There are times I love living in Oxford. And then, there are times when I hate it.
It's midnight on a Friday night, and the most luxurious hotel in town, the Randolph, spews forth this evening's issue of human detritus. The women dressed down in their best party frocks, and the men, dressed up in black tie to prove it's a very formal occasion, line the streets. They swagger and brawl; they stagger and crawl.
These pitiful students assure me they are having fun, but their idea of fun is somewhere between Alice in Wonderland and Peter Pan; safe inside the academentic confines of the university, they need never grow up or grow into their responsibilities. I'm all for avoiding what society expects you to become, but sadly society expects the Oxford student to become a sad, boring, arrogant drunken fuckwit, and nights like these remind me that society is for the most part correct.
Two years below me, and yet I have nothing in common with them. I hope.