Results tagged “Cambridge” from Test blog

I've managed to miss a good few sessions on the river, of late, as a result of the heavy work schedule and two consecutive weekends away from Cambridge that were on the books for weeks in advance. On Tuesday, however, I managed to sneak in a session between dinner and my later return to the lab, and what a wonderful experience it was.

After splashing around aimlessly for a while (no one was prepared to go for a long distance paddle, which I like best as it's a proper workout), one of the überpaddlers drifted over and asked me if I wanted to try learning to roll (correcting yourself after capsizing), even though it might take weeks to learn.

Stairs explodes into a broad nervous grin

This is something I've always wanted to have a go at, and while I'm not a big fan of being upside down in water, which learning to do it would invariably involve, I figured that then was as good a time as any to have a go. I was described the theory of the technique, then asked to try setting myself up for a roll - upside down, thank god for nose clips - whilst not actually trying to execute the roll itself.
After doing that, I was invited to try for the whole hog; I went over, didn't move an inch, stuck my tongue out in consternation, regretted it, and then used an adjacent stern to bring myself upright. Told not to concentrate on my paddle but on my knees, I went over again, and this time, my draw stroke lifted me half way out of the water - whee! - except that it wasn't enough, and down I went again. That little bit of motion was enough for me to work out what it was I should have been doing, and having enough air for a second attempt before I had to come up, I attempted. And it worked! And it was the most thrilling feeling I've had in absolutely ages!

Two minutes of grinning and whooping ensues

Each attempt thereafter, whilst not always pretty, brought me upright, so even though I wouldn't yet claim to be capable of rolling, the foundation is there, and I'm totally chuffed. Yippie-kai-yay!

Excessive exposure to Depeche Mode whilst working the substerranean plant growth chambers this morning has caused Stairs significant brain damage - no, it wasn't by choice - he is therefore leaving the United Kingdom for a few days to recover. More detail and some extra images from the last two weekends was intended, but work has managed to get in the way yet again. Eventually...

Come September, I'll finally be booted from my college room after three good years of spacious, slightly subsidised living, which means that I'm having to house hunt. I haven't done this in a long while, and I'd certainly forgotten how stressful it was, especially when you find something which isn't at all bad, but get the feeling that if you wait a little longer, you might yet find something better - at the risk of losing what you've already found, of course.

My rent is paid in advance to the end of September, as is college custom in the summer, and so far, I've found two places that are worth chasing up.

The first, £250.00 all inclusive per month, a large room, double bed with space yet to swing a cat in, in need of a coat of paint and masking of grandmotherly furniture. The common areas are a little grim, but at that price, there would be a little more money for food and future rent, and heck, luxuries (The cinema! Books! Broadband! New underwear! ). Available late August, to share with a foreign student and a fat Santa Claus who doesn't wear a shirt on warm days.

The second, up to £370 all inclusive per month, also a large room, single bed and pretty modern with pristine walls and carpet, furniture, broadband, a comfortable living room and kitchen with parquet and tile floors, a garden and four housemates (lawyers and engineering students). Available from August 1st.

Now the dilemma is plain as day; there are those who are telling me that if I'm going to be going mental with stress while finishing my Ph.D., I should at least live in outwardly clean, pleasant and bright conditions, even if it means a slow drain on my bank account that will take me well into my overdraft in under a year (I don't expect to be here that long). Conversely, at the grottier place, there would be enough money to pretty things up in my room, get high speed net access, and still have spent less each month that I would at the Shangri-la.

It's a tough fight between choosing to live frugally and living with just a touch of luxury. Though my family can't help me on the money front, they seem to think that I should go for the nicer place - use the money I have saved on something that is worthwhile, if you like, even if that runs down my savings - whereas I, I'm torn between doing that and exercising a little caution for my own longterm wellbeing. It's so very frustrating.

Cough, Help!

The reason for heading over to Hungary was to participate in a seminar day at the beautiful Budapesti Mûszaki és Gazdaságtudományi Egyetem (Budapest University of Technology and Economics) where a couple of researchers in my field are based; the sciencey part of the visit was actually very interesting, if difficult to sit through (08:00 through to 18:30) for the lack of air conditioning in a stuffy room in a still and humid city basking under sunshine at 35 °C.

Though eight people were attending from my laboratory, only two of that number were travelling with me; we arrived in Budapest a day earlier, on Malév, the national carrier, and I got the perfect seat, with a full view of the engine and the outboard section of the wing, the latter being something which has fascinated me since about the age of three; as always, my face and hands were glued to the window during landing and take-off, lest I miss the crucial changes in flap, slat and aileron positioning that give rise to the sheer craziness that is the lifting off of something that heavy into the skies (no, but seriously, a tiny 737-500 weighs in at 55 000 kilogrammes, a 747-400 F series at 390 000 [squillion] kilogrammes. I know it's all perfectly rational, but it's still bloody amazing and I can't take it for granted).

Okay, I've wiped the drool from my face.

Checking in to our student accommodation was an event, since the building was clearly a relic of the soviet occupation, and came complete with scary wiring, peeling, leaded paint, hole-in-the-wall showers (it was like having a giant piss a column of water at you from somewhere on high, but lacking the thrill of watersports), and those magical Eastern European shelved toilets that just defy further elaboration. And it was warm, fairly clean, and comfortable; good enough for me.

We had the whole day to go 'sploring. In fact, when we weren't playing academician and socialising with our colleagues, we were out exploring, and eating, and looking, and touching, and walking for hours at a time whilst getting very sweaty in the crotch. It was great! One of the attractive features of the city is certainly its architecture, and if you visit Szt. Istvàn Basilica (I'm guessing St. Stephen's) and climb to the top of the dome, you'll find yourself with the ideal 360° panorama of the city which affords views of many of the more famous landmarks.

King Stephen united Hungary under Roman Catholicism in 896 A.D., following a message from the Pope that ordered him to convert or get out. He converted, don't you know, and was later beatified for his display of exceptional courage.

The food proved very satisfying almost without exception, though it is widely geared toward staunch carnivores; we ended up in a restaurant called Fatál, which was anything but that (a fatál is a wooden platter), where we were served things like this, and more, for peanuts, which equated to one of the best meals I've had in a long while.

Following the end of the seminar programme, we ended up going to the Gellért bath house, a huge, famous, baroque affair of sculpted masonry, pools and thermal baths - all radioactive, and part of the attraction - which was really something else.

In addition to seeing my supervisor in the buff -- well, fear kept me from looking right at him -- a Hungarian twenty-something rather bravely tried to give me the eye despite the fact that I was foreign, talking to another foreigner in foreign, and about 30 °C too far over my own body temperature to even want to contemplate contemplating getting any sweatier. I quietly flashed him an appreciative grin with "No" written all over it, knowing full well that I wouldn't have gone there whatever the situation. In any case, his swimming trunks offended me, which is just as well, and though there were a good sixty naked blokes running around the place, one looking like a younger, hunkier Vladimir Putin, hung like a dinosaur, that was as gay as it got.

More excitingly, they had the most powerful wave pool I've ever been in; elegantly surrounded by white stone balustrades and little renaissance statuettes, this incongruous pool of mammoth waves and crazy breakers had a unifying effect on all present. We stopped, if only for a moment, to watch and smile as our supervisor turned into a ten year old and threw himself into the foam, grinning like a kid; I plan to be that sprightly at fifty.

Thereafter, pretty much everybody left for the U.K., leaving Huey (my friend and colleague) and myself to explore all corners of the city on foot for an extra night and day. We visited; the parliament, purportedly inspired by the Palace of Westminster; Pest's huge and very tasty indoor market, where I wanted to steal most of the vegetables on display and smear myself with the local patisserie; Vajdahunyad Castle, which was surrounded by ducks, and an extraordinarily high incidence of nookie (I've never seen so many people making out as I did in Budapest as a whole); another bath house, Széchenzyi, which was rather pretty and a cheering respite from the tiring heat outside; a Japanese-style vegan restaurant, Wabisabi, because we just had to after four days of meat and pickled vegetable for four days in a row. Here, I encountered rooibos tea, a South African export that I've been drinking almost every day since I got back to the UK (right now, in fact!).

Our last few hours were spent at the Buda Royal Palace, which sits atop a hill accessible by funicular or on foot (we chose lazy and novel over energetic and commonplace, though it incurred a small fee). Up here, we sought shelter from the heat beneath a huge bronze statue of a horse and rider, sitting on its highly photographed limestone plinth and ruining everybody's pictures whilst admiring the fine views, our collection of fetish shots, and the travesties that some people elect to visit upon themselves.

After a few hours of sunning our toes, it was off to the airport; this journey we decided to make via metro and bus, and for a total of about ninety pence each, it was far better value than the ten quid taxis with the upside of a little extra adventure. I even saw my sister along the way, which was unexpected. At this point, Huey reveals to me that she is a closeted Taiwanese princess, and somehow manages to get us into the first class lounge for free drinks, food and internet before our flight back to the British sunshine. Budapest was memorable.

A few months ago, my mood was one emotional rollercoaster of ups and downs following the difficult closure of a long term relationship some time before Christmas. That has settled, by and large, though there are latent issues about the whole thing that will probably emerge if (argh, when!) I next become seriously involved with someone. Things these days are relatively stable; I tend towards being content, if not cheerful outright, every time I wake up, and that's a nice feeling, but at the moment it's a fragile state of mind, easily dissolved by the end of each day by the repetitive stresses; work; phone calls; lethargy; lack of sleep; money; the future.

I feel upbeat on the whole, so this is no portrait of despair in the painting, but I am finding that the difference between being stressed and being in distress (and these events are mutually exclusive) is really quite significant in terms of how it affects me on a daily basis.

Breaking up caused acute distress; it was bugger-all-to-hell whilst it was going on, but those difficulties that I perceived in my new situation became manageable after a couple of months. Being stressed, on the other hand, I have found more tricky to entertain; it's a punishing and chronic state that I'm constantly aware of, and do try to heal actively, but the problem is that for as long as the causes of that stress are still extant, I remain susceptible to it if I'm not careful. Irritatingly potent at wearing me down, it leaves me empty, tired, even misanthropic, and all I really want to do is to get past it and feel that smiling at people isn't so tough a thing to do.

In other news, the sun is shining, and I've had ice cream - this smile is genuine.

About twenty minutes ago, I achieved twenty-four hours of wakefulness. Given how accustomed I am to sleeping between the hours of ten and eleven thirty at night -- given the chance -- the fact that I'm not remotely tired now comes as something of a surprise to me. Still, I've eaten my bodyweight in food, pissed an amount equivalent to the volume of my body as a result of excessive consumption, caught a glees performance and a swingband, ridden gondolas under lamplight, seen a hypnotist, an audience dismemberer, the Bootleg Beatles and Big Brovaz, a manic fireworks display accompanied by O fortuna over the Trinity College backs, and all in the best of company. Enough to keep the mind going through the night and past sunrise.

Now back home, I'm not entirely sure what to do with myself; it seems a shame to crawl out of the black tie and dress shirt, since they never see the light of day otherwise, but mucky I feel, and shower I must, and maybe then, for sensibility's sake, I'll crawl into bed and watch the sky brighten through the open windows, its brilliant blue already showing through the pale yellowness of the sunrise. And maybe sober up along the way.

The skies are grey, and on my way in to work this morning, it even rained. No novelty, by any stretch, but it's wonderfully warm out there, carrying a personal hint of childhood nostalgia; of playing games out in the warm, equatorial rains, with none of the discomfiting anticipation of each cursed, icy pinprick of the usual northern-latitude skywater that breaches my defences to land spasmodically on my warm neck. In my hardier moods, it's a contrast that I sometimes enjoy, but not often.

Today, the wetness playing down my neck is mild, refreshing and welcome. After a weekend that has left me with a second set of tan lines -- t-shirt, this time, tank top, the last -- this little bit of grey, and the humid breeze upon which it rides, makes me happy. Before I recover my wits, here's to the fabulousness of drying off soggy toes, of pulling off damp trousers, and of watching the skies pour from behind the frame of an open window whilst bundled up in an oversized bathsheet.

And kudos to hand-held-two-way-radio boy for his excellent first-timer punting skills; Matt didn't fall in, he kept it going in a straight line, and he didn't crash. The bar is set high for the next person...

...cough, cough, héh Jònéh!

Swimming in icy water on windy day surprisingly uplifting and clearly good for the soul.

May facilitate onset of pneumonia. Or hypothermia. Or both, if lucky.

Some funny things come through my mail box. I don't mean funny ha-ha, the kinds of things that wither and die under the scrutiny of the average dry or verging-on-non-existent sense of humour, but quirky. Which is why I was pleasantly mortified at receiving this absolutley spot-on (I wish) analysis of my MRI from him. By way of reassurance, and thank you for the concern, the scan was merely a common case of "student whoring his goods for money." They needed uncommonly stupid people to lie-in for an hour and a half, and rewarded said deficients with a cup of water and thirty two quid. Yes, £32, which is a little higher than minimum wage.

In other news, work was a non-event today as it was the members' day at the Chelsea Flower Show. Serving Pimms, strawberries, concept gardens and spectacular plants to the green-fingered and nouveau-riche for the 82nd time since 1862, Chelsea is easily the most famous home and garden show on the planet, and this year attracted 157 000 visitors. I didn't have time to meet them all, but did bump into four or five people I knew from London -- which was nice, and not unsurprising since all the gay people who weren't on Compton Street at lunch time seemed to be in the show grounds, flapping their wrists at gargantuan Begonias and specimen orchids -- whilst taking in general gorgeousness and good atmosphere over the course of a largely sunny and warm afternoon.

General gorgeousness and good atmosphere plus mum and partners in crime And my reflection

Now back in Cambridge, my feet are comfortably sore, and I have a mammoth strawberry plant sitting in the bay window; one of the exhibitors sold the plant to us then and there, which is utterly illegal since plants can only be removed from the show during the big sell-off that occurs on the last day; I was rather chuffed.

Today's lessons are that smiles are powerful, strawberry juice makes for convincing pavement blood, and bin bags can hide more than just body parts.

When I'm alone, I don't feel insecure, or feel compelled to worry about anyone else. Being happy becomes less complicated, and comes more easily, which is probably why some of my most poignantly happy moments are borne of my own solitude, with a little atmosphere mixed in to make them memorable.

There are people out there who don't cause catastrophic shifts in that kind of easy field of calm; comfortable people who make the best of any situation, rarely complain in earnest, and who know how to trust. It would be nice to connect with one, but at least I can count a couple amongst my friends; these people make me smile at a moment's thought; would that I could take them into my arms and hold onto them forever.

Someone obviously swallowed more river water this evening than was good for him; that, or it was doped with prozac.