Written on EST, from the left side of the Atlantic
July 19, 2010
I know, it’s odd. So a great deal happened: punting, exams, oh, my god, exams, the viva, Encaenia- the week, in sum, of the Three Days of Sub Fusc. Whisky tastings. Wrapped in eighteen yards of duct tape, my worldly possessions made it home on an airplane; somewhat surprisingly, so did both bags and all six bottles of legally imported scotch. United, I admit: I maligned you unthinkingly! But your tea is still lousy.
There’s a great deal to write about, and I should, because already the month of June is a hazy mash of baking intricate desserts and cramming elaborate sarcophagi panels into my skull. One hour to stir caramel sauce; four of opus sectile, lush freschi, ruined floors. One hour of shredding coconut and whisking eggs; four of imperial noses, curls, eyes. The years AD 70 to 250, in all of their sordid, sullen glory.
In the end of it all, I did pass. Graduation, as these things go, won’t be until October 2011, because Oxford never neglects an opportunity to be crafty and ridden with paperwork. In the meantime, I will be in various and sundry locations between D.C. and Philadelphia, purpose to be determined.
Oxford: you are a grand old dame, and I have loved the last year.
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