no longer considered something to be ashamed of.

Our relative has been ill for a long time, so we're very used to the symptoms of mental illness, but this was the first time that we had set foot in a psychiatric hospital. And it was quite an eye-opener. The hospital is situated in an affluent town on the south coast and you reach it via a pleasant drive past what look to be very expensive executive homes. The hospital is indicated by an innocuous NHS Primary Care Trust signpost--no mention is made of 'psychiatric', just 'hospital'.

But once you are on site, things feel quite different. In order to gain admittance to the hospital you have to report to the (very friendly) receptionist, explain who you are visiting, sign in and put on a visitor badge. Much the same procedure as when visiting any workplace, you might think. But going onto the ward is quite different again. The doors are locked, because most of the people on the ward are being detained under the Mental Health Act, which means that they are only allowed out unaccompanied if they have been granted leave by their doctor. All entry to, and exit from, the ward must be noted by a member of staff. Thus, when you arrive at the ward, you must ring a bell for admittance and, because the staff are very busy, it can often take a long time before anyone answers the door. Children aren't allowed on the ward, which meant that when we weren't taking our relative out, we had to meet her in the hospital's designated 'family room', away from the other patients.

Walking around the wards is also quite an experience. The patients are suffering from all kinds of mental health issues. Some are very pleasant and friendly, but others can be unpredictable and verbally aggressive. In the 'acute assessment unit', the ward to which all patients are initially admitted, it is common to see police officers, since new patients are, often, brought in as an emergency by the police.

I wouldn't exactly describe the hospital as Dickensian, but despite friendly and helpful staff, it is undeniably a bleak place, and the locked doors and police presence lend it an air of detention rather than one of caring treatment. Our relative has now been discharged, thank goodness, but there's a high likelihood that she will need to return at some point in the future. And that is something that none of us will relish.

The worth of music

The other day our youngest daughter asked if she could give up learning the violin. Her reasoning was that she was finding it boring and also difficult because, at the moment, she learns the piano and the recorder as well. Learning so many instruments turns out to be confusing!

Of course, we agreed. We always thought that three instruments was quite a lot to handle! But this got me thinking about what we would do if our other child asked to give up the violin. She only plays the one instrument, but is quite keen, playing in the orchestra and also singing in the choir.

Realistically, I'm sure we would agree to her giving up. There really doesn't seem to be much point in forcing someone to do something that they don't enjoy. But in some ways it would be a hard decision -- not only has she learnt to play the violin, but she's also learnt to read music, gained an appreciation of of a wide range of music, and been given the opportunity to perform. All these fringe benefits are valuable and the longer she plays, the greater the benefits become.

Yet another parental dilemma!