For the past twenty minutes I have been staring at an empty word document. This was not the plan. When I committed to writing a column, I envisioned myself sitting demurely in the Rad Cam, gently tapping away on my keyboard with an effortless writerly instinct. But the word document has simply stared back at me, and now I haven’t blinked for almost half an hour. The irksome truth is that introductions can often be a little awkward. First impressions do count after all, and I’d like to get this one right.
I’m new to Oxford this Michaelmas, and one of my most irrational fears (amongst many) was that upon arrival I would be asked to state my name to a group and share one interesting fact about myself. The name part is fine – I’ve been practising this for the past two decades. The interesting fact, however, instils in me a sense of dread quite unlike any other. This is always made worse by the anticipation as we go round the circle and I realise it is getting closer and closer to my turn. There is no sensation quite like it.
I don’t think I’m the only one who feels this way. Part of the stress is that you want people to think you’re fun and approachable, but without being so self-deprecating or quirky that you come across as odd. You are presented with a variety of options. A geographical answer is usually safe but often fairly dull: ‘Hello, I’m Ellie, and I’m from the Cotswolds’. Pets are also failsafe but nonetheless bland, unless you can say something like, ‘Hello, I’m Ellie, and I have a dog with one eye’ (genuinely). Humour is always a risk. I once tried to strike a light-hearted, sarcastic note: ‘Hello, I’m Ellie, and there is literally nothing interesting about me.’ To my horror, I was met with kind smiles and gentle reassurances that, don’t worry, I’m sure you’re really interesting!
Which leads me to the topic of this column, Second Draft. How nice would it be to try everything twice and avoid all sorts of faux pas that make us squirm? This is all theoretical, of course. Partly because this is the rich and diverse tapestry of life and we’re all learning along the way. Mainly because I haven’t yet worked out how to time travel (I study English, so there’s not much hope there).
I’m a self-confessed film philistine, but one of the roughly twelve films I have watched from beginning to end includes About Time. For those of you who are even more uncultured than me, this film is based on the premise that the protagonist can, after manoeuvring himself into a dark cupboard or similarly uncomfortable vessel, travel back to any point in his life. I would rather like to have this skill.
As a postgraduate student starting university for the second time in my life, I’ve acquired a little insight which feels helpful in approaching this new beginning as if for the second time. I knew, for example, to not expect much sleep during freshers week. I knew that a mattress topper would probably be the best investment I could make all year (go to John Lewis, splash out, and thank me later). I have learnt that if you go on three consecutive nights out, you will likely feel a little fragile by Sunday. And I have learnt that eating toast for dinner every day is straightforward but ultimately not sustainable, even if you vary the toppings. You’d be surprised by how many people rely on this tactic. I remember meeting a boy during freshers week of my undergrad who had no idea how to cook pasta. When I explained the relatively simple process to him, he looked at me, completely baffled, and demanded, ‘But won’t it get wet?’
Despite my undergraduate heads-up (and ability to boil a kettle), there are some things I have still managed to get wrong. During my formal induction to Hogwarts – otherwise known as matriculation – drunk on happiness and the October air (and not, I fear, with only that), I realised that it may have been sensible to wear a pair of brogues that don’t have a habit of giving me crippling blisters. A few hours and multiple plasters later, hobbling round a small, sweaty, and dark room, I remembered my vow to never go clubbing in Oxford. I also wish I’d considered that ear plugs might be advantageous when you live above Little Clarendon Street in a building that doesn’t have double glazing. And I really should have clued myself up on the Oxford lingo before I got here. I now find myself saying things like, ‘Let’s meet at plodge’, ‘Have you bought your sub fusc?’ and ‘I need to pay my battels’ with a tentative but false confidence much like the one you employ when learning a second language.
Indeed, since being at Oxford I’ve started compiling a list of new words which I write down in a little green book. I might previously have thought this was juvenile (in fact, I think I had a similar sort of project when I was about ten), but now I consider it an absolute necessity. So many of my readings are full of obfuscatory phrases like ‘enigmatic pronominal shifting’ and ‘political shibboleths’. Even in seminars people throw around words like ‘bifurcation’ and ‘atavistic’ in a nonchalant and intellectually-at-ease manner. I’m determined to play my part, hence the little green book. In case you’re interested, some new words from last week include conjuration, heuristic, ersatz, dialectic, and contrapuntal. And bifurcation. And atavistic.