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?