You’ve probably not heard of it, but there’s a small university town – about an hour’s train ride from London – which is, on balance, an agreeable sort of place. The buildings are moderately pretty, the river a diverting backdrop for a mid-afternoon stroll, the students uncouth but tolerable in fair weather. I speak, of course, of Oxford, where I spent last weekend recuperating with Sophie ‘I collect universities like stamps’ Rodger. We ate, we drank, we made ourselves sad watching videos of Roy ‘Chubby’ Brown with angry incomprehension, we made ourselves happier again with ice cream. (I don’t mean to suggest any real connection between this unfunny bigot and Oxford, other than I happened to be there shortly after learning of this existence.)
As it happens, the last time I’d stepped off that train onto that platform was seven years ago, which caused a mini-flood of memories. Although this was swiftly overtaken by plain envy that Oxford train station is much better than Cambridge’s, and doesn’t require you to trek halfway to London to get to it. Sigh.
Disclaimer: it’s really obnoxious to start a post with some mega-quotable philosophy. But:
We speak not strictly and philosophically when we talk of the combat of passion and of reason. Reason is, and ought only to be the slave of the passions, and can never pretend to any other office than to serve and obey them.
It’s worth pointing out that ‘passion’ here is not just Romeo-and-Juliet-style-tumbling, but anything that comes down to what we want. Even if what we ‘want’ is not a thing (mmm hotdog) but just to uphold some social or moral custom (mmm avoidance of unnecessary physical pain within an organised legal framework). The ‘reasoning things through’ bit just helps figure out the most effective way to get the hotdog, or how best to avoid your neighbours getting beaten up by the police, but it doesn’t set the goal. (What does set the goal? Well, y’know, evolution, society, hormones, culture, wise words from your parents… but that’s another story.) In other words, it’s not illogical or irrational to do something bad \ stupid \ reckless \ joyously silly and ridiculous, as long as that’s what you were going for.
Point is: if you accidentally fall in love with someone who lives in a different continent, the logical course is not to complain but to kick your reason into gear to try and make it work anyway 
So far, the main casualty seems to be reading and sleep. And I’m working on the reading. Yay. 
Anyway… the last few weeks have been a summery sleep-deprived blur of lounging outside, cider and sunburn. In the revolving door of awesome American visitors to the family, we’ve had Roger and Lily Ann and Daryl and Ermila. Over on Highbury Fields, Holly came to picnic and reminisce about QPCS, while at the school itself Katie graduated Sixth Form (we didn’t do that in my day, we just ‘left’) and finally freed that great institution from having to cater to the strange whims of Selfs.
Holly and Josh
In the ‘surreal Friday night’ corner, exhibit A is going for drinks with Henry and ending up sitting alone in a church at midnight and listening to a sermon before retiring to his for whisky. (I am neither a Catholic nor a whisky-lover as a result of said experience, but it was fun all the same.) Meanwhile, yesterday’s house-cooling braai at Abbi and Paul’s was excellent, and the perfect trigger for that all-important ‘I am calm, content and full of barbecued meat’ feeling which we all need in our lives. (Non-carnivores may substitute ‘meat’ for ‘vegetarian sausages’, of course.)
But of course, the social event of the season was clearly the Self Sisters Shebang: Tash and Katie’s joint 21st and 18th birthday party. Far too many lovely people to list, but special thanks to Alix and Adam for doing the photography which I am about to steal for this post. The theme was ‘black tie with a twist’, although it should be noted for future reference that the ‘twist’ of a long white beard comes with the rather debilitating drawback of stopping you from drinking anything, and so did not last the night…
Uncle Sam, a cat, and two masked somethings
Family Self
Happiness breeds terrible writing. Sorry about that: it’s kinda been the fatal flaw of this blog from the very start. But I’m still going to blog from the local maximum of the happiness curve (‘the top’), because it’s more fun for me this way, so fans of schadenfreude can console yourselves that for all we know next week will be all weeping and gnashing of teeth.
The last two weekends have been birthday weekends: firstly for Emily, whose annual house party is one of the few things which can tempt me south of the river, and then for Robert in Manchester. This one confirmed my belief that the best parties are the ones which can dispense with all of the standing and awkward moving between groups in favour of one communal gathering around sofas, powered by pizza and Call of Duty and drinking games and (pretty violent) arguments about probability. I was (I checked) the only Arts gradate in a room full of mostly Chemistry graduates and PhD students, which was great for making me feel stupid but also enlightening and much fun.
(Fun fact: if you make a joke around my usual circle of friends about MMR causing autism, you’ll usually get laughter and\or feigned agreement. Not so with scientists. They bristle like you’ve blasphemed, presumably terrified that you actually believe it.)
And then this week I’ve had the week off, seeing as it was my birthday and I needed a holiday to cope with becoming so old. I also needed time off to go to the John’s May Ball with Simon, Ellie and Patrick, of course.
Woah, fairytaleish…
But then there were more birthday things! Michele became possibly the first Chicago resident ever to visit the UK and make a beeline for Willesden Green, to be rewarded \ punished by Self-family antics and slapstick. Yesterday Katie took me to see Joss Whedon’s film adaptation of Much Ado About Nothing, which was glorious and funny and – like most Shakespeare plays – leaves you with a mix of “hah, nothing changes” and “hah, pretty sure you can’t yell at someone for not being a maiden anymore”.
And then Cat unveiled her surprise birthday party in Desperados, having roped my sisters into a web of deception, leaving me a little stunned with how incredibly nice people are to me. (I did warn you that reading happiness is dull.) So many, many thanks to Cat, and Tash and Katie, and everyone who turned up: Abbi and Paul, Biff and Christa, Matt (as in boss), Matt (as in Hull), Clark, Emily, Susannah, Robert (as in Dietz, Chicago’s Nicest Bloke). I couldn’t imagine a better crowd to either work with, be mentored by, or share genes with. (Hoping you can work out which is which there.)
OK, that’s it. Back to your regularly scheduled programming of rants at Question Time and cynical observations about the standard of typefaces in online commerce.
Americans do not call paracetamol paracetamol. In fact, I’m not sure what they do call paracetamol is paracetamol – it was probably replaced by high fructose corn syrup in the 1980s. This is mere cultural curiosity until you end up sprawled over a hotel bed with an exploding head, conversations running through your head like the rants of drunken angels. (Do other people hear voices in their head when they’re ill, or is that just me?) At that point, you will long for Old World paracetamol like you never imagined.
That was the low of Chicago Part 3. On the plus side, I finally made like a tourist and rode the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier
Flags capes
And talking of cross-cultural initiations: last week I had the pleasure of taking a gaggle of Americans (plus one German) to News Revue. Thankfully, a little bit of prep work on the UK’s political \ cultural scene (“most elderly male celebrities are now facing charges, most people don’t like Michael Gove”) paid dividends.
Also seen: Star Trek Into Darkness (fun aside from the one moment where he calls Earth on a communicator, which caused my inner nerd to wince) and The Match Box at the Tricycle, a one-woman play about the death of her child and, I think it’s safe to say, probably the emotionally heavier of the two despite not having ‘Into Darkness’ in its name.
And to think that at least two people I read are now blogging ‘every day in May’. It’s now May bank holiday and I still have to write about Easter, when Cat and Josh stayed over at The House of The Selves Selfs and Cat masterminded an incredible Sunday roast.
Easter Sunday
Grand skyscrapers are all very cool, but this is the L
Jamie! Pizza!
Also in April: a family afternoon on Knettishall Heath (who knew it had a silent K?) with Julie, Kieron and Daisy, a visit from Daryl with the requisite Indian takeaway, and this blog’s birthday 
At 9 years old, this means it’s reached the next level of child development:
Children of this age develop a sense of self and find it important to gain social acceptance and experience achievement. Friends become increasingly important. Secret codes, shared word meanings and made up languages, passwords and elaborate rituals are important ways to strengthen the bonds of friendship. Close friends are almost always of the same sex, although children in this age group are usually increasingly interested in peers of the opposite sex.
Be prepared to use all your “patience” skills if caring for children this age, as they tend to think that they do not need any adult care or supervision. Yet, when they are left to care for themselves, they are lonely, unhappy, and sometimes frightened.
Secret codes and elaborate rituals, eh?
Pop pop.
Linda Moffitt on Colombia: “Such a sweet memory of the four of you meeting up in Colombia!” Dec 2, 07:42
