The Smile

This issue has been on my mind since I arrived in St Andrews. At first, it was just that I did not understand it: why did people I had met just a couple of days earlier ignore me when we passed each other on the street? It took me a while, and then I realised people here are just not as good at remembering faces or names. Then I just learnt to deal with it, and come to terms with the fact that people often just 'blank' each other here for no apparent reason.

My never-ending question in relation to this is: what is so wrong with smiling in this town? Not even saying 'hi', but just a smile of recognition. People look so uncomfortable when I do it. A smile doesn't mean much, I think, but blanking a person really does. "What did I do?", one wonders. Smiling is just a friendly way of acknowledging people you kind of know, but with whom you've never really spoken: a way of saying "we know each other", and then moving on. Ironically, smiling can even be a way of keeping this, seemingly, very desired distance. Smiling politely does not mean "let's have a conversation right here, right now", which is what I think most people must think it means. But at least it doesn't leave you feeling like you are some sort of non-person, something the eyes must avoid.

The worse is when the blanking is accompanied by the 'raped walk'. This applies to men only, I think. Have you noticed how some men who think highly of themselves walk with their legs kind of really apart, with a strange little bounce that suggests some kind of pain in the butt area? The blanking in these cases is so much more arrogant, but then again, watching this kind of person walk away, I can never resist but to crack a little smile. 

The Yahs

OK, give me some credit. I have been writing this for a few months now and I haven't touched upon this subject yet. It would have been the self-evident thing to do, really: such an enormously big component of the student community, so much room for parody. Indeed, they already are parodies of themselves...

My early days observing the yahs were both amusing and disturbing. High on the list was a conversation I overheard outside the Union: "Yah mate, our flat is such a mess right now...like, yah, there's champagne all over the ceiling." Most recently I was standing in line at an ATM: two girls, one of them getting money out for the night. Girl 1: "So, how much should I get? £500?" Girl 2: "That's a little too much don't you think?" Girl 1: "You're right. £250?" I really do wonder where they were heading out to...

My best yah moment was, of course, interviewing Matt Lacey for The Saint last year. Such a win. He definitely tops all my yah stories, serious quality. I have, of course, come across my fair share of 'gap yah' stories here too; "Africa girl" stands out for commenting on how, when "she was there [Africa...just, Africa], although people were so poor there were always happy...and they never smacked their children". Read and rejoice. 

A close encounter of the third kind with a yah at the bus stop: I was on my way to horse-back riding, and in my full-on riding outfit. Guy approaches me: "Sorry. I was just wondering, does the University have a riding team?" Me: "Yes, we sure do. But I'm not part of it." Guy: "OK, fair enough. Does the University have a Polo team?" Me: "Yes, yes it does." Guy" "OK, great. And do you like the riding school here?" Me: "Yes, it's really great." Guy: "Thanks!" At this point I thought this had been a pleasant exchange of information. Guy: "Oh, just one more question. Did you bring your own horse?" Me: *repressed horror/laughter* "No. No I didn't..." This has been making me question if I really do like riding, after all.

Most recently, it has been incredibly interesting to see how yahs cope with fourth year. A girl posed the following rhetorical question to me recently: "Reading just takes so long, doesn't it?" I am still wondering: so long in comparison to what?!

My biggest concern is that these are the individuals we're going to be seeing on TV and newspapers not too long from now (Exhibit A: the royal couple). I do worry that this niche group is so emblematic of our University. Alas, I guess we could be infamous for worse things...

Contextually Specific Sex

Lots of things are constantly in our faces in St Andrews. The library. The annoying kids from Madras. The flute player. Our classmates. I think sex ranks quite high up that list: at least, it's not in our faces all the time (that would be bad, actually) but it definitely is a huge conversation topic.

Sex in St Andrews is no different than everywhere else. It is in advertising, it is in the fashion shows, the events... It walks hand in hand down the street, plastered on the faces of all the happy couples. You would think this is a simple matter of life, yet it is all but simple. 

Seen that we talk about it so much, I think clearly this must be a reflection that it is a subject that crosses our mind quite a lot. Yes, even girls. This is a riddle I've been trying to solve: we take it for granted that men think about sex every 15 seconds (or some similarly crazy statistic), but is it true that men think women don't do the same? And, conversely, can it be that men are increasingly content with just having a nice meal out, a goodnight kiss, and nothing else? 

The question rises out of my bafflement at hearing that men feel used by the women of this town. I agree that some of us here come off as slightly aggressive, but hey, walking around in high heels on cobblestones whilst wearing incredibly tight trousers can give a girl a slightly violent air (although I have been told by the wise people at hercampus.com that there are ways to get around this serious issue...). Generalisations aside, I'll give the guys some credit: I am fully aware that not all men are keen on the meaningless sex, and go you for admitting it.

The fact remains, however, that in some form or another we all want it: whether it's a quicky outside the Union (or God forbid, the toilets at the Lizard), a very compliant fuck buddy, or a full-on wedding at St Salvator's chapel in a few years' time, I have a feeling that collectively we all think about sex much more than every 15 seconds. The important thing to remember, however, is that it has to be contextually specific. Be sure to be on the same plane; if both people are in it for just one night, then go for it. If one of you has put on a look of intense post-coital endearment whilst the other is bolting for the door, there is some serious imbalance taking place. Essentially, communication helps. It avoids making one feel used, or makes using each other much simpler. 

Code Names: the sequel

The amazigness of our living room window is not easily conveyed. We see everyone...every-one. I see you, and you can't see me. We know that there's a guy living in front of us who runs barefoot in the mornings, and we know what time the waiters at Mitchell start work in the mornings. Creepy, I agree, and yet, so much fun.

Metaphorically speaking, this is a window facing into a whole new world of code names. Beginning with our neighbours across the street. Notably, "Hair Guy". This man sits in front of his computer in the evenings, presumably to work, and proceeds to groom his hair for hours. With his hands, a comb, a pen...his girlfriend does it for him some times too. He just sits there and pulls at his hair, untangling it, parting it to one side, then the other, then combing it back, then caressing it...we are fully convinced he suffers from some kind of fetish. Also, how soft must his hair be? "And how greasy?", some of our visitors have asked. How has his hair not fallen off after this amount of pulling?

Now, of major interest this year are the Scandinavians of St Andrews. Funnily enough, I hear they have been baptised the "Slytherins of St Andrews"...I don't know how I feel about that code name. But, nevertheless, we get creative with their identities too. Like last year, we had named one of them "Babyface". This summer something happened; maybe his mum gave him an extra Gerber or two, but Babyface has now been promoted to "Manface". In any case, several of the Scandinavian men here seem to have gotten older over the break. Some not for the best (I hate to say, Mr "This-is-what-perfection-looks-like").

Then I discovered "Lady Moves", and boy oh boy do I wish I could move my hips that way. And have such little facial hair as he does. There's always something wrong when a guy looks like he uses more skin products than a girl. Maybe it's just better genes, who knows. For sure though, I will be asking him for some dance lessons before the semester ends (maybe some beauty tips as well).

This year we are (not really) missing our old neighbour, "Naked Girl"; she had a tendency to get changed without closing her bedroom curtains (or the windows). Winter was a bitch back in old Lade Braes, but she had the skin of an elephant and was not affected by the Siberian winds, I guess. "Naked Girl 2" has also been spotted this year, fully clothed for the time being , but I'm sure once the fashion shows start hitting town I'll be seeing more of her ass on posters. 

"Mould Girl the Second" has made an appearance in my Swedish counterpart's life, as a cruel reminder of the life we could have had if we had moved into that house we viewed last year. The library, as usual, has provided some fantastic new additions to our repertoire, mainly "Our Little Non-friend" who, believe it or not, ALWAYS manages to get there before us. And despite the fact it is only the three of us in that area of the library at 8.15 a.m., he still won't even smile 'good morning' to us.

"Mexican Guy", who turned out not to be Mexican, was sighted a few times, although we dislike him for his lack of sass. Added to our favourites list is "Angel (ravish me) Face", who unfortunately does not reside in the same country as us, but is still very worthy of his nickname. 

Best of all this year is finding out one's own code name: I apparently live with "Boots Girl" (and by looking at the shoes in my hallway, I think she kind of deserves that title). We've also had a few reappearances, such as the "Hot/Annoying Nerd"; wasn't he supposed to graduate? "Old Spice Guy" and "Smelly Balls Guy" are, sadly, classics we just can't shake off. Needless to say, however, this year we are seriously making the most of this: wherever we end up next will probably not have this amount of note-worthy people, and we will hopefully not be running into them day in, day out. The silver lining of graduating, huh?

Busker Trauma

I could start this post with a series of very rude and aggressive words, but I will try to contain myself (for the most part, at least). I cannot deny how incredibly amazing our new flat is, especially location-wise. Close to basically everything there is in St Andrews, and giving us perfect bird-eye view of Market Street (best entertainment e-ver!). But nothing this good can come without a price, and we have, unfortunately, learnt the price of living on Market Street.

So, let me say, with all the gentleness and poise which are so natural to me, that those buskers need to HIT THE ROAD. Literally, head-first, if possible. And may their instruments perish in the process too. Why, why, why OH why do we need to suffer this every single week, if not day, that we spend in our living room? 

Let me begin with the infamous flute player, enemy to all Market Street residents. Are there even any words to describe this man? Or someone who understands what compels him to stand there for hours on end playing the same three songs over, and over, and over... I cannot count the times we have heard 'Yesterday', 'Rhythm of My Heart' and 'Memories' this month. If he loves music this much, he seriously needs to go back to a sound-proof room and practice some more, because this really isn't working (despite playing hours on end, heaven knows how he hasn't mastered those songs by now). I fully encourage anyone who is gifted to share that gift with the world, but for crying out loud, expand on the bloody gift!! There are millions of songs he could play. Or, possibly, not...

Then, of course, because we are in Scotland, the bagpipe player. Fortunately he doesn't appear too often and not for too long, but still, give us a break: Saturday mornings are for sleeping, not to ceilidh down to Tesco's. Of course, wherever he is we will hear him (not like the flute player, who fortunately sometimes stands on the corner by Tesco's and is not always audible) because the bagpipe is a very manly instrument, some would argue. 

And let's not forget the accordion player; mind you, the only person who has a degree of musical talent in this list of traumatic characters. I don't know if perhaps I have been given this impression because he tends to appear after the flute player, and believe me, nothing sounds worse than that. My discomfort and anger are often transformed to intrigue when he starts playing 'Cielito Lindo' and I begin to wonder how an accordion could ever play a song that was written by mariachis, but hey, the world is beautiful because it's varied, or so I've been told.

The most recent addition to this lovely crowd of people was the wooden flute player. This is a very geeky and old-school reference, but the sound squealing out of that instrument reminded me of Nintendo 64 and 'Zelda: The Ocarina of Time'. Needless to say, a moment from the 90s that I really did not want to revisit. Worse still, this man thought it would be a fabulous idea to perform the 'Barney' theme song a few times. Video game AND paedophile dinosaur reminiscences, all in one day...what a treat!

But, truth be told, these people do have one very well-developed talent. The moment one sits down to do some actual, serious work, they start playing. The 'self-certificate of absence' page should add a new category to the list of reasons for absence from class: madness due to bad busking. 

Angry Library Guy

We all have different names for him, but we all know who he is. That's what happens with code names in this town; for instance, if someone tells me "Feminist Man" gave them a lecture that day, something clicks in my head and I immediately realise who they are talking about. This happened a few weeks ago, when someone told me he got told off by "The Evil Man" for eating a grape on the top floor of the library. "Oh! You mean 'Angry Library Guy'!", I said. And so the story continues...

I am currently looking for someone who has not been terrorised, told off, shushed or just generally intimidated by Angry Library Guy. Personally, I have been scolded for: sneezing too loudly, chewing gum, taking the lid off my cup of coffee, placing my lunch on the floor next to me, putting my unopened packet of crisps on the desk, and for silently mouthing 'Hi' to a friend as she was passing. His death look is piercing. Considering this man is not particularly tall, I am impressed at how successful he is at making me feel so small.

One time, I observed as he almost banished a girl for discreetly eating a sandwich on the middle floor of the library. OK, I know we're not supposed to do it, but still, she had been there since 8:00 a.m., give-her-a-break! She did not deserve to be yelled at in front of everyone: "Put that away immediately! It's like a bloody pick-nick up here!" Also, I don't know about you, but my stomach always gets really tight if my matric card isn't swiping correctly at the entrance and he's there, fulminating me with his eyes but not opening the sliding doors and waiting for my matric card to work...which obviously fails as my hand begins to shake and sweat and then the card starts slipping away from my fingers...you get the idea. I always hear the soundtrack to 'Jaws' playing in the back of my head, the suspense is unnerving: will he open the doors before he yells at me? Will he yell at me when I least expect it? Where will I hide my snacks today?!

The worst is that when there's people who are actually making noise and being incredibly rude in the silent area, or littering, or spilling stuff and not cleaning up, he is never around. How is this fair, may I ask? I look forward to my last day at the library: I will blast some music, eat a pie and open my coffee cup right in front of him. Such a bad ass move, I know. But hey, at least I'll get the satisfaction of giving him a reason to be angry, and not suffer the consequences of being followed by his grudge on the following semester. I always say, it's the small pleasures of life that keep us going in this town...

Clueless in St Andrews

Lately I have been thinking of writing a post about ‘Overheard in St Andrews’, but then I saw someone on The Saint beat me to it the other day. Then I started wondering whether or not this group actually reflects any particular reality about people here. After all, everyone says stupid things. I say some pretty ridiculous things (“I don’t know where I could fit a boyfriend…”). So even if usually the things posted on ‘Overheard’ reflect the St Andrean stereotype of the rich/clueless/generally uncultured brat, there is no reason to conclude that it is a niche problem that St Andrews has (sort of, anyways): unfortunately, it might be a worldwide phenomenon. 

So instead, I began to think that actually it is ‘Lost&Found in St Andrews’ or the ‘Flea Market’ that reveal much more about our weird social world, maybe more so than ‘Overheard’. I mean, who sells a projector worth £1000? That’s more than my monthly rent and food expenses. Just sayin’. When would anyone ever use it? And what about the tea maker with the “four temperature settings and keep warm function”, which has “a self-lowering and raising tea infuser for optimal brewing strength”? My responses to that are, a) that person should just quit university and get a career in marketing; b) buying something like that in the first place shows evidence of ‘tea fetish’ and, believe me, I know how to recognise it, I live with someone who owns 12 different kinds of leaf tea…and even she thought the Star Trek tea maker was a little too much. Above all, the thing that kills me about reading those posts is that most people describe these luxurious items as “barely used” or “practically new”. They might as well write, “Took it out of the box, didn’t like it, couldn’t return it, cost lots of money, probably need to think about my consumer choices a little more carefully…want to buy it?” 

And then, ‘Lost&Found’. Sadly, I think a lot of the hilarious and random crap that gets lost doesn’t get posted on the page, so this is a call for improvement people: if you found a pair of fluffy handcuffs inside the kitchen drawer at DRA or a mankini in the laundry room, by all means let us know. The things that do make it on the page are usually ID cards (people like to specify what name is on their card, even if it’s the exact same name they have on Facebook), many, many leather and Barbour jackets and, of course, Blackberries and iPhones (you know, why take care of them when Apple releases a new version every month anyways?). Apparently it has now become common to spot people around town wearing items of clothing that one has lost. Now, that just might be reflecting the hugest irony this town could possibly have to offer (rich kids stealing each other’s clothes) or showing how many drunken one-night-stands have ended up with the guy giving the girl his woolly cardigan as a token of his love and then forgetting about it.

What am I trying to get at? Yes, my usual rant against consumerism and materialism and the little appreciation people here have for the things they own. But is this not a sign of clueless behaviour? Again, possibly not a phenomenon restricted to the realm St Andrews, but I feel like it’s very much in one’s face in this town.

On a positive note, at least we live in a place where things (besides woollens and hoodies) don’t really get stolen. So we can rely on our good old community of students to find our way back to what we’ve lost (with the possible exception of one’s dignity), and the fact that the police are helpful in finding missing designer handbags, due to the little crime watch they’re actually required to do. Just be careful about lost passports: I hear those get shredded at the police station.

St Andrews Pain

I’m having lunch with my two friends: F1 (appropriate new code-name, yes?) and my Swedish counterpart are discussing cabin fever. F1 says, “I have the St Andrews Pain”. “What, you’re already wanting to leave town for a while?”, we enquire. “No, not really. It’s more like an urge to hide under the blankets and play Xbox for 24 hours straight”. Word.

That we all get a little restless after long confinements to the bubble is no secret. It’s worrying that we’re now starting to get claustrophobic after being here for less than one month, especially in the light of the fact we no longer have reading week, but it is a common distress nonetheless. I am slightly envious of:

-Scottish students. You can go home whenever you feel like it.
-JSAs/JYAs: you don’t really study and tour around Europe during the entire semester AND still get credits.
-People with private jets: makes getting to your yacht in Southern France so much easier. You take ‘weekend getaway’ to a whole new dimension.
-Londoners: self-explanatory.

So, I have to say I agree with F1, although I would probably replace Xbox with cheesy TV or pleasure reading, possibly both. In fact, I have decided that I shall celebrate handing in my last essay with a weekend trip to Amsterdam—only in St Andrews, I agree. Let me tell you, though, that the purpose of my travels is entirely educational; after all, the University of Amsterdam is one of my options for graduate study. You can’t presume I won’t check it out before applying, can you?

Perhaps the biggest pain about St Andrews Pain is what was pointed out by my academic husband just a week ago: the minute you leave you realise that there really isn’t much to do here. I complain that I never have enough time to do everything I want in a day, and believe me, it’s for that very reason. We burden our weekly planners, commitment after commitment, to ease the Pain, I think. And once one gets to fourth year and starts seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, there’s just no more use in denying it: the imminent end begins to look completely glorious.

 

Masters (&Commanders?)

The time has come. This is all I think of, lately. The time has come to go through university applications. Again. Applying for graduate courses just proves my whole argument about Peter Pan syndrome, doesn’t it? Why illude ourselves that we have finally reached adulthood, when the end of our university careers just brings back memories of “shit-what-have-I-been-doing-these-last-four-years-at-high-school?!”

 

I can only hope that we are all feeling the same way: absolutely thrown into the deep, and with the sudden realisation that our degrees do not fit in the cookie-mould job descriptions that the careers centre proudly shells out every day. I definitely cannot become a consultant at KPMG or a financial expert for some bank. Partly because of my degree, as well as my inability to do maths even if my life depended on it. Mostly because I wouldn’t last a day before losing absolutely all hope about humanity. In high-school, I toyed with the idea of becoming a poet/novelist and my friends made fun of me for it: my books would end up as the unwanted prize you find in cereal boxes (never Kellogg’s, but definitely Dorset Cereals) or as my fuel to survive the winter, rather than bestsellers. Needless to say, both those scenarios appeal to me more than becoming a blood-sucking, corporate, tailleur-wearing robot.

 

I know what I don’t want to do, and despite this abominable cliché, the question still remains: what will I do? So many options, and one more idealistic (and improbable) than the other. It possibly doesn’t help that I have friends that are undecided between a Masters or going to a Buddhist retreat for a year or teach English in Japan/Madagascar/Argentina or rule the planet. Doesn’t help either that I live with a future Oxbridge PhD candidate, and that I don’t have the most remote idea where I want to set up camp (some days, Barcelona, other days, middle-fuck-nowhere Mexico, or Edinburgh, or New York, or…). The dilemmas remain, and keep piling up.

 

Of course, I have indeed (somewhat) narrowed it down, and I am going through with my plan. Now, it’s just about the pain of waiting, all over again. Not only for acceptance letters, but for my grades, again. You know what module they should offer all fourth years? YOU101: Getting life started, and making it awesome.

Dressing Accordingly

That the way one dresses in St Andrews is a prominent worry of everyday life is almost too obvious a fact to be writing about it. One grows up in the real world and gets accustomed to going to the supermarket wearing pyjamas and dirty sneakers. And just when one starts to think this is normal behaviour worldwide, they step out onto Market Street wearing just a hoodie and jeans, and instantly the regret hits them in the face with the wind power of Hurricane Bawbag. ‘They’, of course, meaning me.

 

I often complain about how difficult it is to ‘read’ people in St Andrews, and lately I have started to come to the conclusion that it all boils down to this insane obsession we have with looking impeccable constantly. The clothes we wear here are thought-through and renovated faster than the speed at which the seasons change—who knew that peach was summer’s new pink? And seriously, that coat is so last month. Keep up, will ya?

 

The problem is, I think, that the impeccability and composure which we try to communicate with our attires also has the effect of creating a barrier, a cold detachment whereby people come across as cold, unapproachable and stuck up…which is totally ridiculous, because many people here are just as laid-back, quirky and unique as one might hope. And yet, isn’t it sad that so much of our ‘character’ seems to be reflected in what we wear? I think, what would we do if it weren’t for our colourful, trendy shawls, Louis-Vuitton handbags or brand-new hightops? Indeed, what would we be? I would love to dare our entire student community to ‘be ourselves’ when wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and white cotton t-shirts. No accessories allowed. Would we still be able to show our ‘character’? Imagine if we all walked around town naked and we only had our actual characters to fend for ourselves and the image of ourselves we want to project. It makes me scared just to turn this possibility into a silly hypothesis, and believe me, I am trying not to be hypocritical—my own wardrobe has undergone some serious transformations during my time here.

 

Worse still, I think, is the experience I’ve had of late. Because I feel that as I put on my clothes in the morning and slap some make up onto my cheeks, I’m covered, there’s no need to make any extra effort to ‘be’. I put on my ‘Fran costume’ and go about life immersed in my head and looking out only in times of need—what are we doing to our bodies? I realise, not without some preoccupation, that we really do treat them like shells. I wish we could all let down a little, you know, literally let our hair down and realise that whatever clothes we put on might not safeguard us indeterminately. Not that it is a concern for most people here, but it is perhaps worthwhile to consider our options if, God forbid, one day we wouldn’t be able to afford keeping up with the latest trends. It wouldn’t be like walking around naked, but we would definitely have to stop relying on just our shells.

Is it a hickey or a bruise?

I recently attended one of the debates organised by the SRC; the debate was titled, ‘This house would sell its scandals to The Sun’. As in any other debate, towards its end, the issue of what the definition of ‘scandal’ is was raised, and it is likely that all people present thought about this word in the context of St Andrews. In such a small agglomeration of people, it seems any small piece of gossip we hear gets blown into pretty great proportions—that we St Andreans consider ourselves to be somewhat self-important in no piece of last-minute news. 

Fresher’s Week offers us the perfect atmosphere for scandalous behaviour; the newly arrived youngsters are still unfamiliar with the idea that the shadow of your drunken mistakes will follow you for the rest of your academic career here. It is fun to watch them. Sometimes I feel like I need to take a long shower afterwards, but that is relatively unimportant, given the conversation topics these inexperienced beings provide us with.  

After three years of St Andrews I have learned to: identify someone who is on the verge of chundering in the bushes; what person who I thought was gay hooked up with a girl; nationality according to attire; and event attended on previous night according to level of hungover state.

Ah the Union, with its blue trash container, against which we once saw two people have sex in the open air...how many scandalous moments we have seen there. And that lamp post on Market Street, with which that very drunk girl made out some time ago. We have made up new games as well, like counting how many people step into which puddle of vom. Oh, and the clueless people dropping comments on their obliviousness towards the middle classes...

I really cannot complain, we get our amusement here for free—real quality entertainment. I just wonder where the scandal draws the line, or if that line will ever be reached. I asked myself this as I exited the Fresher's Fayre today, while in the background the legs of a pole dancer from the 'X-statica pole fitness' society contorted, en train of pulling a demonstration for the masses of people present. Let's just hope she didn't pull any muscles, too, while she was at it.

Peter Pan Syndrome

I’m not sure how this is possible, but the summer has already come to an end…and we are going back to St Andrews to start our final year of undergraduate studies. It’s thrilling, yet what is this feeling of dread/anticipation/excitement/happiness/fear/and just pure, nerve-wrecking, soul-shacking sense of time passing by too quickly? Is the horizontal rain hitting me too hard on the head as I step off the airplane at Edinburgh airport, or is everyone else feeling it too? Yep, I thought so.

Of all the St Andrews syndromes I’ve experienced during the past three years, I have to say Peter Pan syndrome is perhaps the one that I suffer from the most. As the time for graduation approaches, an alluring, yet slightly ominous, stretch of water extends before us, an ocean called ‘reality’, in which we have shyly been dipping our toes, but which we are definitely not prepared to dive into. At least, I feel rather unprepared.

It is also the idea that once we’re done here we need to pack up and start all over again somewhere else. To me, that is reasonable grounds to feel slightly apprehensive, especially when I have friends that come from more countries that I can count on both of my hands. And yes, it is exciting, we have all had our fair share of the bubble for four or five years, and we are e-ager to cut the cord. After all, growing up means learning to be by yourself—but that is the beauty of Peter Pan syndrome, you know what you should be doing, as a grown up, but you just let the knowledge be and go back to the comfort of divine immaturity.

Coming to university was, to me, the moment of truth, the threshold one crosses before walking into the realm of adulthood. Why haven’t they taught me how to do this in four years? I feel as unprepared as a deer, drinking from a pond, about to be eaten by an alligator. Not a great feeling, agreed?

The truth of the matter is, nevertheless, that we all do have plans, we just can’t measure how achievable or unachievable these are. It is safe to say that St Andrews has the effect of distorting many of our perceptions: of course we think we can afford the Masters in Oxford, and that London will have all the answers, and that while travelling the world or teaching English in Burundi we will find our true calling. I think I am not alone in feeling fortunate for attending a university that opens so many doors to its students, but I often wonder what the real prospects for the graduating class of 2013 everywhere else is…is it actually safe to assume things will just work out, somehow?

I guess right now it is a bit too early to be worrying about the future: after all we still have a few months ahead of us before taking the big plunge. Not before sprinkling our clothes with some fairy dust, that is…

Mexi-coma

“This is how it is supposed to rain”, I think as I watch the summer storm from the cab window. You might ask yourself why I am glad to see it rain as I enter the depths of Mexico City, after spending seven months in Scotland. The thing is, when it rains in Mexico, it rains; none of that pathetic drizzling falling all day long and moistening everything, including one’s humour. Here, it is dramatic: there’s thunder and lightning, and the clouds make the sky so black it seems like it is night time even if it is early afternoon. Then it passes, and the city’s air becomes pure, and it smells of clean cars and muddy streets. The sun comes out again. This is how it is supposed to rain.

It is strange when I explain my life in Mexico to my fellow St Andreans; those looks of horror when I speak of the danger and the traffic, the restrictions that in Europe aren’t even concepts in people’s heads. When I talk about what it is like for me to go out at night in Mexico, the response I mostly get is, “I couldn’t live like that”. Quite reasonably. 

That’s when I ask myself, how does one explain Mexico in another language? Because, despite it all, when I come back to Mexico I feel relief and, no matter what, I have never felt unwelcome here. If I have lived as an outsider in Mexico all my life, and yet I am able to feel more at home here than in the place where I was born, there must be a reason. A reason for which there are no words. 

Why do I love Mexico so much? Why do I go into a Mexi-coma every time I leave? For one thing, I miss Mexicans’ ingeniousness. In what other country can one find fruit juice sold in plastic bags with a straw, or candles in the shape of Disney characters, or 1.5 lt. glasses with beer containing jelly babies, chilli pepper and Worchester sauce (de-licious, in case you’re wondering)? Where else do soap operas have names such as Abyss of Passion, Fire in the Heavens or The Flames of Love? And why does everyone take things so lightly here? Only here would I let a nickname as ugly as Paca belong to my person—although thanks to that I am always able to laugh at myself and my clumsy existence. That’s a Mexican lesson I take with me everywhere.

It is just that everything is different here, and I don’t know how to put it into words. The blue of the sky is not the same as everywhere else, neither are the clouds which are always far and big, full of air, storing all the sighs of the people they dwell over. You never feel alone here; it is normal to smile at each other in the street, and to say good morning to strangers, even more so to people you encounter on a daily basis (even if you don’t really know them). It is perfectly fine to talk to someone you’ve never met before at a bar—with decent levels of soberness—and to have a conversation with the girl in front you in the bathroom line—again, without the need of being drunk. I love the genuine politeness of people. I like that the vendors in open-air markets greet their regular customers with a handshake…maybe it’s a little awkward when they start calling you ‘princess’, ‘queen’ and ‘blondie’ even if your hair is brown. There’s no scent I can compare to that of tortillas being heated on a grill with some delicious content in them, nor the sweetness of tamarindo or water flavoured with hibiscus flowers. I miss the hills I spent my infancy in, and the city I gave my adolescence to—neither have changed much since I left. I liked when I could measure myself against the maize plants growing in the fields, and that I know the flavour of the fruits that grow on cacti.

What language can convey Mexico’s essence, I ask myself? And am I doing it justice by attempting to describe it here, in the only way I can?

I am fully aware that Mexi-coma is not a St Andrews syndrome—in fact, only about twenty St Andreans or so suffer from it, I think. Yet, if anything, being in St Andrews has made me re-appreciate many things about my home country, and somehow has made me fond of the very things I was escaping from in Mexico. Undoubtedly, wherever I end up next might have a similar effect on my view of St Andrews. For now, I am happy to have realised where it is that I truly feel like I have a home; I am still in the dark about what I will do here if I am able to come back permanently, but at least I know Mexico is waiting for me with open arms. 

Code Names [That awkward moment when French guy is actually Italian]

Disclaimer: I am fully aware that what I am about to write is incredibly superficial and vacuous. So I want you to be aware of it too. If you are easily offended don't go past the italics. 

Also, this piece is not a reflection of the author's views. Just of her lack of knowledge about certain people.

Before you go ahead and judge me for saying what I am about to say, do a conscience check and admit to yourself that, in this town, the sad truth of the matter is that we judge books by their covers all the time. Hey, I've been there; have you tried going to the library in hiking boots? Suddenly, you become "hiker girl", and the label sticks with you forever. 

To begin with, may I just say that I didn't start out this way. In the beginning, I sought to learn other people's names and remember their faces.  This, however, seems to breach the St Andrean norms of conduct, and although I did not wish for this to happen, slowly, my ability to be good with names and faces faded away. Furthermore, seen as there are certain people I began to see all the time, I tried to communicate by eye contact that I would have liked to get to know who they are; in lectures I would sit next to them and smile, which, in my world, is a signal for: "I'd like to start a conversation". Here, it rarely went down well.

With that said, I am hardly to blame for what happened next. You aren't to blame, either. Why, amongst 7000+ students, there should be a set number of people one sees constantly is beyond me, but, alas, such is the case. Some of these individuals overlap amongst friends. So, when one wants to refer to someone you and your friend both know, you naturally have to come up with a code name. Thus, I've accumulated a plethora of code names (pretentious word is courtesy of my pretentious Swedish counterpart).

It began with simple nicknames; "library guy" was perhaps the first to be baptised in our church of ignorance. He was quickly followed by "smooching guy", who ate with his mouth open and smacked his tongue against his palate even when he wasn't eating. He then turned out to be a candidate in the latest student elections...awkward, but at least now we have an actual name for him. 

Then there were the code names we had to come up with out of need; when your friend has a stalker and he is about to approach, you have to warn her in some subtle manner. So "Mufasa" came into being, and so did "staring guy" shortly after. Then, there's those people who everyone knows the minute you say their code name (unknowingly shared by the whole student community), such as "The Suit Guys". And, I'm sorry, but when you dress in three-piece, red, velvet suits and take a briefcase to lessons, you're just asking to be labelled as something.

On that note, this past year has been a prolific one for code names. When I was in Barcelona this January, we were walking down the street of our hostel, and my friend pointed out a guy to me: "I bet he goes to St Andrews". The man I am referring to was wearing a plaid blazer with matching trousers, black leather gloves and pointy, shiny shoes, a shirt with ruffles on the front and a handkerchief tucked in his blazer's pocket. He also had massive side burns and stylish Wayfarer sunglasses. "Oh, yes", I told her, "that's 'The Lord'. He's in my English class". We see him regularly; today, he was wearing bright pink socks underneath his impeccable suit.


The library is, inevitably, where most of our code names are borne. Let's begin with those individuals who have gained their labels, not because of their physical attributes, but because of the auras they carry with them; notably, "Old Spice guy" and "smelly balls guy". They are the epitomes at the ends of the spectrum of individuals who come into our radar every day. The latter is a mystery, mostly because I cannot for the life of me think what it is that happens when he sits, legs wide open, and that horrible smell invades the immediate surroundings. Regulars on the first floor are: "ex-boyfriend look-alike" (not mine, someone else's), "Rachel Berry look-alike" (I am not by any means aware of any 'Glee' reference here), "Avatar guy" (no, he's not blue), "the princess of rude" and "the queen of awkward". There's also "KK guy", (easy to spot because of his bright red KK jacket), "Penelope Cruz's sister" (who was also in my lectures in first year), "midget whore girl" (I KNOW this is wrong in every possible way, but if you saw her, you would agree), "babyface", and "angry library guy", who is actually not a student, but a library invigilator, who always tells me off if I'm breathing too loudly. We also have "the hot nerd" who has been promoted to "annoying nerd", as  he seems to have become aware of how hot he is and makes a point about being noticed whenever he comes into the library. Here, we begin to give code names by association. For instance, we have "hot nerd's girlfriend" or "Rachel Berry's flatmate".


Of course, there's our classmates--how we don't know each other's names even if we spend a whole semester in the same lecture room is beyond me. So, there's "sushi girl" (aka "the bad-ass"), "hot douche bag", "dinosaur girl", "yogurt girl" and "ginger brows". There's also "hot internship guy", who, may I just note, I did try to approach and meet, but despite my one-time attempt at conversation, we did not, in fact, hit it off. Then, within the class mate category, there's also those who don't deserve a code name, such as one fine individual who claims that "global poverty is a reality that we should all start to embrace" and who also says he does drugs "to support the poor farmers who have no other means of subsistence"; such individual we call by his real name, and shall, of course, remain anonymous here.


Around town we often see "the purple lady", "the pirate" and "the cowboy" (all self-explanatory); there's also "naked girl" from next door, and the "whale woman" (NOT what you're thinking: she studies whales and told my friend all about it. He's to blame for not remembering her name despite having had an actual, real-life conversation with her).


So yes, there's a couple of people I do see all the time. You know what the problem is with all these code names, though? I've realised just how encapsulating they are. For instance, just the other day, I was in the entrance of the library and "French guy" was there next to me, having a conversation on the phone. Turns out, "French guy" is actually Italian. But do you have any idea how difficult it is to not call him "French guy" now? Suddenly I get this massive anxiety attack: are all the code names this inaccurate?

Becoming a Badass

Several people in this town seem to think they are such bad-asses. Truth be told, I think I have been with two year olds who are more controversial than most people here. And with tasteful remarks such as, "Like a boss", springing up in everyday dialogue, one cannot help but become aware of how much people think they get away with things around here, and how non-bad-ass these things are.

This thought takes me back to the day I crashed an IR lecture (the reasons for this shall remain undisclosed, although most of us know there's only one reason, and one reason only, for crashing an IR lecture these days). One fine specimen of IR student loudly blurted out, "I am taking sushi into this lecture hall. I am such a bad-ass. What are they going to do to me, huh?". Now, unless that sushi was meant to be given to an undercover agent and was rolled to kill, there is very little to be proud of, in bad-ass terms. I think the repressed bad-ass in her was really trying to make its way into the real world though. I wonder if the bad-ass voice of her subconscious told her it was a better idea to slam into the lecture theatre's door in order to open it, rather than using the more conventional method of, oh, I don't know, the door handle?! Maybe I'm just too mainstream.

Then I see those people at the library's water fountain: seriously guys, the button says PUSH, why are you lifting it? Your bottle is not filling up faster, and the bad-ass alter ego can hardly be impressed. Bad-asses are supposed to be a source of upheaval, not insult. I get violent instincts when I see people throwing recyclables into the wrong containers. Just how lazy can one be? The yellow trash can IS RIGHT NEXT to the green one. And there's big letters on them too, don't you dare tell me you're colour-blind.

Lately, however, there's one particular, unidentified, bad-ass who I'm feeling strongly unhappy with. Whoever takes the time to put another house's bin inside our gate really needs to find something better to do. That's not bad-ass: that's just repressed freeganism.

Hurricanes, Gales and Sunny Days

It has been raining all day today. Thankfully I've had to stay in the library revising (although my productivity levels have now, clearly, lowered). Yet, I cannot help but notice how particularly miserable today is. You know when you can't really see the rain, but the minute you step out of the house you get drenched? And the phenomenon of horizontal rain? Precisely. You just know that the saying, "There's no bad weather, just bad attire", has no applicability on a day like this.

I have been in St Andrews for three years, and I am completely honest when I say that I was expecting weather much worse than this before coming. For instance, I was prepared not to see sunshine, ever. I was happily surprised; apparently St Andrews is one of the sunniest places in the UK. However, I was not very happily surprised with the snow situation the first two years. It seems the one thing I really was expecting before coming here, was completely unexpected by the rest of the nation.

Speaking of unexpected weather, however, this year has seriously been the weirdest, meteorologically speaking. Let's begin by mentioning those last days in September, memorable for the fact I went out of the house in just a skirt, and no tights. Now, I know this seems like a very common occurrence around these parts, but I had seriously never ventured outdoors with my bare legs. Hell, I had never even wore shoes with no socks on (as opposed to some people who don't even wear socks in the winter *cough-cough*). It was truly mind blowing to walk around feeling such warmth upon me.

Things were normal for a while after that, and then...the hurricane struck. Thankfully I live in a place where inhabitants possess a sense of humour as weird as mine, yet not even in my most twisted cogitations would I have ever been creative enough to call "a storm with violent winds" Hurricane Scrotum (affectionately, Hurricane 'Bawbag'). Was anyone else stuck in the library when it hit? I remember the announcement about the library closing at 10pm due to "unforeseen weather circumstances" and the windows creaking. I think I am not alone in thinking those couple of days were slightly unnerving.

Then it went crazy again: whoever was lucky enough to be here the first week of spring break knows what I'm talking about. It felt like I was back in Mexico City; not too cold, not too warm, and excessive exposure to the sun's rays did in fact result in getting sun burnt (lobster woman can attest to this matter). But of course, all good things come to an end, and in this case, the week after this incredible, heaven-sent spring atmosphere it began hailing and sloshing and the gales came back in full splendour. Of course, this was the week my best friend came to visit me from Mexico. Good riddance.

It took time getting used to it, but I think I have acclimatised rather well. I mean, I did not pull out my winter coat until December this year (as opposed to my recurring to it in early October during my first year). Still can't walk around bare legged on a night out, but have mastered the art of wearing open shoes and no socks (goodbye ugly, skin-coloured ankle-highs!). What I yet have to master is the glamorous, rain-drenched look: walking into the library looking like a wet (water impregnated, even!) mouse in an over sized raincoat cannot be doing anything good to my impeccable, lady-like appearances.

The Academic Orgasm

Have I talked about professors already? Forgive me if I have. Lately, I don't know if it is a product of my being in two very difficult modules, but pleasing my professors has been an essential component of my student experience. It's sort of my own fault as well: I am convinced that doing well in class and in my coursework will impress my professors immensely, although I am also pretty sure that they couldn't care less about this attempt.

I am not alone, however. It has gotten to a point where some of us are becoming increasingly infatuated with professors just because of how they speak (e.g. http://whatstandrewsfeelslike.tumblr.com/post/22127743410/when-i-interact-with-dr-mcmullin). It has become about much more than just looks; it is now about knowledge, and, alas, they are all at least 20 if not 40 years ahead of us in the game. It makes me giggle that we think that we can somehow reach to them with our little blurbs on medical anthropology and spiritual displacement in T. S. Eliot's poetry, which, by the way, we've written with sweat and blood and distressed nerves. Hopefully, these wondrous individuals were, at some point in their lives, at the stage we are at today.

Oh, but then there is that moment. That moment when they tell you you've made a good point in class (always happens when, in a state of half-consciousness at 10.00 in the morning, one blurts out anything just to break the awkward silence in the tutorial room). That moment when you get an essay back and you get a grade you really weren't expecting, and, if you're really lucky, you get some pretty good comments along the margins. That moment, my dear friends, which I like to call an 'academic orgasm'. Don't deny it: even those of you less academically inclined than me have had at least one during the course of their time here. And we know how it is with orgasms; how that rush of endorphins just keeps us going about our daily activities with a big smile on our faces...well, I think academic orgasms have two results. The first outcome also involves a smile and an energy rush to keep the achieved standard going. The second is total panic: how will we impress our professors next?! 

The Housing Blues

The winter is over. How do I know? When I wake up in the mornings my nose and ears are no longer blocks of ice; in December, I once woke up and, literally, the first thought that came to my head was, "The tip of my nose is the tip of an iceberg". Word. I know we've all been there. It's comforting to finally sleep with all limbs stretched out under the covers rather than tucked into a ball of jumpers, blankets, hot water bottles and triple-layered socks...kudos to all those girls out there who manage to sleep in their sexy boxers and bra even when one can see one's breath fog up the air inside the house.


But can I complain, really? You know where I'm going with this. The situation with housing in St Andrews is a tragedy. I was talking to a first year the other day, who told me her future flatmate's parents are buying an apartment for them because they couldn't find anywhere to stay next year (yes, yes, only in St Andrews...). So, in reality, I am fortunate to sleep in this bed, no matter how many bruises that mattress has given me, or how often my curtains dance with the ever-present draft coming from the windows (look at me turning complaints into an anthropomorphic love-saga).


The question of why we are all so desperate about housing has been approached by the Students' Association, the University, Fife Council, student activists, and our student media is always all over the issue, whether for satirical purpose or serious denouncement of the matter. We pay ridiculous amounts (London prices, sometimes) for accommodation that leaves a lot to wish for, and with some landlords that, well...you've heard the stories.


As much as I wish I were serious enough to go on a very clever rant about the 'housing market' of St Andrews, what I really want to do is list the top (or bottom!) five things that I've seen in flats here that have truly left me speechless. Whom, where and when shall remain undisclosed:


1. Mould House--yes, literally, I think that house was made of mould. I stayed there for about 15 minutes and when I came out I had been transformed into mould girl. I reeked of mould. My hair, my coat, my very core had moulded. And it was such a nice house as well! I'm not sure if my friends were aware of the smell or not: isn't it worrying, spending so much time in a  house to the extent that you become part of it? (Does this mean that my skin might turn magnolia soon?!)


2. The outdoor closet--not literally, but when there isn't insulation between the exterior world and the wall of your bedroom closet, the result is that clothes begin to resemble stalagmites (or is stalactites? I can never remember). My friend's solution was to run from the shower to her clothes to her bed and to get dressed underneath the blankets. That is, when her clothes didn't stick to her fingers, like a tongue against an ice lolly. 


3. The un-jammable window--one of my friends lived through the first few months of winter with a jammed window next to her bed. Jammed open, of course.


4. House relics--when plumbing should be kept in a museum as evidence of early history's engineering techniques, rather than connected to your toilet. 


5. Ugly carpets--very few houses are exempt from this charming design concept. The patterns, colours and antiquity of the carpets in many St Andrews flats are just...well, what words can I use? Are there words? My question is: when were these carpets ever even considered an attractive decorative element? The worst are bathroom carpets. It just instantly makes you wonder what kind of flora is growing under that fabric (interestingly, the mould house did not possess a carpet in the bathroom). There is a positive side to ugly carpets though: seen as many of them are not properly attached to the floor any more, they provide an excellent work out session when you vacuum. You know, one foot holding it down, an arm trying to vacuum swiftly whilst applying pressure to the aforementioned carpet...and voilà, Pilates suddenly becomes such an amateur fitness concept.

Happy Times

So, it has been a while since I last blogged. I partly blamed this on hectic April--spring break, course work, life--and partly I blamed it on writer's block. It has come to my attention that, mostly, I have had little to whine about lately.

Of course, it is difficult to be happy with everything in one's life. Frankly, I think it must be impossible. But this past month has made me realise that if you focus on the good things that do go on in your life, and you work for them, chances are those small bursts of happiness will make up for a lot of other shit. Why force oneself to keep working towards, or for, something that we find unpleasant? Why not rechannel those efforts and energy to accomplish things that we know will give us satisfaction? If not all aspects of our existence can be perfected, at least let's perfect those that are already quite rewarding. Then, once we get really good at that one particular thing, we can move on, and start working on something else. Hey, I never said it was an easy or quick procedure...but what I learnt in April is that we have to wait. Waiting, which I have discovered, is not a passive act.

You see, waiting is rewarding. Personally, it has made me realise what defects I would like to abandon, and what qualities I most certainly want to hang on to. It taught me that focusing on the positive does not mean forgetting about the negative--it just means getting yourself through it. Because, you see, the better the things you're good at get, the more motivated you become to emerge from your pity pool and meet the bright world above you. And the bad things start to paint the backdrop upon which you survive, day by day, through your achievements.

I have done a lot this semester, things that weren't even on my radar a couple of months ago. Sure, not everything else is 100% great: as some of you may know, I've made a resolution not to cut my hair until I fall in love again. As most of you might have noticed, my hair is getting pretty long. I still would like those skinny jeans to fit again, and I wish I were better at countless other things I still think need improvement in my life. But I've also achieved a lot lately, and, for now it suffices; happy times just remind us that improvement can only come from oneself. And then, all the threads that make up the fabric of our lives just get tighter and tighter, until they are pulling us together, and we can release them, because they don't need to be clutched or tightened any longer. Let's work towards integrity. Or let's just simply work towards and not against. That's my little sermon of the year.

Cultural Cockups

All this sunshine is making me so confused. I mean, I'm in Scotland, it's March; I'm supposed to be walking around in a jacket, still. On Saturday I went to the dry-cleaners to drop off the winter coat, and was daunted by the three-week wait to get it back, fearing I'd be unprepared if unimaginable sorts of freezing weather falls upon us from one day to the next. But I was wrong. And I feel out of place every morning, as I leave the house in a waterproof jacket, whilst everyone else is walking around in bermudas and sun dresses. This time I can't even say it's the British craze for those couple rays of sunshine they see every other decade: this time, I admit it is actually very warm.

So I got to thinking about all the times I've felt out of place in Scotland because I didn't do the right thing, culturally speaking. On the top of that list is, perhaps, the 'boiling-my-tea-in-the-microwave' incident, which many friends so fondly remember. You see, before coming to University I had never seen a kettle. At home, if we want the occasional cup of tea, we just pop a mug full of water into the microwave and call it a day. So, when I arrived here, and my Mexico-accustomed biological thermostat started to require more than just the occasional cup of tea, the microwave in our flat was rumbling away several times per day. Until one afternoon, when the girl who I would later come to call 'my Weegie doll' walked in on me.

Her: "Fran...what are you doing?"

Me: "I'm making tea"

Her: Look of total and utter bewilderment "But...why don't you use the kettle?"

Me: "The...what now?"

We: are still laughing about this.

During those early days, the cockups just kept coming. I had to learn about the 'no-kissing' policy the hard way too. In Mexico, people just greet each other with a kiss on the cheek, even if they've just met. Here, you reserve this type of exchange for the darkness of a bedroom, at most. So, naturally, when I tried my way of saying hello with a Scottish man, the (disgusted) remark I got was, "Why are you smelling me?!". To this day, how he thought "she's smelling me" over "kiss on the cheek" is beyond me.

Priceless, and perhaps quite naive of me (given the context of the place I live in), was the complete and utter curiosity with which I asked a girl on my corridor, "Who is Jack Wills?", after examining the big letters on the front of her t-shirt, thinking that I was about to discover some unheard of, cool, indie band. That, I did not find out from her.

I guess there's also some of the classic ones; the 'crisps' vs. 'chips' dilemma, the 'french fry' taboo, not to mention 'baked potatoes' or 'potato scones', neither of which I had previously encountered (so much catching up to do in the potato-eating department of my life). Asking for a sausage, expecting a sausage, and getting a squared-shaped, dubious-looking piece of meat instead. The Scottish buzz words, "wee", "chapping", "down-the-road", they all took a while to be incorporated to my already jumbled up English. Apparently, I also have an awkward way of saying 'category' and 'salmon'. I still retain the L in 'salmon' is there for a reason.

But, at least all these things did not take that long to be corrected. Not like some other major cockups. On one occasion, it took me months to realise a mistake I had made. You see, in the summer of 2010, I was working in Stirling, as a camp leader. Almost all the other camp leaders were Scottish or English. On one occasion, we decided to play a game of Never-Have-I-Ever (after a day's work, of course, not with the kids we were taking care of). I was doing quite well, revealing the right amount, not loosing my train of thought when coming up with things I had never done. Then, someone said, "Never-have-I-ever...been in the mile-high club". I was the only one who drank to that. The cheering and patting on the back was almost instantaneous, as were the pleas to "tell the story!". I was so mortified; I immediately thought to myself how rude and immodest I was being, why I hadn't simply sat that one out. Because, you see, in my world, being part of the 'mile-high club' means flying so much during the year that you get one of those special cards to collect your air miles on, and you get to go into the business class lounges at airports. Never did it occur to me that it means having sex on a plane. So the story continues:

Them: "FRAN! Tell us all about it!"
Me: Humbly "Well...it's no big deal...I do fly between Europe and Mexico quite a lot, you see...and, I mean, my whole family is in the mile-high club, even my little brother..."

Them: Petrified looks of absolute discomfort

I never understood that look on this particular occasion, and we just moved on. So I didn't give it much thought. It wasn't until about three months later, when playing another round of this game (incidentally, with my Weegie doll and company) and the same question came up again.

Me: "Hey...what does that actually mean?"

Them: "It means that you've had sex on a plane"

Me: Petrified look of absolute discomfort...and understanding

I'm just scared I'm still walking around life, one cockup after the other. I'll wake up, years from now, and realise, "Oh! That's what I was doing/saying wrong...". I'm still waiting for that to happen to me with regards to Irn Bru, for instance.

Compliments

You know, it's hard to get a compliment in St Andrews. I feel Saharan-desert heat waves if ever I get one; if a professor nods approvingly at one of my comments during a tutorial, it's bliss. Last night I was talking to my best friend in Mexico, and we were discussing growing old and Piaget's theories of childhood development (as one does, "Casual", as she would say). Piaget said that in our early childhood years, we inhabit egocentric realities, in which we see ourselves as the centre of our worlds and all the things happening around us as directly affecting us. Thankfully, growing up means sticking our heads out of our diapers, and this is a very positive thing. But, as my friend and I were saying, one of the harsh realities of growing up is realising that we really are just a school of tiny fish in this big pond called Planet Earth. Things do not happen to us because we are unique and we deserve it; if we triumph, we do so because we've worked our asses off. Being singled out is indeed extraordinary.

Thus, back to my issues with compliments. University is the first place where I've gotten so few. But then again, there are also a couple compliments I wish I had never heard. Outstanding in this category was the compliment a friend of mine got last semester: a van drove past her with two guys in it, they looked at her from the rolled down window and exclaimed, "Damn! Hitting that would be like hitting the jackpot!". Class.

Likewise, last year my friend got asked, outside the Union, "Fancy a shag, hen?". Now, ignoring the content of the question for a moment, if you are going to choose an animal comparison to compliment someone, why, oh why, pick a hen?! Why pick an animal, to begin with?

Then there's the creeps from the Italian Society, who never get enough of complimenting my ass, thinking I don't speak Italian. At least there's some reward involved in this; I get to turn to them, smile, and say, "Ciao, mi chiamo Francesca, come va?". I do enjoy the looks of horror on their faces.

Thankfully, I have awesome friends, who pamper me with bucket-loads of compliments that I probably do not deserve. I am also happy to be able to say that some professors stand out for being aware of how motivational a well-deserved appraisal is to their students.

Today, though, I got called "Lovely Saint girl" when I was distributing outside the Union. Now, I don't know if this happened because the guy was running a campaign and was trying to buy my vote, but being called "lovely" as I strenously clutch copies of The Saint with my inky fingertips, hair flying in all directions, nose dripping and hands quite red, takes me straight back to stage one of childhood development. What do you think, Piaget?

Granny Territory

Have you ever taken the 99A before 10am? I have. It is astounding. Literally, the age gap between me and the rest of the passengers is at least 60 years. I am not exaggerating, and I bet anyone else who has been on that bus that early can corroborate.

Some time ago, Tess noted, "Do you realise how little we see middle-aged people, or children? We basically spend all our time here amongst our generation...or really old people". And it is SO TRUE. Seriously, this past weekend in particular it just dawned on me how many older people live here; this, as I was trying to speed my way behind two very lovely, very charming, very slow, and very old ladies. The weekends, in fact, are Granny territory here. The pink clouds of impossibly sweet perfumes invade the alleys; the offers at Tesco are seized ruthlessly by avid pensioners, gossip is spilled amongst tea cups in the cafes, disapproving looks are cast in the direction of the student population (often hungover and in the way of the grocery-laden Granny-trollies).

Rachel once told me that she can't wait for the day she becomes a Scottish gran; I don't blame her, actually. These women have a blast. They are shameless, they are witty, and they sure as hell have earned their wise way into being the opinionated, ironic and funny individuals that they are. I think they are probably the most real of St Andreans, an everyday reminder that this is where life is heading towards, but that even then we will be making the most of it, one glass of brandy and a friendly chat on the local bus at a time. Where I come from, ageing is not so positive; becoming older means losing your independence, being confined to the living-room and the visits of grandchildren if one is lucky enough. But here, even if they can hardly walk, the Grannies are self-sufficient, they do their shopping and their socialising, and they're happy.

If I could, I would totally aspire to being a Scottish Granny as well.

Little Miss...Raindrop

I am in my English lecture, and all the girls around me are sitting in the exact same position: we are all clutching our stomachs, some of us pulling and readjusting our t-shirts and sweaters, so that the fabric folds itself in front. Even her, I find myself thinking, surprised that she, a real-life, in-the-flesh 'Pandora' should resort to the same belly-hiding techniques that we all do. I look around me and realise none of us are overweight, none of us are unattractive, all of us are intelligent young women (we have to be, T. S. Eliot is no picnic), but still, it seems all of us are thinking, "Watch yourself, make yourself perfect, hide every flaw".

Even the ones that aren't there?

Sometimes I find myself wary of St Andrews, and this is one of these times. I never thought that coming to University would be like coming to a fashion show (literally, as we have five different ones to choose from). I am impressionable, and Eating Disorders Awareness Week might have had its impact on me, driving me to pen these thoughts, yet I cannot help but be shocked at how much appearances count in this town. So many people have called me naive for being horrified at this fact of life. Once, someone told me that she pitied 'ugly people' because it must be so much harder for them to get on in life; it was a proven matter that attractive people are more likely to get jobs, to be thought of as intelligent and 'nice'. When, later, I retold my friends about this fantastic exchange, they said, "Well Fran, it's sort of true..."

Is it, though? Do we realise how much time we waste devoting our thoughts to what we look like and what we should wear? Worse even, as a girl, the self-deprecating musings that pass through my mind on a daily basis. "I wish I had her eyes, I wish I had her breasts, I wish I had legs like hers...". Worse still, the disgusting pep-talks I give myself sometimes; "It could be worse, I could have her hair", or, "I could haver her complexion. I am not too bad after all".

I think that nothing justifies this behaviour, and I am trying, more and more, to make a very conscious and significant effort to stop this kind of thinking once and for all. I have a feeling that all these concentrated aspirations (and frustrations) to fit into God knows what sort of cookie-mould concept of beauty have surfaced on other aspects of our lives here, too. That strange competitive atmosphere in class and in all the societies, for instance, smells very much of this dilemma. So does the excessive drinking, and the social interaction that comes afterwards.

The reality is we have become slaves to appearances, and it doesn't seem like we will ever change this aspect of human nature. It is saddening, also, that we often forget to nourish our internal richness in favour of dedicating so much time to embellishing our immediate and visible selves. And it is scary to realise the extent to which we depend on these constructs to define what we think of others.

A few years back, always in my somewhat naive vein of thinking, I was writing about Marilyn Monroe. I had just seen one of her films, "Let's Make Love", and had been surprised at the sex symbol's utterly normal and realistic (above all, attainable!) appearance. I wrote, "Nowadays I think we all try to be beautiful, period. Beautiful constantly, no matter what we are doing. But maybe we don't realise that we are most attractive when we do certain things, and not all the time, like Marilyn Monroe when she sang. I know that realising that the concept of beauty changes through time is no last minute finding, but maybe realising that we are beautiful when we do what we like best is". I still sort of hang on to that notion; I think that when we find something that we really like doing, and which we are really good at doing, we should hold on to it, because it makes us shine.

And, recently, I suddenly got apprehensive; what if I've forgotten what this thing is for me, because I've just been spending too much time in front of the mirror?