Die Qual der Wahl

Die Qual der Wahl: that’s the German way of saying ‘spoilt for choice’. It’s different to our maxim, though – ‘Qual’ means ‘agony’, ‘torture’, as if having too much choice can actually be a source of torment for some. And it’s that aspect of the phrase which reflects the situation I currently find myself in, as someone who has the benefit of so many possibilities and opportunities that it sometimes feels dizzying, overwhelming – indeed, tormenting.

I have been lucky enough to grow up with a wide range of potential professions and prospects within my grasp. Beyond the prescribed subjects at school I could choose from several other topics and activities to expand my knowledge and skills. When it came to choosing what to study at university I could take my pick from a dazzling array of courses, all of which promised superb prospects for employment in diverse fields. And now, as I approach my final year of study, so many career paths are within reach – be it teaching, journalism, consultancy, law, politics… The world really is my oyster.

It wasn’t always this way. When my parents were my age, they studied with a view to working in a closely-related field – economics was for those aspiring to work in the City, a law degree was a prerequisite to be considered in the legal profession, and so on. Now, however, with the possibilities of conversion courses, of joint degrees, of training programmes and grad schemes, almost anything is possible. We are a blessed bunch.

But sometimes so much choice can be too much. If you know that your options are flexible and there are so many possibilities to hand, there’s no need to worry all that much about making definite plans for the future, right? And anyway, university should be a place for experiencing as much as possible, both academically and socially. Surely one of those experiences will point us in the right direction, will captivate us and leave us eager to pursue it as a career?

I’ve tried my hand at leisure pursuits as wide-ranging as wakeboarding and lindy-hopping. As well as making interesting choices within my course, I’ve undertaken internships in journalism, banking and arts management. I’ve listened to a fascinating variety of speakers in lectures and at my Union, each of whom has shown me a different way of thinking or approaching life’s big questions. All of these experiences have taught me a huge amount, have helped me develop a range of skills and in the most part have given me a great deal of satisfaction. But not a single one of them has really brought me any closer to deciding what I actually want to do with my life.

In my opinion, it’s no failing of the education system, nor the many services provided to help us make these decisions. I’ve had numerous talks with careers advisors, been put in touch with extensive alumni networks, attended countless careers fairs. After each meeting, each email exchange, each discussion, I momentarily feel more resolved to pursue a certain path, until I stumble across something else that sparks my interest. And then it’s back to those feelings of uncertainty once again. A part of me envies people who have a clear idea what they want to become, as well as those who are quite happy to enjoy student life with no real idea of what will follow (I have friends who fall into both categories).

I’m young, I’m fickle, I know that. I should probably stop worrying and join my plucky student pals in their NekNominations and put off thinking about the grown-up stuff until later. But part of me feels deeply indebted to a society that has provided me with so many opportunities, and wants to give the best possible service in my professional life in return.

Suggestions as to how that might be achieved on a postcard please…

Coffee in Cambridge

My latest article for Varsity - online here - is about coffee spots in Cambridge.

For the connoisseurs – Italian perfection is to be found at Massaro’s, while Hot Numbers sets its own standards with a changing menu of beans fresh from its very own micro-roastery. Both have a respectable repertoire of edible treats, with Hot Numbers offering the sweet stickiness of chelsea buns from Fitzbillies to balance the bitter bite of its coffee and Massaro’s providing a tempting selection of organic sourdough sandwiches, with fillings such as Gloucester Old Spot sausage with apricot and ginger relish.

For the sweet tooth – just as crucial as the coffee kick is a mid-afternoon sugar hit, and the array of goodies on offer at Fitzbillies and Stickybeaks hits the spot perfectly. Fitzbillies gets top marks for traditional treats such as chelsea buns (claimed to be invented here), scrummy scones, generous slices of Victoria Sponge and bakewell tarts, while Stickybeaks has an enticingly inventive spread of yummies, from peanut butter-caramel-banana loaf, to mulled wine chocolate cake, to pecan fudge shortbread…and the list goes on. Counteract the indulgence with a healthy salad if you’re stopping for lunch – combinations such as broccoli, almond and mangetout or feta, pomegranate and watermelon offer exciting alternatives to the usual limpid lettuce and tomato options.

For the studious – if coffee is what gets you through an essay, try The Union Café Bar or Waterstone’s for a tranquil change of scene. Photographs of famous speakers adorning the Union’s walls ought to provide sufficient inspiration for times of essay crisis – and the prices are student-friendly too. Waterstone’s has a similarly studious vibe, although the temptation to pack up the laptop and immerse oneself in travel guides or escapist fiction might prove too much for some…

For the hungry – if you’re looking for more than just a cracking coffee, head to Limoncello or Urban Larder, both on Mill Road. With slabs of authentic bruschetta, mouthwatering olives, and wonderfully fresh antipasti, Limoncello offers a delicious slice of Italy – if you manage to leave without a wedge of pannetone or a pot of homemade pesto, your willpower deserves serious praise. Or for a taste of home, you can’t beat Urban Larder – all its products are sourced from within a 50-mile radius. The pies and quiches are wonderfully hearty, and on a cold winter’s day there’s nothing better than the organic soup served in a freshly-baked loaf.

A foodie's Cambridge

My latest article for Varsity is online, I'm craving scallops already... Here it is:

 

From gastropubs to michelin stars, Rosie Sargeant recommends only the finest of eateries in the first of our new series.

 

It's time to bin the 2 for 1 pizza vouchers - as the following restaurants prove, Cambridge fine dining can be better value than you might think.

 

D'Arry's

The Punter

Just outside the centre of town, this cosy gastropub serves up all the British classics with a few inventive touches - veal shin with cavolo nero and orange, or leek risotto with chive mascarpone for veggies. Its main draw, however, is the £5 lunch, with three daily-changing options of simple but substantial dishes, which will satisfy both the ravenous and the refined palate.

Alimentum

Dining here is a seriously classy affair, with impeccable service and dishes presented with the utmost attention to detail. It's recently been awarded a Michelin star and while your budget might not be able to stretch to the dizzying heights of the chef's tasting menu, the fixed price menu (£18.50 for two courses, £24.50 for three) offers a tantalising taste of luxury at a more affordable price.
 

Alimentum

Restaurant at The Park

One of Cambridge's best-kept secrets, the value for money offered at this training restaurant for future chefs makes it well worth the journey out of the centre. Fine dining evenings typically involve five or so courses of inventive cuisine, all for a mere £10. If you're still feeling peckish, pick up whole pies, quiches, scones and tarts for ridiculously low prices from the adjoining bistro and make yourself the most popular person in college - if they survive the journey home...

D'Arry's

If you’re a foodie or a quaffer (or both), this place is for you. D’Arry’s somehow manages to pull off a melting pot of delights - fantastic wine pairings, inventive takes on British classics with a subtle hint of Asian flavour thrown in the mix, exotic daily specials such as bison steak, a seriously indulgent pudding board – all whilst retaining a welcoming, unpretentious atmosphere. Carnivores take note: the Sunday roast would give Mum a run for her money, Tuesday’s Steak Night features juicy sirloin cuts for £10.95, and Thursday is devoted to 'Pull a Pig Apart' – pork cooked in three different ways and designed to be shared, although it doesn’t stand much chance.

D'Arry's

 

Michaelhouse Café

This café is situated in the nave of St. Michael’s Church and is an oasis of calm just off the bustling streets of the city centre. The menu aims to do simple food well, using local produce whenever possible – bacon butties come served on homemade bread made with organic flour and extra virgin olive oil, and the bacon comes from the family farm in Herefordshire where pigs are treated well and the meat is cured and smoked in the slow, traditional way. There are meat, fish and vegetarian options that change daily, as well as a tempting selection of wholesome soups, quiches and salads. If you can't decide what to choose, go for the 'Hungry Student' late lunch deal and pile as much as you can on a plate for £3.95. It would be a challenge not to pack in your 5-a-day most delectably in the process.

The Oak Bistro

The romantic atmosphere of this lovely restaurant is matched with lovingly-prepared dishes, making it a perfect date night choice, especially in the summer, when the walled garden is opened for al fresco dining and fairy lights twinkle as the sun sets. The menu also sparkles with Mediterranean-meets-British delights – fish dishes are particularly notable. The fixed-price lunch (£12 for two courses, £15 for three) offers a few of the à la carte menu's best picks at lower prices.

Put A Soc In It!: Romance Society

Hoping to find love this week...

We all apply to Cambridge for its academic reputation, but there are also other important things to consider. I’d always intended to graduate with more than just a respectable degree – I want to leave Cambridge with a future husband too.

Three years in, however, and I’m yet to find my Prince Charming. As graduation looms, the remaining time to find ‘the one’ is running out at an alarming rate. Each week, my hopeful parents pose the same question on the phone – “So, have you met anyone interesting yet?” – and I think even my enduringly optimistic mother is starting to lose hope that her dream of a son-in-law who has made an appearance on University Challenge will be fulfilled.

But I’m not giving up just yet. Lured by promises of free chocolates and roses, I created an online profile with the Romance Society, hoping to inject fresh impetus into my hunt for the ideal man. I outlined my modest expectations – a true gentleman who will treat me like a princess, and nothing less – and signed up for a speed dating evening to optimise my chances. With twenty-two men taking part, I was feeling quietly confident that tonight would be my lucky night.

Each eligible bachelor had three minutes in which to impress me before the next suitor took his place. In the meantime, we could make notes on a person’s merits (or shortcomings) and put a ring around those who showed promise. At the end of the night our notes were collected so that ‘Cupid’ could subsequently share the details of those who expressed a reciprocated interest, allowing them to make arrangements for a follow-up date.

Admittedly, with some people the conversation had dried up entirely by the time we reached the end of our allocated slot, and we found ourselves sipping wine and nibbling cheese straws in an attempt to make the situation less awkward. I suppose it would be somewhat optimistic to expect to hit it off with every single person though – not to mention the taxing process of organising follow-up dates with all twenty-two of them…

Fortunately, with others, the three minutes flew by, and I felt like I had barely got to know them before the bell rang for us to change over again. That said, I suppose retaining a certain intrigue and curiosity is the whole point of the evening. Provided that I suitably impressed them, there were certainly a few Romeos I would be delighted to get to know better on another occasion.

Given the Romance Society’s impressive track record – at least fourteen couples have got married after meeting through the society – I think I might finally be making a breakthrough. I can’t promise that my mother’s dream of a University Challenge champion will ever be realised, but my experience of speed dating proved that there is a fascinating variety of single people in Cambridge. Surely that must mean that Mr. Right is out there somewhere?

Put A Soc In It!: Hot Yoga

This week I got hot and sweaty with the yoga society...

It’s getting cold in Cambridge. As my fingers freeze to my handlebars and my nose turns purple on my cycle ride to lectures each morning, I could think of nothing better than some searing sunshine to perk me up.

So when I heard that there were classes of hot yoga available in Cambridge, I signed up without hesitation. An hour and a half of 105 degree heat! Bliss! Removing layer upon layer of woolly jumpers and donning ‘minimal, cool clothing’ in accordance with the rubric, I couldn’t get to class quickly enough.

When I arrived, the speedo-clad instructor gently told me that, since this was my first time, my main challenge would be just to stay in the room for the full ninety minutes. Pah! I thought – that was precisely what I’d come for! I unrolled my mat directly underneath a glowing heat lamp and embraced the sensation of growing warmth that was suffusing my formerly goose-pimpled body.

Five minutes in, I found myself dripping with sweat and gazing longingly at the frosty conditions outside. The instructor noticed I was struggling. “Bring your focus to the room, to your practice, to your being,” he cooed. Although inside I was dreaming of diving into the frozen-over Cam, I tried to outwardly project a vision of zen as we worked our way through the series of twenty-six postures and focus on the benefits that twisting myself into all sorts of bizarre shapes promised to bring: detoxification, increased vitality and mental clarity, weight loss, and reduced stress – all of which assume a greater effect in high temperatures, so I’m told.

The next sequence involved the delicate balancing act of standing on one foot and holding the other leg high in the air. I looked around the room to see how the others were coping and caught sight of a gorgeously toned man wearing only a pair of shorts, his biceps glistening with sweat, a vision of masculine strength in this posture…

I toppled over. “Focus on yourself alone,” the instructor said softly. “The body betrays the mind’s thoughts. Clear it of clutter, and you will balance better.” No chance of me stealing another glance of those beautiful biceps then, unless I was to risk another embarrassing tumble.

Attempting to close off thoughts of my classmate’s physical attributes and instead put my mind and body through each systematic movement, I began to feel more at ease with the heat, the postures, and myself. The instructor gently told us that we could leave the room when we wished, and whilst earlier on I would have made a run for the door given the opportunity, I stayed lying on the ground a while longer, reluctant to let back in all that “mind clutter” that I had cleared and face the cold reality of the outside world again.

I remembered that gorgeous man on the nearby mat, thinking I would be happy to make an exception and welcome him into my “mind clutter”. But when I saw my beetroot-red face, soggy t-shirt and frizzy hair post-class, I abandoned any hope that he would be willing to do the same. I’d learned my lesson: yoga is a personal experience. It’s about focusing on your own practice and becoming more at ease with yourself, so that you can give your mind and body some well-earned time off. Beautiful as he was, I had to respect my classmate’s right to do that too. Not that that will stop me going back for another class…

Put A Soc In It!: Cheese Society

A pun-gent post this week...

My experience of a new society this week was absolutely legendairy. Brie-liant, in fact. I had emmenthal amounts of work to do, and it was really starting to get my goat. Ricotta put an end to this, I thought – it’s putting my parmesanity to the test. Roquefortunately, I found a camembetter way to pass my evening.

A Cheese Society is a quince-essentially Cambridge concept: spending the evening in mature company and discussing fraiche ideas is what has earned the institution a reputation for paneering research and inspiring formaggionation.

Despite having stiltons of work to do, I was getting truly cheesed off and my thoughts were beginning to curdle. So to spare myself from going crackers, I took some time off to pursue an activity more suited to my tastes: sampling a variety of fine cheeses.

I arrived feeling lactotally starving, but had to hole-d off from launching in straight awhey so that the President of the Cheese Society could wax lyrical about the different varieties on offer.

First up was a yarg, which, he hallouminated us, has a texture that changes the deeper you delve into the cheese, from creamy under the rind to a crumbly centre, which is rather pungentle and therefore ewe chutneed to handle it Caerphilly.

Before I had a chance to feel blue about this cheese running out, a new one was produced: Lanark Blue, an unpasteurised ewes’ milk cheese which, he assured us, was utterly grate. The maker nose his stuff, it seems – the cheese is hand-made and hand-moulded, and it is one of the first blue ewe’s milk cheeses to be produced since the Middle Ages.

By this point I was feeling rather full, but I was determined to wedge in some more. Cote Hill Yellow, an unpasteurised cows’ milk cheese, has won numerous awards, and judging by the cries of “Holy cow!” and “Gordon rennet!” that my companions were buttering, I was expecting it to be fontinastic  – and let me tell ewe, it was pretty edam delicious.

I feta not try any more, I thought, but the next one looked too gouda to resist. Rind you, port was now being served, and woe is brie, I couldn’t manage both. Quel fromage. My only gorgonzolation was that the society already has plans for another tasting evening in the cheddiary. “Will you gruyere?”asked the President. “I’d be quarking mad to miss it,” I replied. “It’s a Wensleydate,” he smiled. “Don’t you pecorino it,” I answered. I just mozzareally hope it won’t be mascarpostponed…

Put A Soc In It!: Bobbin Lace-Making

We’re nearing the mid-point of term, and attempting to weave my way in and out of various strands of thought from essay to essay is tying my brain up in knots.

So for a spot of respite this week, I decided to swap these abstract threads for some real ones – threads that, with the help of the Bobbin Lace-Making Society, I could feasibly intertwine to create a thing of beauty.

An exquisite lace creation is like a first-class essay: it deftly weaves together all these various threads in a coherent manner, never stumbling, never veering off course, never going back on itself, and finishes off with a neat conclusion. While we agonise for hours on end in the library, trying to make sense of the subject at hand, the lace-making experience is one of comparative serenity.

To begin with, if you follow the instructions then you won’t go wrong. There are no alternative theories to throw you off course; just a prescribed pattern that works every time. Running out of inspiration is never an issue either: you just pick up another bobbin, begin a new thread and carry on. There’s even a plentiful supply of shortbread to keep you going if you start to yawn while you yarn – this is strenuous work, after all.
 

Everyone needs an activity that allows us to switch off for a while, to help disentangle the various ideas spinning around in our minds. As I worked my way through half stitches, cloth stitches, twists (and for those feeling ambitious, the cloth stitch AND twist, an almighty amalgamation of the two), I could happily disengage my brain and let methodical movements take over…with only the occasional pinprick to remind me where I was going. And at the end of it all, I was left with a delightful bookmark, without the sweat and toil that goes into academic work. What had begun as a collection of diverse threads had come together to form a beautiful creation. If only essay-writing were that straightforward.

A word of warning, however: lace-making is addictive. Once you’ve started a pattern, you wouldn’t want to give up half way through it, would you? Nevertheless, I find it can complement work rather nicely. I’m currently occupied with a collection of bookmarks so that I won’t lose my place in any of the books I’m referring to in my current essay. I’m convinced that the peace of mind that results from my lace-making will be conducive to a more coherent piece of writing. And if the essay ever does become too mind-boggling, these bookmarks will serve as a neat little reminder of how best to unravel my confused thoughts: just do some more lace-making. Admittedly, I’ve only written two paragraphs so far – but we wouldn’t want it to become incoherent now, would we? It’s time to start another bookmark before I attempt the third, I reckon.

Put A Soc In It!: Clay Pigeon Shooting

This week's escapades - online here.

Stress busters. I’ve tried them all. From lavender bath salts to meditative yoga to compulsive chocolate digestive eating, I’m yet to find the ideal solution.

After being set an essay that threatened to ruin my weekend, desperate times called for desperate measures. Mere stress busting would not do: I needed something that would smash it to smithereens. It was time to call in the clay pigeon shooting club to help me let off a considerable amount of steam.

Lest it be feared that I’m a potential threat to my fellow students, I can assure you that everything was monitored and controlled by excellent coaches, who provided an in-depth safety talk before letting us anywhere near the weapons. Once outside, I was first to have a go. Let me tell you, those guns are powerful machines, and not to be underestimated. I heaved it up on my shoulder, waited for my target to be released, pulled the trigger – and missed by a mile. “Oh, but it feels good, doesn’t it?” the coach said with a grin. A few pathetic attempts later, I finally hit one. My stress had been blown to pieces, and what was left of it lay scattered across the field in front of us. “Atta girl!” the coach called out, giving me a mighty pat on the back.

I took a break to allow others to get their thrills, and noticed my cheek getting sore. One of the more experienced shooters explained that I probably wasn’t “cuddling” my gun properly. I never thought I would hear the words “cuddle” and “gun” in the same sentence, but there you go. On my next turn I clutched the gun close into my cheek and took aim – only to be stopped by my coach to correct my posture. The best stance is, apparently, sticking out your bottom and leaning slightly forward. Not the most ladylike of positions, I’ll admit, but since I hit considerably more targets this time round, it was a concession I was more than happy to make.

Having sorted out my stance, there were certain technical tricks that would also help me. I’m no physics whizz kid, and the thought of calculating the precise point to shoot so that you don’t miss the moving target was enough to get my brain thoroughly muddled. “You’re over-complicating things, my dear,” the coach reassured me. The trick is – so I’m told – to shoot just slightly ahead of the target, so that it will fly into the shot and meet its bitter end.

Imagining the clay pigeon that was now flying across the sky, oblivious to the shot that would soon blast it apart, was in fact that horrible supervisor who had set me the unwelcome essay, I followed the coach’s instructions. As it collided with the shot I had fired and showered down in fragments, I felt a sense of cruel gratification. When I got back to college I still had to write the essay. But I nevertheless smirked with satisfaction knowing, in my mind at least, that I’d taken my revenge.

Put A Soc In It!: Trampolining

My latest exploits can be read about here...

Having established last week that watery depths don’t exactly float my boat, this week I took on the opposite extreme: the dizzying heights of trampolining.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t quite anticipated the preparation my body would require in order to withstand two hours of being bounced in every direction imaginable. Having got a little carried away with the G&Ts the night before, I arrived to the class with my head already spinning, and ten minutes in I was forced to remember what I’d sworn to forget: the kebab I had consumed in the early hours of the morning was threatening to make a rogue reappearance.

Noticing that I had turned a shade of green, our coach took the opportune moment to suggest I let someone else have their turn while he explained to me the secrets of avoiding unwelcome ‘giddy spells’ Thinking it best not to mention that takeaway binges probably aren’t top of the list, I listened attentively. On my next turn, I even pulled off a ‘seat drop’; as one of those ladies who likes the extra cream with their pudding, I had no trouble allowing the weight of my rear end to propel me downwards. After a few attempts I had the move nailed, and the coach looked reasonably impressed.

Now it was time to move on to more ambitious territory. A ‘front drop’ was proffered, but, given my rather delicate state, I asked whether there might be something a little less tough on the tummy. We settled on a ‘back drop’ instead: all I needed to do was jump as high as possible then lean my shoulders back, and I would float gently down to a lying position on the bed. Or something like that.

It might sound crazy, but soon I was actually beginning to enjoy the feeling of flying up and falling back down, only to spring back and repeat it all over again. With each turn I dared bounce that little bit harder, shoot my arms that little bit higher, fall back that little bit further…

Then something staggering happened. The coach told me to repeat exactly the same move, only lean backwards a bit more. Taking him at his word, I bounced back up and, by some flabbergasting gravitational feat, spun all the way around to land on my feet again. I couldn’t tell you how on earth it happened, but I somehow did a somersault. My fellow flyers (one of whom studies quantum mechanics) could probably explain the ins and outs of the gravitational forces that spun me round, but I’d rather not know, lest it lose its magic. Once I’ve retrieved my stomach from the ceiling and the room has stopped spinning, I can’t wait to make the magic happen again.

Put A Soc In It!: Water Polo

My latest instalment! Can be read on the Varsity website here.

I love Sundays. Given the chaotic pace of life at Cambridge, I afford myself the luxury of taking the day at a blissfully slow pace: a long lie-in, catching up on trashy TV, reading the newspapers, enjoying a relaxed roast dinner.

Not so, it seems, for members of the University Water Polo Squad, who sacrifice these
pleasures in favour of a morning of training in the swimming pool. Dragging myself out of bed and lamenting the omnipresence of closed curtains in the rooms of my fellow students, I prepared myself to join in their exploits last weekend.

Things didn’t get off to a winning start. Having not swum since my secondary school days (I prefer to lounge poolside, darling), I had entirely overlooked my lack of suitable attire for pool-based activities. I asked my neighbour’s impartial advice as to whether I could just about get away with one of my less skimpy ensembles, but the response being negative, I was forced to forgo breakfast and make a last-minute dash to John Lewis to scour its swimwear section for something more appropriate. I left the store with a hideously unflattering but positively practical costume, and cycled like the clappers to the sports centre.

I arrived in the nick of time, already red-faced and sweaty, only to discover that today the Varsity team trials were taking place. The captain, seeing the look of horror on my face, reassured me that there would be no pressure and we would take things easy. “Just twenty or so lengths to start off with, girls – no biggie,” she beamed. Half-way through my first, I was ready to faint with hunger, my legs had turned to jelly, and I had unintentionally swallowed copious amounts of water. With much coughing and spluttering, I reverted to doggy paddle. “Don’t worry – your technique’s great!” she reassured me, as I huffed and puffed my way to the shallow end. “It takes a while to get back into the swing of things – you should have seen me when I got back to training after the vac!” Something tells me she was anything but the pathetic paddler I was, longing for the comfort of my floats, woggles and – dare I say it? – armbands.

You see, water polo is played in deep water, and, to add further complication to matters,
involves a very specific style of treading water called ‘egg-beater’, the ins and outs of which got me thoroughly scrambled. Keeping afloat is only part of the battle – there are various manoeuvres, passes, catches and goals to execute, as well as warding off opponents’ attempts to ‘dunk’ you (thankfully, existing team members promised not to submit me to that treatment just yet, though I was given a bonnet with some rather hefty ear protectors to wear in case of any rough play…).

I never thought I would last the whole session, let alone see myself playing a game at the
end of it, but somehow the team’s infectious enthusiasm won me over. My legs might have only been capable of a gentle swish rather than the mighty egg-beating of my teammates, but I managed a couple of passes and even a shot on goal (easily saved, but, as the perpetually smiley captain pointed out, “at least it was on target!”). I returned home with a runny nose, dripping hair and bloodshot eyes, and savoured every last morsel of my roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. As my friends showed up in hall bleary-eyed, I felt a sneaky sense of pride for having spent my morning engaging in such hard-wearing activity whilst they slept off last night’s beers. Though next time, I won’t skip the Weetabix beforehand.

Put A Soc In It!: Lindy Hopping

It's the start of a new academic year, and I'll be writing a weekly blog for Varsity about my various undertakings with different societies in Cambridge. Here's the first instalment (or you can view it online):

New year, new start. Beginning term at Cambridge brings with it a fresh set of resolutions: no more late night takeaway binges, changing the sheets at least every other week, finding a new hobby. Off we trot to the Freshers’ Fair, where we are lured by the enticing array of free chocolates and the endearing eagerness of society representatives, only to return to an inbox filled with details of the next yacht expedition, cheese tasting, or Warhammer tournament.

As an arts student, my technical ineptitude has meant that for the first two years of my degree I still haven’t figured out how to unsubscribe from such emails. Each term, the regular stream of updates from the multitude of societies our University has to offer only served to continually remind me of my inadequacy. So this year, I have resolved to make a real effort and have a go at some of the more under-the-radar activities offered by societies at Cambridge. Provided I don’t unearth hidden talents for which the pursuit allows little time for anything but practice, I’ve agreed to write a blog of my various experiences for Varsity. Who knows, in a few weeks’ time you might well be reading the words of a burgeoning champion pole-vaulter.

My mission began with an evening spent in the company of Cambridge’s Lindy Hoppers, involving an hour-long class followed by an evening of ‘social dancing’, accompanied by a live band. Fortunately the class caters to beginners’ needs, and the emphasis tended more towards having fun than perfecting the steps (or so one of my partners told me, perhaps to make me feel better about my rather haphazard footwork). Fortunately we changed partners regularly, so I didn’t have to feel too bad about my lack of co-ordination impeding the more ambitious dancers in the bunch. It did make for somewhat clammy hand-holds though, which I could have done without when it was my turn to dance with a very cute guy with flippy hair…

Admittedly, I didn’t exactly pick up the moves at lightning speed. In fact, I trod on the aforementioned guy’s toes a number of times, although on the rare occasion that I looked up from my somewhat unsteady feet he seemed to be smiling – and I’d like to think it wasn’t just a sympathetic gesture. In fact, while my technical dancing ability might have been a little lacking, I feel I certainly excelled at the ‘social dancing’ aspect of the evening. The class took place at a pub, and after a couple of pints to calm the nerves I was throwing some absolute killer moves. Flippy hair hottie even asked if I would be coming back next week, so I must have made some sort of impression.

If I were to dismiss the attraction of my fellow Hoppers, however, I’ll confess that I doubt a career in Lindy Hopping is my calling – somehow my knees don’t quite have the buoyancy required for all the bouncing, and my feet just don’t do what I want them to. But I had a good laugh, met some fun people, and would recommend it to anyone who wants to have a bit of a boogie in a non-judgmental, friendly atmosphere. What with the partner changes, live band, and dance moves, it could be an interesting alternative to your standard swap night out. One thing’s for sure: despite all the dance steps, it was a lot less sweaty than most nightclubs in Cambridge.

bouchra jarrar on a budget

Want to channel Bouchra Jarrar's looks but can't quite afford the couture prices? Then look no further than...Cambridge University college scarves! 100% wool, they're guaranteed to keep you warm at a fraction of the price of the couture alternative. Nerd points guaranteed.

Look #1: Gonville and Caius chic

Look #2: Stylish St. Edmund's

Look #3: Trendy Trinity Hall

procrastobaking

I wrote the following article for my college magazine - one of my favourite pastimes!

The procrastobaker.

While the rest of you spend hours sat at your desks perusing Facebook or catching up on iPlayer’s latest offerings, I’ve discovered a whole new sphere in which to procrastinate: the kitchen.

The beauty of baking is that it not only takes up a considerable amount of time, but also results in an end product: a delicious cake. And if your sweet tooth is anything like mine, the endless opportunities afforded by the production of various cookies, cakes, brownies and other sweet treats makes procrastobaking a wonderfully addictive diversion.

A skilled procrastobaker can easily devote an entire day to this pastime. First of all there’s the decision-making process: considerable time ought to be spent choosing the best possible recipe, involving extensive research on the internet, or, if you’re taking the task seriously, a trip to the library to delve into Mrs. Beeton’s archives for extra tips.

Now that you’ve chosen your recipe, a leisurely cycle to Sainsbury’s is usually necessary in order to pick up ingredients.

Back in college, it’s time to get started on your project. Take your time though; you wouldn’t want spoil all your hard work by missing a crucial stage of the recipe.

Once you’ve put your mixture in the oven you’ve got at least an hour to stay close by, admiring the cake rising magically and taking in the mouth-watering aroma it gives off.

When it’s finished cooking, more ambitious procrastobakers might choose to ice or decorate their cake. Again, this is a painstaking process that rewards dedication and ought not to be rushed.

Now it’s time to share the fruits of your efforts with friends: the afternoon is best spent inviting people over and catching up on their news whilst eating a slice or two.

By now your cake has probably been finished off, so you might as well put your evening to good use and begin deciding what you’ll bake tomorrow to replace today’s offering. Or perhaps you ought to bake a second cake to ensure that your staircase doesn’t feel neglected either...

My proudly procrastobaked peach cake. Heaven.

sunshine on a rainy day

The Bridget Riley exhibition at Kettle's Yard is an absolute gem. If I'm ever cycling past and feeling down I pop in for a quick fix of bright colour and sunshine to perk me up again.

And if I don't have the time to visit the exhibition, there's always my Bridget Riley-inspired bookchair to make writing essays that little bit brighter...!

From this...

...to this:

The Tux Redux

BOOM! My latest article for Varsity:

As we enter the throes of exam term, and find ourselves consumed by the necessity to prioritise revision over such tempting distractions as shopping for dresses, May Week might seem like a somewhat distant event. And yet, with only a few weeks until the balls commence, the need to settle sartorial choices is becoming an increasingly imminent concern. With so much to do before the big night and so little time on our hands in which to prepare, why can’t there be a fail-safe, quick-fix option amid this commotion? Fortunately there’s a black-and-white solution: ladies, let’s initiate a tux redux.

If, like me, you’ve spent this term in a library-bound stupor, relying on custard creams for sustenance and rarely exposing yourself to sunlight, your body might not be looking as honed as a traditional dress demands. Mercifully, the forgiving cut, ample pasty limb coverage and satisfactory tummy concealment of the tux provides a flattering answer to any revision-induced bodily neglect.

Moreover, the tux is endlessly practical. Ever since Yves Saint Laurent inaugurated ‘Le Smoking’ in the sixties, it’s been a timeless classic; a sensible yet sexy investment piece guaranteed to turn heads. Opting for a tux virtually neutralises every girl’s worst nightmare: the possibility of someone else turning up in the same dress. Instead, on an evening when Cambridge’s finest will doubtlessly seek to outdo each other in the sartorial stakes, the tux outsmarts the very notion of ‘dressing to impress’, oozing sophistication by virtue of its sheer simplicity.

Yves Saint Laurent’s iconic original ‘Le Smoking’, Bianca Jagger’s wedding suit, Helmut Newton’s version of striking androgyny for French Vogue in 1975

For those who are planning on some serious Suicide Sunday antics, the tux is definitely the way forward. Quickly throw it on, add a coat of red lipstick and a stroke of black eyeliner, and you can rush from garden party to ball in no time, leaving the other girls hobbling behind in their painfully impractical stilettos.

What’s more, freed from the constraints of a close-fitting dress, the prospect of an unsightly food baby will become a distant worry, whilst dance-induced sweats and early-morning chilliness can be averted by slipping your jacket on and off. Devoid of awkward skimpiness, the tux is also the perfect solution for letting go on the dancefloor, jumping into punts, and even negotiating the bouncy castle.

Even if such antics aren’t your thing, the tux nevertheless epitomises grown-up glamour. It suggests individuality, confidence and independence: another attraction if commitment to your studies this term has left you without a date for the evening. And yet, the suit is supremely sexy – we need only look to its recent red-carpet treatment at the hands of Kate Moss, Dita von Teese and Rihanna and commend their savvy decisions to eschew exhibitionist ensembles in favour of an elegant tailored look.

Kate Moss and Dita von Teese: effortless tailored chic and sexy sartorial glamour

Considering its practicality, functionality and timeless appeal, I’m convinced that suiting up is a definite tuxe-do for May Week. Without the worry of choosing the dress for the occasion, Google Nanny’s enforced regulation of my procrastinating perusal of ASOS dresses can get stuffed. Successfully suited and booted, I can forget about May Week Chic and get on with some productive revision instead – although I’m still yet to find the perfect bow tie…