Full issue can be found here: http://www.tcs.cam.ac.uk/assets/downloads/TCS_Volume14_Michaelmas_Issue1.pdf
One never thinks that a gown will
make one cry, but that’s exactly
what mine did this week when I
heard from the president of my
new governing body, the MCR,
that I needed a new gown, forcing
me to bid farewell to my navy lined
formal companion.
Goodbye dear friend of 2008 to
2011. May your wax stains and
slightly wine-smelling fabric rest
peacefully in the big wardrobe in
the sky.
The fact of the matter is that I’m
still eighteen, you see, and therefore
have no need of the postgraduate
student’s friend the BA gown.
No,
don’t laugh.
Whilst my birth certificate and
the behaviour of my peers might
encourage you to believe that I
am really twenty two, a graduate
of two degree programmes and
survivor of more bad dates than
you’ve had hot dinners, my lad,
the truth will out: I’m stuck in the
mindset in several crucial ways of
an eighteen year old fresher.
I am
ridiculously excited at the prospect
of coming (back) to Cambridge,
but the problem mainly lies in that
I’m not quite sure what to expect
when I get here.
I mean, the last time I thought I
was coming back to Cambridge I
had a captaincy, a sort-of boyfriend,
and a whole host of friends waiting
for me until one mark in one exam
redistributed my papers and my
final grade and I ended up jetting
off to Edinburgh for a year.
This
time, not so much.
My captaincy has been taken by a
more qualified candidate; the now
ex has a new girlfriend; the friends
have jobs, have postgrad places
elsewhere, have lives no longer
situated in one small university
town.
No biggie, though, right?
My mum keeps dropping hints
that I should be thinking about
‘reinventing myself ’ but unless I
were to chemically straighten my
hair, laser my eyes and physically
beat my need to geek out from my
impulses with a giant hammer I
can’t see it happening.
Instead I’m being a very much
Fresher-type person in my very
much un-Fresher town, joining
new clubs and talking to new people
and trying very, very hard not to
remember that I have been here
once before, and it was amazing.
Friday, 27 September 2013
Saturday, 3 August 2013
parkrun 3.8.13
Last week, last Sunday to be precise, I returned from my normal Cambridge environs to my hometown in south Manchester. I'm between accommodations and waiting on some results before making any concrete plans, so I thought that a trip home would fill the time nicely. Since I came home I have:
- been to the pool and wanted to drown myself due to the total ignorance of lane etiquette and people swimming very, very slowly
- watched hailstones cast miniature dents in my car roof
- taken to catnapping anywhere just to escape the tedium of being skint and on a diet
- cleared out my wardrobe, for chocolate is a cruel mistress and my old jeans no longer fit
- steadfastly ignored all of the things I should be doing and emails I should have replied to
So last night I realised I should probably kick my behind into action and get my act together. This short stay at home is not just a jolly because I do have work to do, actions to organise, jobs and funds to apply for, etc. Starting all this on a Friday evening seemed a bit overwhelming though to be honest so I reckoned I'd give it a go over the weekend - and what better way to kickstart your weekend than parkrun?
Parkrun (www.parkrun.org.uk) organises free timed 5k runs every Saturday morning all over the UK, and indeed now the world. My local one has been going on for ages - this morning's run was the 267th, so work that out maths fans, because I can't. Anyway it's safe to say that I've been doing parkrun since 2009, when I was a young slim sometime rower looking to stay fit over the summer.
The great thing about parkrun is that it's always there. Every time I come home, I make sure I turn out at 9am on Saturday to amble over 5k through the park. The route features Duck Poo Corner, how could I resist. I've done parkrun in Santa hats running on snow, in the rain, in the sun, once memorably in hail. I've run with friends, with my iPod on my own, and with the small children who always beat me every week on the sprint finish. I absolutely love turning up and seeing the mix of people who are there, from serious club runners and triathletes, to people looking to improve their PBs, to families running together, and to novice and newbie runners who are drawn in by the spirit of community around parkrun.
Today's 5k was especially delicious because the sun shone, my iPod blessed me with some cracking tunes, and the run felt good. I was slow, 31.42, but it was also busy and I just can't be bothered with all this overtaking nonsense because it's a bit of a faff and whoever I overtake just overtakes me back on the hills. The hills are always a shock when I come back from flat, flat Cambridge but today I just breathed deeply and made it through them. I had a really solid jog round which felt nice and as if I had a bit more in reserve, but I've not been running very much lately so I just wanted to get through the 5k with no issues. However this has inspired me to get back out there for the rest of the summer, and to blog a bit more as well.
So thank you to parkrun, especially Bramhall parkrun, my local, for being so continuously excellent. It couldn't be done without the volunteers and I'll definitely be making more effort to get involved in the Cambridge parkrun when I get back there in a few weeks. Good run, everyone. Good run.
Wednesday, 2 January 2013
Is It Just Me?
To which I can confidently reply: no, Miranda, it is not 'just you'. It's me too.
So hello! And welcome to my first book review of this year. Yes, I am aware that I sound more than uncannily like Miranda when I say that. I recently expressed my desire to be half as brilliant as the televisual Miranda [TM] (as opposed to Miranda Hart [MH], authoress and portrayer of Chummy in 'Call the Midwife') and my sister N merely regarded me and said, "Well, you're halfway there" little expecting the joyful hug and bark of delight she received in response. It's true - I have been known to sing Beyonce ("To the left, to the left...") as a directional statement. It works brilliantly.
Perhaps I am not the most objective reviewer in this case, but I can say that I did really enjoy this book. As a matter of fact I raced my way through it today, making it the first out of (hopefully) two hundred that I will read this year (actually a fairly doable NYResolution, considering I read 133 last year without really going for it) and then had a whole hour in the swimming pool to think about it and start mentally drafting this review.
During that hour or so I did this
Warm up:
200m freestyle, 100m backstroke, 100m breaststroke
Main set:
200m free off 3mins*
100m I.M. off 1.50
300m free off 4.45
100m I.M. off 1.50
200m free off 3
(set repeated x 3)
Sprint set:
10x25 Belugas - so named as they give you the lung capacity of a small beluga whale. Swim underwater for half a length, emerge from water, sprint polo frontcrawl (head up, elbows high) to end. Breathe clinging to side for between 5-8 seconds. Rinse and repeat 10 times.
Warm down:
100m free. 100m backstroke.
Leg set**:
20 seconds at elbows out
30 seconds at hands on head
1 minute at arms out
30 seconds at hands on head
20 seconds at elbows out
9 jumps (right hand, left hand, both hands)
(set repeated x 5)
So safe to say I had plenty of time to think about 'Is It Just Me?' This is made more relevant by the fact that I had a serious case of lane rage due to the exceedingly slow male swimmer in front of me refusing to abide by swimming etiquette and let me overtake when necessary. 'Yes, Miranda, it's not just you,' I thought. 'It's definitely me too. It's not normal to contemplate swimming underneath someone just to get in front of them and really irritate them in the process. It's just not.'
See, the book may well be called 'Is It Just Me?' but the problem lies in the paradox of that title. Do I mean paradox? I think I do. Someone correct me if I'm wrong. The whole point is for us, as readers, to agree with Miranda - an authorial Miranda who appears to be a curious mix of TM and MH (see above) - that it is not, actually, just her, and that all of us experience those awkward moments where, as Hart says, one needs a 'manual. A Miranual!' to get through unscathed. Yet although these moments do occur, there are in fact several jarring incidences, which I refuse to believe are 100% true as they resemble her sitcom more than anything I have ever known to be actual life such as when she traps her skirt under the wheels of a swivel chair and is left pantsless in front of a panel of interviewers, where the reader thinks: 'No, Miranda - in this case it really is just you.'
I feel terrible saying that. Anyone who knows me well will know that I am not the most graceful of ladies. I have a tendency to embarrass myself incredibly well when libations have been taken. Often I am known to cackle loudly at awkward situations and sometimes even ensure they happen just so I can make 'hilarious' hand gestures - awkward turtle, anyone? But I just could not imagine some of these situations happening.
I was also not entirely enamoured with the constant popping up of LM, Little Miranda, a stylised 18 year old version of Hart, who dialogues with the present-day Miranda about incidents old and new. At times this felt a little stilted and I could not entirely get into it; but at other times, such as in the chapters about dogs, relationships, and beauty, I really thought it worked. Same goes for the dramatic script interludes - better in the small doses.
What Hart does really well, though, is a list. Oh, I love a good hilarious list. My tastes are simple, and were easily pleased when the ten best things about being tall were EXACTLY THE SAME as the ten worst things about being tall. And a pun. There are some excellent, unashamedly barefaced puns in this book, and a great sense of the jolly hockey sticks vibe that Hart has become known for.
Yet the best moments, the altogether shining lights, were when TM took a back seat and MH came out properly. The sincere and lovely writing in beauty, especially, was much more understated and the simple touches of humour rather than full-frontal assault was much appreciated. Miranda (for I feel I can call her that. I am altogether her imaginary best friend) really knows how to get down to the nub and gist of an idea without being rudely blunt about it, which I admire as a skill and as a writing technique.
As you can tell from this overly long blog post I have not yet mastered it myself.
On balance, the book is probably rated 7/10 for me. A bit too confused in its authorial sense, it seeks to fill gaps with humour which would serve better if it simply highlighted the all-round loveliness of Miranda's meaning, rather than being the meat of the writing. It did make me laugh rather a lot, and I did emerge thinking - 'No. It's not just you. I do love stationery...'
I promise the reviews will get better, I'm a little out of practice. Next one comes out on Saturday!
S xx
*um...so for non-swimmers, this means that you have 3 minutes to swim the 8 lengths and recover. Then you set off on the next thing.
**for non water-polo players, we spend a lot of time trying to strengthen our legs so that we can get out of the water higher to pass, catch and defend better. This means we have to kick like this, and doing leg sets with your hands/arms out of the water tends to make you better. But I'm still a rubbish player however many leg sets I do.
 |
| Miranda and I have very similar facial expressions, actually. |
Perhaps I am not the most objective reviewer in this case, but I can say that I did really enjoy this book. As a matter of fact I raced my way through it today, making it the first out of (hopefully) two hundred that I will read this year (actually a fairly doable NYResolution, considering I read 133 last year without really going for it) and then had a whole hour in the swimming pool to think about it and start mentally drafting this review.
During that hour or so I did this
Warm up:
200m freestyle, 100m backstroke, 100m breaststroke
Main set:
200m free off 3mins*
100m I.M. off 1.50
300m free off 4.45
100m I.M. off 1.50
200m free off 3
(set repeated x 3)
Sprint set:
10x25 Belugas - so named as they give you the lung capacity of a small beluga whale. Swim underwater for half a length, emerge from water, sprint polo frontcrawl (head up, elbows high) to end. Breathe clinging to side for between 5-8 seconds. Rinse and repeat 10 times.
Warm down:
100m free. 100m backstroke.
Leg set**:
20 seconds at elbows out
30 seconds at hands on head
1 minute at arms out
30 seconds at hands on head
20 seconds at elbows out
9 jumps (right hand, left hand, both hands)
(set repeated x 5)
So safe to say I had plenty of time to think about 'Is It Just Me?' This is made more relevant by the fact that I had a serious case of lane rage due to the exceedingly slow male swimmer in front of me refusing to abide by swimming etiquette and let me overtake when necessary. 'Yes, Miranda, it's not just you,' I thought. 'It's definitely me too. It's not normal to contemplate swimming underneath someone just to get in front of them and really irritate them in the process. It's just not.'
See, the book may well be called 'Is It Just Me?' but the problem lies in the paradox of that title. Do I mean paradox? I think I do. Someone correct me if I'm wrong. The whole point is for us, as readers, to agree with Miranda - an authorial Miranda who appears to be a curious mix of TM and MH (see above) - that it is not, actually, just her, and that all of us experience those awkward moments where, as Hart says, one needs a 'manual. A Miranual!' to get through unscathed. Yet although these moments do occur, there are in fact several jarring incidences, which I refuse to believe are 100% true as they resemble her sitcom more than anything I have ever known to be actual life such as when she traps her skirt under the wheels of a swivel chair and is left pantsless in front of a panel of interviewers, where the reader thinks: 'No, Miranda - in this case it really is just you.'
I feel terrible saying that. Anyone who knows me well will know that I am not the most graceful of ladies. I have a tendency to embarrass myself incredibly well when libations have been taken. Often I am known to cackle loudly at awkward situations and sometimes even ensure they happen just so I can make 'hilarious' hand gestures - awkward turtle, anyone? But I just could not imagine some of these situations happening.
I was also not entirely enamoured with the constant popping up of LM, Little Miranda, a stylised 18 year old version of Hart, who dialogues with the present-day Miranda about incidents old and new. At times this felt a little stilted and I could not entirely get into it; but at other times, such as in the chapters about dogs, relationships, and beauty, I really thought it worked. Same goes for the dramatic script interludes - better in the small doses.
What Hart does really well, though, is a list. Oh, I love a good hilarious list. My tastes are simple, and were easily pleased when the ten best things about being tall were EXACTLY THE SAME as the ten worst things about being tall. And a pun. There are some excellent, unashamedly barefaced puns in this book, and a great sense of the jolly hockey sticks vibe that Hart has become known for.
Yet the best moments, the altogether shining lights, were when TM took a back seat and MH came out properly. The sincere and lovely writing in beauty, especially, was much more understated and the simple touches of humour rather than full-frontal assault was much appreciated. Miranda (for I feel I can call her that. I am altogether her imaginary best friend) really knows how to get down to the nub and gist of an idea without being rudely blunt about it, which I admire as a skill and as a writing technique.
As you can tell from this overly long blog post I have not yet mastered it myself.
On balance, the book is probably rated 7/10 for me. A bit too confused in its authorial sense, it seeks to fill gaps with humour which would serve better if it simply highlighted the all-round loveliness of Miranda's meaning, rather than being the meat of the writing. It did make me laugh rather a lot, and I did emerge thinking - 'No. It's not just you. I do love stationery...'
I promise the reviews will get better, I'm a little out of practice. Next one comes out on Saturday!
S xx
*um...so for non-swimmers, this means that you have 3 minutes to swim the 8 lengths and recover. Then you set off on the next thing.
**for non water-polo players, we spend a lot of time trying to strengthen our legs so that we can get out of the water higher to pass, catch and defend better. This means we have to kick like this, and doing leg sets with your hands/arms out of the water tends to make you better. But I'm still a rubbish player however many leg sets I do.
Tuesday, 1 January 2013
First run of the year
Ah, breathe that scent. Breathe it deeply. Ahhhhhh, I hear you cry. Yes! That's right! It's the new year! 2013 is come upon us my friends.
I spent a very pleasant NYE at a potluck dinner party reunion with the Brightsiders, my crew from my schooldays, returning home at about 11 to see in the new year with my parents' infinitely more tasty prosecco stash and another viewing of 'A Knight's Tale'. Yeh, I'm boring. I know.
Perhaps I consumed too much prosecco (this is a definite) because I was really not keen on going out for a run today. It felt like I was the last survivor of a zombie apocalypse when I got up this morning, awoken very early after I kicked the wall very hard in my sleep, and staggered to the kitchen for life-restoring orange juice.
Yet drag myself out I did, especially when I realised I would have to blog guiltily tonight if I didn't go. So I recruited my tall ginger brother so that I would feel accountable, and set off.
Oh it was horrible. It was terrible. I had to face my mid-run nemesis of the Hill. I hate the Hill. It mars the middle of my lovely 5k route with a desperate sense of being unfit. Oh, Hill.
Today the Hill meant that I felt incredibly ill all the way up it, as the challenge is to get up at the same pace as running the previous downhill section, regretting that final glass of Chablis last night. Yet after that, for the second half of the route, and after the run itself I did feel much better, testament to the recuperative powers of exercise. And smug. Very smug.
Alright, it may have been a mere three miles ish, but I still felt that lovely sense you get when running of being somehow so intensely in the moment that you are in fact out of yourself, where you zone into something altogether bigger and everything clicks. It's nice when that happens, and it is often when you push yourself through a barrier of discomfort that you get that sensation.
Mo' running mo' miles tomorrow. See when I see you, Hill.
Mile count: 3
I spent a very pleasant NYE at a potluck dinner party reunion with the Brightsiders, my crew from my schooldays, returning home at about 11 to see in the new year with my parents' infinitely more tasty prosecco stash and another viewing of 'A Knight's Tale'. Yeh, I'm boring. I know.
Perhaps I consumed too much prosecco (this is a definite) because I was really not keen on going out for a run today. It felt like I was the last survivor of a zombie apocalypse when I got up this morning, awoken very early after I kicked the wall very hard in my sleep, and staggered to the kitchen for life-restoring orange juice.
Yet drag myself out I did, especially when I realised I would have to blog guiltily tonight if I didn't go. So I recruited my tall ginger brother so that I would feel accountable, and set off.
Oh it was horrible. It was terrible. I had to face my mid-run nemesis of the Hill. I hate the Hill. It mars the middle of my lovely 5k route with a desperate sense of being unfit. Oh, Hill.
Today the Hill meant that I felt incredibly ill all the way up it, as the challenge is to get up at the same pace as running the previous downhill section, regretting that final glass of Chablis last night. Yet after that, for the second half of the route, and after the run itself I did feel much better, testament to the recuperative powers of exercise. And smug. Very smug.
Alright, it may have been a mere three miles ish, but I still felt that lovely sense you get when running of being somehow so intensely in the moment that you are in fact out of yourself, where you zone into something altogether bigger and everything clicks. It's nice when that happens, and it is often when you push yourself through a barrier of discomfort that you get that sensation.
Mo' running mo' miles tomorrow. See when I see you, Hill.
Mile count: 3
Thursday, 27 December 2012
My name is Sophie...
And when I first tried to type that I accidentally spelled it 'Sopjie'. Yes, that's right, I can't even spell my own name. The things you need to know about me are:
I am 22
I live in Cambridge
I study children's literature (no laughing at the back please, we'll get into that fight later)
I read anything anytime
I do some sport
I'm a sort of veggie- I don't eat meat but I do eat fish
I love to bake
I *am* a strident feminist
There is always time for a bow. Or a silly hat
So hello, amigos, friends, probably my mum, all readers of this small space in some dusty corner of the Internet where I will be blogging about the aspects of my life which are most important to me: books, and sport, most likely water polo and running, perhaps with a heavy dash of rowing thrown in. There'll be some recipes and baking, me chatting about the trials of trying to eat a healthy and balanced non-meat-based, largely sugar-free diet to make up for the spartan attitude of BOOKS FITNESS BOOKS FITNESS BOOKS and probably some gentle musings on feminism and women in sport when the mood/all-consuming rage takes me. I'll up the photo content from my last attempt at a blog and downsize quite largely on the oversharing about my personal life.
If you're very good I'll put up some of my writing. No promises though.
So this is me. This kicks off for real on January 1st. See you when I see you.
I am 22
I live in Cambridge
I study children's literature (no laughing at the back please, we'll get into that fight later)
I read anything anytime
I do some sport
I'm a sort of veggie- I don't eat meat but I do eat fish
I love to bake
I *am* a strident feminist
There is always time for a bow. Or a silly hat
So hello, amigos, friends, probably my mum, all readers of this small space in some dusty corner of the Internet where I will be blogging about the aspects of my life which are most important to me: books, and sport, most likely water polo and running, perhaps with a heavy dash of rowing thrown in. There'll be some recipes and baking, me chatting about the trials of trying to eat a healthy and balanced non-meat-based, largely sugar-free diet to make up for the spartan attitude of BOOKS FITNESS BOOKS FITNESS BOOKS and probably some gentle musings on feminism and women in sport when the mood/all-consuming rage takes me. I'll up the photo content from my last attempt at a blog and downsize quite largely on the oversharing about my personal life.
If you're very good I'll put up some of my writing. No promises though.
So this is me. This kicks off for real on January 1st. See you when I see you.
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