Week Five

Week five. The third 500m of the 2K test that is a Cambridge term. The point at which all hope is lost, student unions start dishing out biscuits in the hope that it will stop people crying alone in their rooms and some people disappear into the library never to be seen again. This is my seventh week five and they haven't all been that bad. I admit that things didn't start all that well when I lost my voice during my first week five and had to hoarsely croak at my mum down the phone, asking for moral support and wondering if I could go home. My fifth week five also hit a low when I burst into tears after my supervisor asked me whether my essay actually had an argument (it didn't). My sixth week five involved abandoning the library halfway through a practise exam paper and jumping on the next train home, and I can't really remember my fourth week five, but I suspect that's because it was spent napping almost continuously to avoid confronting reality.

But all that's in the past. To combat the doom and gloom message perpetuated by much of the student body, I set myself a challenge to find five positive things about each day of week five.

This is the result. It could be a contender for one of the dullest accounts of a week ever, far too many of the points are food related, and, to be honest, I started to get a bit desperate from day 1. However, each bullet point serves to reinforce the fact that everything is actually okay, no matter what people say.

Thursday

• Finished an essay many hours before the deadline 
• Had a really healthy lunch including spinach, tuna, soup, carrots, hummus and rice cakes
• Noticed that a toilet cubicle had run out of paper before sitting down (don't underestimate the sense of achievement that I got from this)
• Spent an hour and a half in a class discussing the differences between 'modernity', 'modernism', 'modernisation' and 'modern' and felt as though I'd reached the pinnacle of intellectual silliness.
• Read a good chunk of The Boys in The Boat (an incredible book that combines history and rowing - perfectly catering to my interests)  

Friday

• Sold a box of poppies, and temporarily experienced being a tourist attraction.
• Went on a mad shopping spree in superdrug to replenish makeup that had gone so far beyond its use by date it might as well have been breeding ground for bacteria.
• Had a gentle supervision in which my supervisor spent ten minutes chatting about how his dad had worked at Bletchly Park, another 10 minutes showing me pictures of flags and about 5 minutes digressing about the history of the kilt. 
• Managed to finish training at 18:55, jump in the shower, and get to hall for 19:10, setting new records for efficiency
• Painted my toenails Cambridge blue 

Saturday

• Lovely weather in the morning (even if it didn't quite hold until the second outing)
• Managed to read some historical sources in the minibus to and from Ely
• Lightweight brunch with some wonderful lightweights 
• Found out that my boat made it into the background of a photo in Rowing and Regatta 
• Remembered to take some tupperware into Caf Hall, so extra food for the next day.

Sunday

• Took part in a moving Remembrance Sunday Parade - felt very honoured to be part of the UAS
• Had a free buffet lunch in the Guildhall
• Successful five hour library stint in which genuine work was done 
• Pigs in blankets at formal
• Got to sleep nice and early

Monday

• Didn't have to get out of bed after waking up naturally at 5:30 (thanks body clock)
• Had a productive morning combining an Aldi shop, laundry and a lecture
• Made myself a lovely salmon and avocado salad for lunch (from my very reasonably priced Aldi shop) 
• Took a trip to Bassingbourne to give a presentation to some air cadets, escaping the Cambridge Bubble
• Earned 50p worth of nectar points through online procrastination 

Tuesday

• Woke up feeling alert and wide awake at 5am 
• Saw a gorgeous sunrise over Ely
• Integrated a quick Tesco's banana-milk run (credit to Ella for the terminology) into my morning and still caught the 8:39 train - then got a seat on the train
• Rediscovered the power nap 
• Stayed in the library until welfare tea (free food is always a positive)

Wednesday 

• Had blueberries, raspberries, banana and sunflower seeds in my porridge this morning. 
• Our weights coach brought his dog into the morning session, so cute!
• Made a lovely winter warmer desert like thing in the microwave:
• Take a plum or two, destone and cut in halves or quarters 
• Place plum slices in a microwavable dish 
• Sprinkle with cinnamon or mixed spice and drizzle with honey
• Microwave for 1-2 minutes 
• Shorter erg meant there was time to go back to my room to get changed before going out again. 
• Started browsing for Christmas gifts online and felt slightly Christmassy already. 

Mundane positivity - 1, Week 5 - 0


Finally, the common complaints about week five; the stress of getting bogged down in work and extra-curricular tend to embody the way in which the students become absorbed in the infamous Cambridge Bubble, unable to look much further than their own impending essay crisis and rapidly vanishing social life. We all know the outside world exists, that there are millions, if not billions of people who live their lives in far more stressful conditions and we're mostly all aware of just how lucky we are to be here. The way I see it, week five marks the point at which any real sense of objectivity and perspective are shoved to one side in favour of self-imposed academic expectations and an almost claustrophobic sense of being trapped in Cambridge. Week five itself really isn't that bad, but perhaps our inability to see that is part of the problem.    

One year on / Why? (part 2)

I've officially been procrastinating through sporadic blog posts for a year now. I think I've got a little bit closer to working out why I row, which was the subject of my initial post, so I thought I'd revisit the question with all the added experience of the intervening 365.

The other day, I was sitting in a 9am lecture having been awake for 4 hours, dressed in slightly damp Lycra, struggling to keep my eyes open and nursing some raw open blisters. In that moment, I wished for a normal student life. I would have given anything to turn up to that lecture with a thumping hangover, moisturised hands, wearing normal clothes and maybe a bit of last nights make up. I want to be able to stay up later than 9pm without getting unbearably tired and not have to say no all the time whenever anyone asks me if I'm drinking, or want to go out for a meal, or go to someone's birthday and eat cake without the significant side portion of guilt. I wish I could eat what I wanted and not worry about arbitrary weight guidelines or have to constantly make sure that I'm eating the right stuff so my muscles can repair themselves and I won't burn out on a long erg. I hate the way I'm in competition with my friends, how my year is going to be defined by which eight 59kg women can make a bit of fibreglass/plastic/metal go the fastest backwards through water using a big stick. 

This is normally the point where someone else asks me why I don't just stop. The same people who ask whether I can 'just skip a session' or don't see the problem with turning up to an outing hungover and sleep deprived. These people are my friends but they will never really understand and it's unfair to expect them to. It's taken a while for me to understand myself. 

If, for one moment, we forget the moments when rowing is genuinely enjoyable in and of itself (and believe me, there are plenty of these moments) to get to the root of the matter I have to ask what it is that makes us turn up for the 5:55 train when all we want to do is sleep, and most of us are falling behind with work. There are two main reasons:

• Winning
• Everyone else will be there 

These are so self-explanatory and simple that I wonder how it took so long to figure out.

And sometimes, I just have to remind myself that if it was easy, it wouldn't be worth doing. 

Education, Education, Education

I've been going through some of my draft posts and rediscovered this:
I wrote an essay about education in twentieth century Britain a while ago, got quite angry and ending up writing some more things.This deals with a topic that is far more serious than the majority of my other posts, and doesn't even mention rowing or food.

The following is based on a couple of assumptions:

• The quality of education offered at a private school is generally of a higher standard than that of a state school.
• The better education a child receives, the more likely they are to progress in the career of their choice.
• Education is a right, not a commodity.
• Minimalisation of class based inequality of opportunity is a desirable goal for any developed society.

The premise is simple:

In a society striving for national equality of opportunity, private education is indefensible. 

Say to yourself, All parents have the right to choose how their children are educated. There's nothing wrong with that. It seems like a good argument.

Now try saying, Every child has the right to equal educational opportunities, unless their parents are rich, and see how that makes you feel.

Alternatively, I understand that private education is not financially feasible for the majority of parents in the UK, therefore when I emphasise parental choice, what I really mean is that wealthy parents should be able to choose to have their children educated separately from the majority of children in Britain. 

That's kind of restrictive to social mobility, isn't it?

Wait a moment though, Intelligent children from poor backgrounds can apply for scholarships. That makes everything seem a bit better.

Okay. Next one. The highest quality of education for children should only be available to a small minority already demonstrating high aptitude for academic study or the wealthy. All of a sudden those scholarships aren't really doing a great deal for society. Grammar schools have been shown to exacerbate social inequality, since segregating children by their performance in dubious examinations (such as the eleven-plus) benefits a minority to the disadvantage of the vast majority.

Yes, but let's be realistic here, There would be inequality even without private education because of housing prices, familial advantages, private tuition... private schools merely add to the problem.

Imagine you go into hospital after a skiing accident, and the doctor says, You've got a broken leg, two broken arms, mild concussion and a pole impaled into your foot. We've run out of plaster to reset your broken limbs, so we might as well not bother about treating anything else. (let's ignore how far fetched this analogy is for a moment....)

Or, to be less vague, Rich people are going to have an advantage when it comes to their child's education anyway. Let's segregate them and give them an even bigger advantage! Somehow, I don't feel that this is morally defensible standpoint.  

I'm afraid that I can't really provide a workable solution to national educational inequality. However, I can point out that private education is morally indefensible when examining it in the context of equality of opportunity. This isn't to say that you shouldn't send your children to private school if you really want to. From an individualistic perspective, it's becomes a lot easier to justify, especially if you think that there's 'no such thing as society'.

However, I'd personally suggest that there is such a thing as society, and what with me being young and idealistic, private schools are unjustifiable in such a context.

PS I really really don't want to hear any heart rendering 'my parents worked their arses off to get me to my private school so actually it's fair/ I managed to get a bursary, why can't the other hundred thousand kids my age' kind of story because these are exceptions, not rules. Exceptions highlight the norm, and the norm is that most people do not have the chance to attend private schools, so argument from singular personal experience just won't cut it. Also why do we expect exceptional behaviour from the socially disadvantaged? 

PPS I'm coming to the realisation that Oxbridge an extension of the same problem, having a crisis of social conscience and might quit uni to join the revolution. I need to think about it a bit more. 

Dear Freshers

Before I get started, I'm not trying to say that everyone should be a rower. Many people won't want to, some people can't, and others should probably cox instead.  I'm not trying to convince the unwilling that they ought to regularly wake before sunrise to blister their hands and weary their legs. I just want to suggest, in a reasonably polite manner, that those who can should try it once.

Non-rowers and some ex-rowers will eagerly divulge horror stories of waking up at 6am, never having time for studying, becoming a social recluse who can only communicate in boatie chat, and enforced wearing of stash.Admittedly, there's always the odd person who seems to live up to the stereotype, but that's not what you're signing up for when you write your crsID on the novice mailing list at your college fresher's fair. 

Rowing once is not going to be a painful experience. You won't have to wake up in the dark or wear outlandishly coloured lycra. You'll probably sit in a boat and move a big stick through the water a little bit. I can almost guarantee that you won't capsize. You'll learn that rowing boats have seats on wheels (this completely blew my mind as a fresher) and that a rowing stroke is made up of a sequence of 'legs, backs, arms, arms, backs, legs' rather than just tugging your arms back and forth. The part where the oar goes in the water is called the 'catch' and where it comes out the water is called the 'finish'. If you didn't know this before, then your one trip to the boathouse will have been an educational experience. You came to Cambridge to learn, right?

You'll probably see a group of older rowers and realise that this isn't just a sport for the tall, athletic and muscular, although these qualities might help should you wish to pursue rowing to a higher level. Instead, college rowers come in all shapes, sizes and personalities. If you speak to some of these people, you could learn that many were never the 'sporty' type at school. They used to dread PE lessons, yet, as young adults, willingly turn up to training every single day for a sport they only took up for the promise of a free T-shirt.

After all this, you might understand that what you have seen on one day barely scrapes the surface of what rowing at Cambridge can really be. You might go back again, and again. You could work harder than you've ever worked before, and laugh harder too. You'd understand what it means to truly push yourself, to be part of a team, and to know the thrill of rowing in a boat that is more than the sum of its parts. Or you might decide that it's not worth it, ignore the emails, never again return to the river, and have a pleasant, blister free university experience. It's your choice.

But if you go once, at least you'll get a free barbecue out of it. 

How to make a board game

1) Have an idea. If this idea is a rowing related monopoly rip-off, then this is the guide for you. If it's not, then ignore the rest of the instructions and do your own thing.

2) Design the outline of the board electronically. Work out how many squares there ought to be and the correct proportions.

3) Spend a few days thinking up ideas for chance cards and properties. Write them down.

4) Print off a prototype board

5) Look at the prototype. Think about how it could be better. Make those changes. 

6) Print off the chance, community chest and property cards. I created a property card template and then filled in the other details by hand, but you could also type up the individual properties and print them out.

7) Design the money. Decide you don't like it. Redisgn the money. Realise you need coloured paper.

8) Buy a pack of children's activity coloured paper for the money. Print off the money and have a moment of horror as you realise that you have set yourself the monumental task of cutting out somewhere in the region of 250 monopoly notes. Allow a sense of stubborn pride to kick in. Prepare yourself for a night of watching panorama on iplayer. End the evening fully up to date on current affairs and with a set of cut out monopoly money.

So much money

9) Print out the board on A3 sheets. Spend a considerable amount of time working out how best to position the overlaps.

10) Using a powerful combination of Prittstick and Sellotape, create a 45cmx45cm base out of card. Carefully line up the board, and stick down. Trim around the edges if required.

11) Get out all those sharpies you spontaneously purchased earlier that week and start colouring in, writing in place names and property prices. 

12) Print out some counters onto card. Consider drawing them before remembering a lack of artistic talent. 

13) 'Borrow' some dice from a lesser board game. 

14) Print out blades instead of houses and keep self entertained by colouring them in the colours of all the different cambridge colleges.

15) Find a group of willing test subjects (boatie friends) and entice them with the prospect of tea and cake. Play for a tortuous 3 hours by the end of which you never want to see a monopoly board again.

15) Decorate an amazon box as storage and perform the terrifying task of cutting and folding the board so it fits. Watch with dismay as the paper crinkles slightly and then decide that it doesn't matter all that much. 

The reason I dropped art in year 9 has never been more apparent 

16) Consider the possibility of CUWluedo. 

17) Consider your degree. 

18) Be satisfied with monoply.

Don't worry, be HAPpy

Today, I want to talk about the silliest paper in the history tripos.

This blog post started off with me actually doing work (gasp), but quickly descended into a search for the weirdest question the history faculty has devised in the past five years.

For the uninitiated, HAP stands for Historical Argument and Practice. It's an exam taken in the third year of the Cambridge history degree that consists of one essay in three hours. There's a choice of about 30 questions, which, considering how ridiculous some of the questions are, is probably a good thing...

I have a sneaking suspicion that I don't understand many of the questions because I've been rowing rather than studying, but either way, these are my ten favourite:

This is the point where I start to wonder if I've paid enough attention over the last year, but maybe historical explanation is, um, historical?

And I am paranoid about the lack of 'discuss' or other useful instruction at the end of this question. What does it mean? What do you want of me?

This is a totally reasonable question, maybe for a 300 page book.

Again, there is no 'discuss' at the end of this question. I suspect it's just a statement to reassure failed novelists who happen to be sitting the exam.

In great depth? With reference to the numerous historiographical waves? I'm not actually sure, I'm just fishing around for answers here. 

Is this 'Big Question' a question?

Best answers get submitted to the government, and the fellows who wrote the exam paper get their funding back.

I'm not sure if I want to laugh, cry, or stare blankly into the distance. I just... I think I'm missing some vital piece of knowledge about the historiography of objectivity. Or possibly the examiners were drunk.

This is just the historian's version of 'I'd rather be at Oxford than St Johns'

This type of question is designed to confuse and upset.

STOP IT NOW PLEASE


I'm going to go cry, reconsider my work schedule, and make an effort to go to lectures this year.


PS If you looked at any one of these and understood/started to construct an answer in your mind:

• I hate you
• No I don't please enlighten me as to how you gained this knowledge oh wise one

And we're off...

Trialling again...
After a summer full of flying (went solo twice, didn't crash, success), running around a training base firing blanks (didn't get too injured or sent home ill this time, also success), walking 100 miles (one small blister on the little toe of my left foot, huge success), and a couple of weeks relaxing at home and cooking for my family (haven't given anyone food poisoning yet, must try harder), I'm back in Cambridge for my third and final year.  

The 2015 Boat Race season is a particularly exciting and historic one for CUWBC. For the first time, the heavyweight women's blue boat will be racing on the same day, down the same course as the men. The lightweights and Blondie are still racing in Henley, but the chance to be part of the first squad to send a women's boat down the boat race on the same day is amazing. I was having doubts this summer as to whether I really wanted to drag myself through another year of sleep deprivation and pain, but less than 24 hours after arriving back in Cambridge, I was certain.

We were thrown back into training with a 2K test and an afternoon on an assault course, activities that epitomise the bizarre combination of 'fun' and hard work that comes with trialling. I'm now bruised, sore, and aching, but nevertheless feeling positive about this season.

New season resolutions:
-Stop eating granola
-Keep a better training diary
-Stretch at every opportunity (maybe not literally, might start to get a few weird looks)
-Enjoy the training. Even when it's 6am and cold and dark, my whole body is aching, my hands are raw and there are a million places I think I'd rather be, remember how special this opportunity is.

New methods of procrastination:
-Experimenting with different flavours of fruit and herbal teas (This will be worthy of a whole post in a couple of weeks)

The current tea collection

-Designing rowing themed board games (CUWBC-opoly is definitely happening)

It's a work in progress...

-Buying unnecessary stationery (there was a pack of 26 sharpies on offer. I don't need 26 sharpies. If anyone ever wants a permanent marker, I am your woman)


Watch this space for updates in how I try not to let my degree get in the way of rowing and flying, lightweighting endeavors, and more board games...

These boots were made for walking...

In the third week of July, I took part in the Nijmegen marches, also known in the Netherlands as the 'Vierdaagse', or the four day event. Walking 100 miles in four days through Dutch towns, villages and occasional countryside wearing uniform, including heavy boots and (should you have the misfortune to be of the male persuasion) carrying 10kg of weight not including food and water is, I'll admit, not everyone's idea of fun. For the majority of the walk; the 3am alarms, the swollen feet, the moment of doubt as to whether I was still in possession of my little toes, the chafing, the sticky sweatiness which starts around 6:30am and doesn't go away, the burning heat rash running from my ankles to the backs of my knees, it's not my idea of fun either. I would rather be sitting on a sofa watching Bake Off, or eating ice cream on a beach, or relaxing by a pool, or any number of other genuinely enjoyable experiences. I realised this the first time round, in 2013. And In 2014 I went back.

The atmosphere in the towns and the camaraderie on the march is unique. Having little kids run up to you asking for your autograph (no, really) and giving countless high-fives to enthusiastic Dutch people is pretty uplifting. The sheer scale of the marches - 43,000 people turned up on day one, and of these about 5, 000 were military from all over the place, all living in the same camp. As a group of German soldiers walked past singing 'it's a long way to Tipperary' on the second or third day brought home the extent to which we exist within an international, cross-cultural Europe. The reaction of the march organisers and participants to the MH17 tragedy was moving beyond words, but exemplifies the kindness and goodheartedness that lies at the very centre of the Nijmegen marches.

Nijmegen is addictive. I was chatting to a man one day who told me it was his thirty third time. Thirty three. It turns out he had first got into it through the met police, who regularly put in a team and can be found walking along with their traditional black police hats. He retired a while ago and his best friends from the police force were spread around the UK - one in Scotland, one in Northern Ireland, one still living in London. The only time of the year these friends met up was to walk nijmegen - and he assured me that it gets easier the more times you do it.

Crossing the finish line at long last was wonderful. It's not just about knowing that you have personally completed a challenging walk but more importantly that you've done it as a team - especially when that team has gone through moments of seemingly insurmountable adversity. Every single person who completes the march demonstrates some level of mental toughness and resilience, and a team made up of this kind of strong person is a very special thing indeed.

Yes, when it's halfway through day three and the whole team is tired, hot and suffering varying degrees of pain, it's very easy to denounce Nijmegen as a terrible idea, a masochistic exercise that serves no real purpose other than to demonstrate the fragility of the twenty-first century human when exposed to a hard day or two of walking. You can say, as many do, 'I am never doing this again. Ever.' And then on the final day, a couple of hours and a few glasses of wine past the finish line, you'll be counting down until next year... 

See you in 2015, Nijmegen.

Why I don't care about exams

It’s Tuesday 24^th August, 2010. I’m awake at 5am, refreshing my painfully slow internet on my Samsung Genio touch, trying to access the Edexcel online results from a room in RAF Valley. The page loads, and I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

When you’re predicted 10A*s, anything less is a failure. When you’ve already set your sights on studying history at a top university, coming away with an A at GCSE level is inconceivable. Until it happened. Now, I find it laughable, but back then? I just cried.  

I don’t think I’ve ever over-reacted quite as much (apart from that time someone in hall refused to pass me the potatoes whilst I was dieting, but that’s another story…)

I was upset because I somehow thought that my worth was inextricably linked to my academic performance. More importantly, I was upset because I knew that I wanted to go to a mythologised version of Cambridge, and this was a sure sign that I wasn’t clever enough. They’d never lower their standards to let in someone who only got an A at GCSE in the subject they were applying for.

I suppose that for some people, Cambridge is just a place you end up at on the way to somewhere else. It’s a place where a lot of people go, it’s a route into investment banking, into stand-up comedy, a chance to be accepted by the rest of your family. I know that I’m not alone in taking a different approach. I created a ‘Cambridge’ in my head. ‘Cambridge students’ were a class apart – they appeared as omniscient beings on University Challenge, or rowed down the Thames, or became famous comedians and actors. I’d look up famous people on Wikipedia and have a funny little list in my head ‘he went to Cambridge’, ‘she went to Cambridge’, ‘he was at Cambridge and studied history’... it’s embarrassing to admit it, but it has left me with the ability to match celebrities to their college – something that’s come in handy in a surprising number of conversations over the past couple of years.

I just really wanted to go to Cambridge. I knew it was a stupid product of my over-active imagination, and I was painfully aware just how hard and how fragile a dream it was, but it was my dream and I let it grow to the point where anywhere else would be a failure. This was in 2010. By the time I got round to applying for universities, I was a lot more sensible and could envision a happy future at any of my five choices.  

My Cambridge was not a means to a well-paying job in the City, or a road into further academic study, my Cambridge was an end in itself. What an end it’s been so far.

When I watched the boat race in the year I got my offer, it crossed my mind that I would be living in the same city as these people, not that I would be training in the same facilities, rowing with the same colour blades.  I know people who have done things like University Challenge, or been in Footlights productions. Occasionally (like, a couple of times in two years), a renowned academic even says something nice about my essays.

It’s time to refuse to define myself by a number attached to a couple of hours’ worth of frenzied essay writing. I cared so much about my GCSEs and my A levels because they were what would allow me to get into Cambridge. And now? Like I said, I’m not here because I want to walk away with BA (cantab) at the end of my name. I’m here because this is where I want to be. Right here, right now, with the crazy intelligent people, and the inspiring rowing people, and the eccentric supervisors, and the beautiful architecture, and the libraries, and just… the fact that it’s Cambridge.

Yes, I’ve been working for my exams, but now it's only insofar as I enjoy studying the past. There’s a very real possibility that I’m going to walk into a couple of my exams without having an awful lot to say, but that’s because my study is not a means to an end. I’m going to learn about the Jacobite uprisings because they’re interesting, not because it will get me a 2:1 (which, funnily enough, I don’t think it will – Jacobites haven’t appeared on any past paper that I’ve seen. Oops.)

I’ve been considering this position for a couple of weeks now, but this is the first time that I’ve properly attempted to articulate it. I don’t care about my exams, but the root cause of this is not apathy, rather a kind of transcendence whereby I can no longer justify psychological investment in fifteen hours of on-the-spot essay writing.

Now I just need to find a way to let my DoS know…  

The Boat Race

Disclaimer: this is just my interpretation of the whole boat race experience. Everyone else will have experienced/reacted/interpreted it in their own way. I'm also not addressing the question of why we lost for a number of reasons, but mainly because I feel like that's a conversation that ought to be kept within a crew. Also I have high levels of race amnesia so I can't really offer any worthwhile analysis anyway. 

It's really quite simple to describe how it feels to lose a boat race: shit.

The physical pain is taken for granted, my body has become fairly accustomed to feeling like it's been hurled into an inferno and had all the energy sucked out of it. For me, the psychological aspect was so much harder to know how to deal with. It's not exactly the 'pain of defeat', but the confusion and despair that came with that defeat. The sense of shock as I realised that I couldn't remember the race itself, and the inability to connect the incredible feeling of confidence that I had in the hours leading up to the race to the situation that I found myself in, 2000m later. 

It's a terrible cliche that losing is one of the hardest and most valuable ways to learn something about yourself. Before, I had assumed that this was just one of those things that losers say to make themselves feel better, 'you might have won the competition, but I came away with a deeper insight into my soul and a higher philosophical understanding of the nature of humanity, so who's the real loser now?'. From my experience, I'd say there's probably a bit more to it than that. 

Losing made me realise that the very act of racing is, in itself, a great privilege. It's one daring act of throwing everything out there with a high risk that you're not going to make it. It's extraordinary, exhilarating and exciting. I suppose it's quite similar to gambling for large amounts of money, only you end up with better abs and less chance of getting on the wrong side of an instant loans company... 

The Boat Race is 'just a race', in the same way that A-levels are 'just exams', or a degree  is 'just a piece of paper'. When you've invested that much time and effort into something, no matter what, it becomes of paramount importance, but when all that falls away you have to examine everything you're left with, and you realise that the whole process was about so much more than one race, and that your life is about so much more than this one process. It's always rather strange when your perspective changes. I've learnt that it's possible to become so psychologically invested in one particular outcome that it becomes inconceivable that anything else should happen - yet when that 'something else' happens, it's also possible to bounce back up with a deeper appreciation for all the other things in your life. Failure is no longer something to be scared of.  

I'm not trying to suggest that winning wouldn't also be a valuable experience. In fact, I'm convinced that winning would be utterly incredible and would result in at least a month of non-stop happiness. This hypothesis currently stands untested, so there's only one thing for it: I'm going to have to trial again, and I'm going to have to cross that line before Oxford. 

A poem for exam term

Crowded desk, hard wooden chair 

Clutching your last strands of hair

Pens and paper, books and notes

Rereading all the crap you wrote

Wish I'd done more in the vacation 

Could have learnt about taxation

Instead I left it all too late

Why do I procrastinate?

Library stints that last all day

Exams are still three weeks away

Perhaps it's time to have some fun

I'll settle for a low 2.i...

Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels?

The essence of Kate Moss' rather bold claim is, I think, that temporary sensory pleasures fall short in comparison to the pleasure of enforcing self-control over one's own body. Which, to be fair, is nothing that philosophers haven't been saying for centuries - we ought to seek the higher pleasures rather than the phsyical ones.

However, I've now experienced feeling skinny and I beg to differ. For a start, I was getting quite uncomfortable at how thin I looked. Stepping on the scales and seeing numbers beginning with 5 was kind of alarming to me. I don't actually like seeing my ribcage in the mirror, nor do I appreciate the fact that my shoulders didn't bother to get proportionally smaller.

I'd be lying if I didn't say that there were some days that I honestly felt pleased with myself for managing to exercise a modicum of self-control with regards to food. There is a strange sense of satisfaction in, for example, walking past a cafe, may be even walking into the cafe and just not eating anything. The thought 'I could just eat one of those' is immediately followed by the realisation 'Or, I could not eat one of those'. This is initially quite an exciting revelation, I suddenly realised that I could take control of my own body in one empowering moment of not eating.

Luckily, this wore off after a couple of days of feeling exhausted, hungry and tired (and no, I wasn't actually starving myself - I was still eating around 2400 calories at the lowest point, which is supposedly enough for a normal person...)   

The bliss of, for example, Caius Hall's very own Chocolate Lumpy Bumpy Pie (don't knock it til you've tried it) is surely a far more intense feeling that the subtle knowledge that it's taken weeks of ignoring hunger pangs to see a slightly different number on the scales.

To settle the debate, I have produced a list of things that really do taste as good, if not better, as how standing on those scales and seeing 58.9 felt:

• Fresh bread
• A bacon butty - with real butter and well cooked bacon
• A really good cheese and ham toastie. The kind where the cheese is all stringy and melted.
• Cadbury's Creme Eggs
• A cinnamon pastry 
• Sticky toffee pudding
• Chocolate fondant
• A big bowl of muesli, with blueberries, strawberries, nuts, raisins, seeds, chocolate chips and chocolate sauce.
• Nutella (by itself, on toasted bagels, in porridge, on fruit loaf...)
• Dominos pizza whilst at a ball
• Chocolate cake 
• Rice pudding
• Chocolate granola with gold-top milk
• A toasted hot cross bun with real butter
• A rack of BBQ ribs
• Creamy scrambled eggs on toast
• Really thick hot chocolate

I may or may not have eaten all of these in the last five days

The moral of this story is that being skinny is alright for a limited amount of time, but eating food is significantly more fun, tastes better and stops you fading away into nothingness.  

Pizza > Most Other Things

On the other hand, I've also developed a perculiar love of salad, raw carrots, ryvita and huge servings of vegetables that doesn't look like it's going away anytime soon...

Don't torment me with pastries

I have discovered a new hobby. It involves going to Sainsbury's, putting whatever essentials I need in my basket and then wandering up and down the chocolate aisle or bakery section for a further, excruciating ten minutes. I pick up 1kg chocolate bars, and I put 1kg chocolate bars back down. Sometimes, I go as far as to put them in my basket and walk away, only to return them to the shelf 1 minute later, as the horror of what might have happened if I had proceeded to the checkout with a whole kilo of chocolate starts to sink in. I gaze at the Green and Blacks, at least knowing that there are additional financial incentives to avoid it, and then turn away, smugly. This time, I have won.

I can look at the varieties of biscuits, knowing that I don't really want them anyway - although a box of Cadbury's fingers might not go amiss, it's not something that I've been craving. Those Fox's creams do look amazing but also extortionately priced. Just think, you're paying well over a pound for crispy, fatty, sugary things that crumble everywhere and clog up your arteries. Maybe. Besides the biscuits, the cereal bars. I've had enough cereal bars to last me a lifetime, and I've only stopped eating most varieties recently, since I realised just how high the sugar content was. The cereals bars can be passed by. I might as well just have cereal.

Now I come it, I might not have cereal. The sugar levels of most cereals are sky high, and in a bit to tackle my muesli addiction (this is a genuine problem I've been having), I'm refusing to buy anymore boxes until after the boat race. The varieties of granola are also insanely tempting, especially when the Jordan's is only £2 for a kilo. On the other hand, I'm fairly sure I got through about 5 kilos last term which might go some way to explaining why I wasn't really losing much weight, so it's probably best to avoid that.

Finally, I reach the pastry. The beautiful pastries. The croissant, the pain au chocolat, the maple and pecan twist, the cinnamon swirl... The smell from the bakery wafts through the airs and I can imagine biting into the wonderfully flaky exterior to be greeted with the soft, sweet, still warm inner layers... Maybe this could be a treat day. I mean, I know my last treat day was only two days ago and I'm going to formal tonight but maybe... 

No.

I am reserving pastries for that all important post-race indulgence. I haven't eaten a pastry since the start of January, and as much as absence does make the heart grow fonder, I've gone too long without to change my ways now.

I will not give in to pastries. Not today.

P.S. If you're going to watch the Boat Races on 30th March - bring me pastries :)

Caius Library: A (weird) Love Story

When I was in year 12, 5 girls from my year group were given the chance to have a tour around a Cambridge college. Our names had been picked out of a hat, and I had got lucky. Although I had never heard of 'Gonville and Caius' before (pronounced, in my mind, Gonville and Cai-us), it sounded very posh, very grand and pretty exciting. Plus there would be a free lunch (even before I started rowing I would do anything for free food).

I can vaguely remember sitting through a generic 'arts' taster session, listening to a talk about which A-levels to do, how many you needed, how to choose a college, being shown round a student room by a genuine real life student, but, above all else, I remember seeing the library.

At that age (it was only three years ago, but at least let me try to sound nostalgic...) I had little interest in sports or physical pursuits. I had great dreams of a spending my university years absorbed in academia, where I would stay in a library all day long, reading books about history to my heart's content, with ancient tomes stacked up either side of me. I was a bit weird for a seventeen year old.

As soon as I stepped into Caius library for the first time, it struck me. How amazing would it be to study here? I thought to myself, Look at all these books! And the ceiling! And the stained glass! And the wooden desks! And the lamps! And the books! I think it's fair to say I was pretty awestruck, Wouldn't it be absolutely incredible? Then there's that other voice, Yeah. But you'd have to get into Cambridge first, and, well, you're not really good enough for that, are you? but still How amazing.

Still listening to that nagging doubt, but deciding that I might as well try applying anyway, I went through all the application process, expecting to get a rejection letter every step of the way, right up until A level results day. Fortunately, that silly little voice was wrong (or the admissions staff were, but it's too late now!) and finally I could spend my first couple of terms alternately getting drunk, staying in the library until midnight, occasionally learning how to row, and generally living in a blissful state of Cambridge life with only the odd essay crisis to get in the way.

Such a nice library

That's why I felt kind of ashamed when, about two weeks ago, it finally dawned on me that I'd spent the first term of my second year as far away from the library as possible. There had been the occasional venture in to grab a few books that I honestly did intend to read, but just couldn't find it in myself to commit to spending time working. I was doing minimal studying anyway, and as far as I was concerned, I might as well do minimal studying somewhere other people couldn't judge me. But then the realisation hit me.  I am so lucky to be where I am, and I'd forgotten it. Somehow, I needed to regain the same sense of awe and wonder that had got me that first time walking into the library.

I've been finding it again on Thursday evenings. On an average Thursday, by the time first hall is over, I'm pretty tired. I've been up since 5, got a train to Ely, rowed around Ely, got a train back, sprinted to a 9am lecture, spent the day attempting to make a start with my weekly reading, had a long afternoon training session and then gone straight to hall with just enough time for a shower in between. It seems like an odd time, then, to go to the library and make an attempt at productivity.

It's perfect. My legs are aching so much that by the time I reach a seat in the galleries (next to the British social history section), I can't bear the thought of walking back down. If I've been watt-biking, my poor lightweight, de-padded rear is so saddle sore that I'm not likely to fall asleep in the slightly uncomfortable wooden chairs. Additionally, I'm spurred on by my rediscovered delight in the surroundings. I'm falling in love with the library again.

Genuine work being done

There are piles of books either side of me, a notebook with pages and pages full of my diligent scribbles that might pass off as academically useful notes if viewed in the right light. My iPod is playing relaxing music, and my mind is focused on whatever might have been happening to society in the 1920s. Then it dawns on me. This is it. This is what I dreamed about before I even knew for certain. AND I'm wearing university rowing stash.  

So, thank you Caius library, I hope I'm doing seventeen-year-old me proud.  

Weird, Seventeen-year-old me, for purposes of comparison.

Twenty year old me, still weird, but now in the library of seventeen year old me's dreams...

*I did actually write this in Caius library, but fear not, I was only taking a short break from my intensive Thursday evening of study*

*sorry about the weird*

*not really sorry*

The mock-mocha: A caffeine-chocolate discovery

Or: Things I did in the kitchen whilst not revising for my mock (part I) 

Take some instant coffee

And some of this incredible stuff

Genuinely lightweight friendly!

And some milk (protein and calcium, anyone?)

Plus a kettle with water in

A really cool owl mug (owls not actually necessary to the process)

COFFEEEE

The milkier, the better

so beautiful...

Final stage: hope it gives me strength

How to (almost) create a Danio yogurt

Or: Things I did in the kitchen whilst not revising for my mock (part II) 

 Things you need:

Some of this.

Yay! Protein and not too much sugar

No added sugar...

Lots of sugar anyway! (and shoutout to the distributor in St Albans!)

A pot. Can also use a bowl, mug, or cup if you're feeling adventurous. 

Spoon! Unless you don't mind getting messy...

Mix a heaped teaspoon and a bit with about 100g of the Frage (I also threw in a few blueberries to make it more interesting...) 

Yogurt is not the most photogenic of foods. Still, it tasted okay. 

All gone!

I did this as an attempt to see if there was a cheaper and healthier way to get my creamy, fruity yogurt fix. The stats are as follows:

1/5 Fage Total 0% = 50p
25g of St Dalfour = (approx.) 17p

Overall - 67p

Danio yogurts - 85p (or 3 for £2, so 66.6666666p each)

Nutrition:

My creation:
114 Kcal
Carbs: 18g
Sugar: 18g
Protein: 11g
Fat: 0.1g

Danio raspberry yogurt:
150 Kcal
Carbs: 17g
Sugars: 16g
Protein: 12g
Fat: 4g

Basically, you might as well buy Danio yogurts. They taste nicer, anyway.

Spanish hot chocolate, lots of rowing, and actually writing an essay

Whilst the UK spent the first two weeks of 2014 suffering flooding, gale force winds and hailstones, the CUWBC squad was lucky enough to be in Banyoles with beautiful sunrises, sunsets, clear water, hardly any wind (most of the time), moderate temperatures, and far too much hot chocolate.

View from my balcony

I think I was vaguely aware about Mediterranean style hot chocolate before, but I now have a heightened awareness of its superiority. It's not some milky, vaguely chocolatey tasting drink of the kind that we have in the UK. No, this is proper hot chocolate, insofar that someone has literally melted a chocolate bar with a tiny bit of milk and produced, essentially, a mug of molten chocolate. Beautiful. And dangerous.

I didn't actually take any photos of the hot chocolate because I was too busy eating/drinking it. Instead, here's a photo of some healthier frozen yogurt. 

Combined with the beautiful hot chocolates, there was also the problem of pretty much all Spanish supermarket food being chocolate-related in some way or the other. Chocolate belvita, chocolate cereal, chocolate rice cakes, chocolate chocolate, chocolate breadsticks, chocolate yogurts.... those twelve days definitely do not rank highly in my 'most lightweight moments'.

Girona, where we spent an indulgent afternoon with pancakes, churros, hot chocolate, frozen yogurt and one reasonably healthy apple.... 

In between all the food, there was quite a bit of rowing going on, but apparently I talk about rowing a lot anyway, so I won't go into it too much. The scenery, on the other hand, was something extraordinary. Snow-capped mountains rising up in the distance, the morning mist over the hills... I think it was probably the first time I've rowed in water that wasn't grey.

Also, we found out that Catalan for rowing is 'rem'. Hence the reason the Banyoles unisuits say 'rem rem rem rem rem rem rem'. An entertaining, yet probably useless piece of knowledge.

In other, more important news, I finally got around to starting an essay that I've been putting off for six months. This has taught me a few valuable lessons about procrastination, from which I may or may not learn:

• Don't procrastinate
• Seriously, stop
• Just start the work when it's set
• And stop procrastinating
• It's not worth it
• On the other hand, there's nothing like an imminent deadline to improve one's work ethic.
• But really don't procrastinate. 

My mum bought me this t-shirt for my birthday. I get the impression that she understands.

Themes and Sources: six months of procrastination in bullet points

I wanted to spend a bit of time explaining Themes and Sources, the first proper bit of my degree that I've had to do. Then I realised that most of the stuff I write on this blog involves bullet points, and I feel somewhat continuous-prose-ed out.

So, in slightly sporadic, nonsensical bullet points, this is the story of the last six months:

• Essay title, got some ideas, got some books out the library. Got over six months to go. Boom. Sorted.
• Still got the books. Maybe I should read them?
• Nahhhh
• Having a great time rowing, running around pretending to be a soldier, flying in helicopters, canoeing across Denmark. Standard stuff. A couple of months pass in this way.
• Still got some books. Took them all the way back to uni with me. Definitely a good sign.
• Why do today what I could put off indefinitely? January is ages away. 
• Rowing. Sleeping.
• Oh look, term started.
• The following eight weeks involve continuous napping, eating, rowing, supervision work, and resolutely ignoring Themes and Sources.
• Maybe I should start reading now?
• Yes. Maybe I should...
• Okay. One book down. I've got this sorted. 
• Oh, Christmas. Can't work at Christmas. Or my birthday, for that matter. Or any of the days in between. By now the procrastination has become aggressive.
• On the train to Gatwick. It's 2014. Finally starting to write. 
• Chilling in Spain. Getting some words on the page. Feeling relieved. I mean, if I can at least get a third, I'll still be able to pass, right? I just need to hand something in.
• I'm never doing a dissertation. Ever. 
• Reading the examiners' reports. Oh my God, no one got a third last year. Imagine if I'm that person. What if I'm the only one with a third? The shame! The humiliation! Quick! Work!
• I've left it too late. It's all too late. Time for pity chocolate.
• Oh no, lightweighting. Not the pity chocolate! Pity rice cakes instead.
• Or just finish off the essay, you know?
• Regret. So much regret. 
• Citations. Cite stuff. Actually read sources. Realise that I reached a flawed conclusion. Edit.
• Edit more.
• What's the point?
• Maybe I can ask for an extension?
• Oh god. It's awful.
• How many footnotes are enough?
• I understand nothing. What am I writing? What am I reading? What have I created?
• This is truly horrendous. This is the worst essay I've ever written.
• Finally. Just finish up.
• Read through, take a deep breath, make sure the word count's alright. Transfer to CD. Go to computer room. Press print.
• What do you mean I've run out of printing credits?
• Okay. Not a problem. Just buy more. 
• It's too late to change anything now. Read the mark scheme again while waiting for the printer; 2:2 "Any overall argument will at best be stated at the beginning and end, or possibly left for the reader to divine. Large issues may go unexplored. The capacity for brief summary or self-criticism is likely to be slight. The style may be unclear, repetitious and ungainly. Factual errors, non sequiturs, self-contradictions and obvious gaps in knowledge are likely. Presentation may be careful and even pedantic, but in other cases the typing may be poor, the footnotes sporadic and unstandardised and the bibliography ill-organised and incomplete" Hopefully I've managed that. There's still summer exams, right? I mean, it can still average out okay...
•  Fill in cover sheets, staple things together, put in a clear plastic folder... and breathe. 
• Try really hard to forget about it and stop caring.
• Hand the stupid thing in.
• Write a silly blog post. 
• Move on.

If any first year historians are reading this, save yourselves and try to do something over the summer. I'm also hopeful that I'll actually learn something from this to take into my dissertation... who knows?