The St Andrews Questionnaire

If St Andrews could have an anthem, what would it be?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z9KMgg7T_sg

3 things you like most about St Andrews:

The walks, the tradition, my friends.

3 things you like the least about St Andrews:

Arrogant peers, windy days, how far it is from home.

Favourite spot in town:

Close tie between the Botanical Gardens and the pier.

If St Andrews could be a food, what it would be?

A fudge doughnut...a deep-fried fudge doughnut. With curry sauce.

Best lesson you've learned so far:

Always wear a 'friend condom'.

Favourite time of the year:

May. Sunlight at 4am, renewed hopes of passing exams after the dip, the prospect of summer...all in one.

If you could change anything about St Andrews, what would it be?

I would build a proper club. Three years of BOPs and failed nights out at The Lizard just don't do it for me any more.

Best experience:

Close tie between the foam fight on Raisin Weekend and the Come Dine With Us competition :)

What advice would you give to people coming to St Andrews for the first time?

Don't pay attention to what your mother says; no matter how shitty the weather seems from afar, bring your best clothes. Yes, the hiking outfits will come in handy (if you want to do the coastal path) but jeans and a hoodie just don't cut it out in this town. The last thing you want is to be mistaken for a JSA.

Also, do as many extra things as you can in your first year. It's such great fun, and you won't have as much time to do stuff later on. Apologies if this sounds like something the Careers Centre would say.

And you? What answers do you have for the St Andrews Questionnaire?

Seagulls of St Andrews

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I've run out of things to say about St Andrews already; all has been said before, no more events can possibly shock us (least of all after this week!). I know what you're thinking.

But hear me out nonetheless. Have you given the fauna of St Andrews any thought lately? If we think of the mysterious disappearance of the town bunnies (very ominous occurrence, which we shall not explore in depth to avoid offending the sensitivity of my animal-loving friends), the sea lions with the mold on their backs (courtesy of the St Andrews aquarium), the spiders residing in my house (good lord those beasts are big), and the cult for Hamish-MacHamish (the cat we love taking paparazzi pictures of), we begin to realise that the animals of St Andrews play a bigger part in our daily lives than we might be aware of.

And so it goes for the seagulls. Have you looked at the size of those birds? I mean, seriously looked at them? Those birds could kill a child, I mean it. They are half the size of my legs, and although that might not be saying much in the grand scheme of things (by which I mean the presence of certain long-legged Swede in my life) I am a pretty impressionable person. No bird should be able to look up at me from the point of view of a toddler.

In Italy, we are cautious about leaving trash bags on the streets because of rats and raccoons, and hedgehogs and boars if you're in the countryside. In Mexico, we are aware of the hungry rummaging of stray dogs and cats. But with some minimal awareness of the problem and some manual skills, the humans usually beat wildlife in this game. Nothing stops the seagulls here. I've seen them lift the lids of the trash containers in DRA. I can barely lift those things with the strenght of both my arms and a friend behind me, pushing me from below, propelling me while a third person throws the bin bag into the container. If the lid shuts on your finger, it's certain amputation. And yet, those seagulls can not only access the depths of Fife Council's bunker-style trash collectors, they will get everything out of the trash bags. Get in, get it all, leave no survivors. I bet that's what they're thinking on trash collection days.

If you don't believe how fierce these feathery psychos are, let me tell you what I saw a few days ago. I was sitting on the benches by Martyr's Monument. Two people sat down on the bench beside me with some wraps from Butler's, still steaming, the luscious odour of the meat and bread and exotic veggies permeating the air around us. They had barely looked at their delicious snack when, suddenly, a flock of seagulls just came and snatched the wraps out of both of their hands. That's TWO pairs of hands I'm talking of here. They were merciless. They even ate the wrapping. I swiftly made my way towards The Scores, clutching any part of me that had touched food in the course of that day, and seriously looking frantically to all sides to see which escape route was the quickest, and least deadly, should the birds come after me too.

I know people who have been attacked by the seagulls, people who have been shat on by them (possibly counting myself amongst those lucky ones,) and those that have just surrendered to the birds' glacial, North Sea glare and have quietly retreated from whichever territory they claim.

The seagulls of St Andrews are not to be joked around with. I bet if Richard Bach had lived in St Andrews at some point of his life, he would have really reconsidered the symbolism of the seagull for allegorical purposes.

The Mystery of Men

Under request of my Swedish counterpart, my resolution not to write about matters of the heart on this blog is temporarily going to be overlooked...

I just heard on the radio that an evolutionary anthropologist from the University of Wisconsin, John Hawks, has found that, although the human race is getting more and more clever with the passing of time, our brains are shrinking. Taking a look around me, it seems this increasingly small capacity is being filled up by essay material, internship applications and the odd trip to the cinema to compensate for all the CV boosting activities that suck the time out of our lives as university students. This, clearly, leaves little space for common sense information, like, I don't know, communicating effectively with the opposite sex?

I've been wanting to scratch that comment about the civilised dating for some days now. Although it does seem to exist, more recent developments have now made me digress back into my hole of disbelief and scepticism about this town's supply of decent men. No, ok, let me reword that: I am in disbelief about the capacity of this town to let men process thoughts properly. Since when is the prospect of a possible, future, break-up a good justification for calling a potentially good relationship off? More to the point, what actual reasoning goes behind a decision like that? Some blame fear, and, more specifically, some blame performance anxiety.

I am not one to talk; I am the one who cannot sum up the courage to ask 'library guy' out for a coffee, so who can blame some poor male specimen for being preoccupied about their capacities in the bedroom? In my case though, it is not so much my speaking abilities that worry me, so in my case it is not at all about performance anxiety.
I am trying to put myself in the guy's shoes here, I promise. Last night one of my male friends asked me, "Do you know how hard it is to get it up when you're nervous?". Although I cannot say I do, I empathise with the trauma this might inflict on sufferers of said technical problem. Still, I hold strong to my belief that no woman in her right mind will turn to a man after the first time and say, "Well, that was shit". I like to think we're a bit more considerate than that. We will be disappointed, and, I'm sure, there are several ways this can come across, some non-verbal, but we will always give the subject in question another chance. If after the fifth time it is still a complete disaster, we are more than happy to supply some easy-to-follow suggestions. Seriously, if this is an excuse, although logical, it is absolutely ridiculous.

Also, does this allegation mean that the aforementioned male specimen is so frightened of failing in the encounter that he will just avoid it ad infinitum? It HAS to happen eventually, and if it goes wrong, well, it won't be the end of the world. Seems to me like this is just a tiny obstacle in comparison to all the good sex that could come after one bad time.
Since Hawks maintains that our brains are shrinking, it might just be the case that the remaining space is just getting filled up with fear. Again, I count myself amongst those who let the tiny brain area fill up with self-inflicted nonsense. Is it just that the walls of our heads are closer together, and stupid ideas are simply taking less time to bounce off from one side to the other?

One more thing. If we want to avoid the situation in which a seemingly charming and innocuous man drops the "I'm just not ready for this"-bomb, pay close attention at the way he looks at you. If his eyes are glazed all over, his smile is slightly narcotic, and his feet point directly towards you, suggesting a restrained need to kiss the ground you walk on, then chances are that, if the occasion does arise (pun unintended), the sex will not be great. This type of fellow will be incredibly excited, and the risk he runs is not that of under-achieving, but rather, being an over-achiever in matters of time. If the look of infatuation is a bit more restrained, then it might be the case that there is some anticipation and logical thinking going on, in which case make sure to say supportive and encouraging things that will prevent the fear from making its sneaky way into the situation. This, of course, might not work; there's so little space left for proper, fearless communication to happen amongst us. I say, let's make the most of what we can before our brains get too tiny. And if someone knows what it is that women do to intimidate men to this extent, drop us a note, will ya?

All the Lost Dinner Invitations (ALDI)

Being a student entails making several sacrifices. It is indeed difficult to economise when the only super market within quick reach, more often than not, will display empty shelves, with only the 'finest' items left for purchase. Who has the time to go to the butcher's, the fruit grocer's, the bread-maker's, these days? How to cope with the stress of studying if not with over-priced chocolate chip cookies, smooth Greek-style yogurts and top brand cereal?

The best of us have mastered the art of shopping at ALDI's. I've only been there once, and, truly, I came out of there feeling like all my food dreams had died. A rapid, sudden and uncalled-for death, at that. I know, I know; I should not judge a book by its cover. And although the feeling of being inside a natural disaster relief shelter probably had something to do with my growing discomfort and increasing doubts about my culinary talents, I think food has too much of a special place in my heart for me to approve of ALDI. My wiser friends tell me that the philosophy of ALDI is simplicity: why have a thousand brands of tomato sauce? One will do! They have my full support on that one; we are, nowadays, too accustomed to having way too much choice. But...there's something about ALDI value that just can't seem to please me.

Granted, I cook a little more than your average student, and I depend on fresh fruit and veg slightly more as well, so I bring this 'problem' upon myself. Yet, when a whole chicken costs less than a pack of fair-trade bananas, you just know something isn't right. Especially when that chicken turns grey after being cooked... Also, call me crazy, but ravioli are not supposed to be as hard as the package they come in. It is also the allure of ALDI products that ticked me off; those boxes of cereal that look just like the brand ones, even better, and cost about a fraction of the original... Yes, I still get angry over false advertising.

In any case, when I go grocery shopping, I need to feel stimulated. ALDI made me feel as cold inside as the frozen food section (mind you, the most alluring aisle in the shop). Why the never-ending canned goods, the cheap fatty meats and Italian specialties made in Germany? I need something authentic and raw and fresh, to cook up stuff from scratch and feel proud of my inventions. Yes, I complained about my trip to ALDI for weeks.

My whining was, however, quite quickly put to silence when my good German friends, in the spirit of breaking down the pillars of stereotype, hosted an all-German dinner using ALDI ingredients. It was AWESOME. So I don't know, what do you say? Have I lost some useful and instructive dinner invitations these past three years?

Number Strategies

It has come to my attention, two weeks into this second semester, that the jump from sub-honours into honours was pretty massive. Those who have made it thus far realise how sad we were for worrying about our coursework in first and second year, and that proud moment when we got a first in that essay seems such a distant and minute achievement. All has been put into perspective.

Recently, some of my close friends have been spoon-feeding me some sweet, sweet doses of perspective. In the form of statements such as, "Imagine if you were still doing Econ...". Now, that's perspective that really makes the weak February sunshine shine just a wee bit brighter. If I were still doing Econ, well...I wouldn't be here. I'm quite certain of it, I don't think I could have taken one more minute of rat-faced, long-limbed professors with bad accents teaching me calculus.

Following this train of thought, we let ourselves reminisce about those first few months of University (when being ten minutes late to lectures meant sitting on the floor by the podium), when doing two required readings each week seemed a paramount achievement, and we still did not know the implications of the 'short loan' system at the library. Ah, to be young and carefree...

But, surely, we later thought, there must have been challenges...right? We must have overcome a few obstacles. My IR friends, still quite unhappy about the crazy demand for their subject, tell me with them it was about overcoming boredom. Being a quitter myself I wonder what Econ was doing to get rid of the crowds. Suddenly we realise: the University is totally playing number strategies!

The redistribution of numbers in each subject is in fact an interesting, and quite positive, aspect of coming to St Andrews. One will begin with one degree and end up with a completely different one. Those first two to three semesters are a jumble of indecision, learning and discarding, and shifting loyalties from one department to the next. IR students all tell me the same thing; those first few modules were incredibly, incredibly boring. This seems to have persuaded some of the less keen ones to leave the faculty, some of them ending up in the more obscure, and less popular, subject areas. I recognise that Social Anthropology is one of these. While IR was doing everything to kick people out, one jaded student at a time, Social Anthropology was playing all its best cards. By best cards, I mean hot lecturers. And by hot lecturers...well, we all know who I mean, don't we? Truly memorable. In fact, so much so that one of us took a picture of his slide-show, the first slide being a photograph of him at the age of about 25. Yes. I blame the first-year hormones for that one, but looking back, I totally wish I had been as clever as that heroic girl. I bet that's one picture to make winter seem like summer. At least it would save me some money on utility bills.

Interestingly, I find that as time progresses, lecturers seem to get better looking (and, yes, better at teaching too). Even for IR, apparently. We have thus come to the conclusion that the University has its schemes for organising us into our departments, a mixture of letting us drift instinctively towards the calling of the ghosts of academic dreams (past, future and present), and the 'carrot and stick' strategy. Although, as one friend has renamed it, for some subjects the University uses the 'whip and stick' method. We all take our picks.

Civilised Dating

We were watching Pride and Prejudice (as one does in this house when it's cold and Megavideo has been seized by the US government) and it suddenly occurred to me that, although Jane Austen was alive over two centuries ago, women haven't really changed much in the way they perceive men. Now, being fully aware that I am 100% guilty of being a proper Mrs. Bennett sometimes, I don't think this is particularly correct, seen as men have indeed changed quite a bit since then, and we've replaced the dropping of a handkerchief with a quicky at The Lizard. Why is this? Why do we still like to talk and talk about that particular text, which may or may not have had some mysterious hidden meaning, when, as one of my good friends says, "guys are guys and they mean what they're saying--there's no hidden meaning"? My ultra-feminist alter ego is not happy as I write these words, but I think I cannot hide the evidence: most girls spend a lot of time worrying about finding that special someone. In St Andrews, so many conversations revolve around this, and the Overheard group can only testify to this fact. And, also, to the fact that men do not go about relationships the same way that a Mr. Darcy would. Almost in its entirety, this is a good thing; I know we don't like to think so, but for all his charms and good looks, I doubt Mr. Darcy was particularly pro- women's emancipation. I do wish, however, that relationships nowadays had that element of slowness to them (as for the romanticism, it is hard to find the 'logom' amount of it nowadays). But, just when I thought that nothing could save love's face in St Andrews, the unbelievable happened.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, civilised dating happens even in St Andrews. I now know people who have just started going out, and are the most polite and gracious when negotiating their encounters; they send courteous Facebook messages to each other, with actual care to grammar and spelling, they meet in broad daylight in spacious coffee houses, they go out for a drink--and they actually only have one drink. I must say, it is refreshing to see that there is more to finding someone in St Andrews other than the usual drunk messages at three in the morning, the contents of which would in other circumstances be seen for what they are (animalistic, offensive appeals to meaningless sex), but somehow are very persuasive to many St Andreans.

So, although I have seen this to be the most common form of pairing up here, I have now refreshed hopes of seeing more and more civilised dating around town. Besides my aforementioned diplomatic daters, I see those couples that truly fit well together (particularly around the science departments, I wonder what they have figured out that others haven't...), the high-school sweethearts and other truly decent people, who wait ages and suffer all sorts of pining and longing before doing something about approaching that special someone.

But can dating get too civilised? I have to wonder, after all; I do attend the University that sparked the flame between the future queen and king of England. And with many of my peers sealing the deal after meeting here, perhaps I have been unjustly defaming dating in St Andrews all this time. To be honest, I think it's quite sweet that many people find their other half in this very romantic town (it is romantic, there is no denying it). I think the epitome of civilised dating always has the pier as its setting. Don't take it too far though; armoured knights proposing to their damsels on the St Andrews pier is just a bit too civilised for this century.

Third Year Lesbianism & Other St Andrews Syndromes

Do you think you've been in St Andrews too long? I do. To the point in which I feel abnormal when I'm away, and although I see my life here as probably the least stable aspect of my existence, it is also the most reassuring one.

Oh, but how to define life in St Andrews? We like to joke about it; "This is just a huge madhouse". And yet, this seems not far from the truth at all. I live in a place where flying off to New York or Dubai for the weekend is as casual as buying milk at the supermarket. We've seen it all; girls making out with lamp-posts in broad daylight, guys hunting in three-piece suits and Hunter wellies, people in animal onesies for no particular reason. I couldn't think of any other place where such a random, varied, and just seriously weird array of people could cohabit to the extent that we do here. Because that's the fun part: you get to rub shoulders with these people, day in day out. I'll be sitting in a lecture next to a girl who's upset about reading Paradise Lost because it puts her ultra-Christian beliefs into question, while the South Londoner in front of me loudly narrates her sexual endeavours to her friend. Am I to blame for developing strange syndromes? I don't think so.

Third year lesbianism is one of them. Yes, you all know who I'm referring to here... We are the couple of weirdos permanently glued to the couch, watching old re-runs of Glimore Girls with a bowl of cereal and hot water bottles tucked underneath our blankets. Our lives have become so intrinsically similar that we are already making plans of finding a masters programme in Uppsala University, moving in together and buying a bunch of cats. That is, if our plans of Oxbridge fail us (we aren't too keen, in any case, I mean, a three hour bus ride separating us? Unthinkable!). Yes, the prospect of creating this big happy family with my Swedish counterpart gives me warm, fuzzy feelings inside. Only problem is, I'm really not into girls. And I'm not being sarcastic by saying it's a problem; it's a big, big problem. You see, St Andrews has a very limited selection of men; they're either taken or gay, and those that aren't taken, aren't taken for a reason. If I could, I wouldn't at all mind following the instincts inspired by my newly developed syndrome. We would get married, buy the perfect house, paint the living room a colour that isn't Magnolia.

Although learning to survive as a sufferer of third year lesbianism has been difficult and, mostly, very undignified, I have to say it comes with its benefits. For one, not being drawn into the crazy drama that is the St Andrews dating world seems, at most times, a huge plus. When venturing beyond the realm of our living room, I have spent some of the most lovely times in St Andrews so far. I only have all my friends to thank for this; it's been a good year.

As a particularly big fan of whining, however, I feel compelled to start this blog, and to give myself a space where I can collect all the loose ends that I've accumulated in these three years. Bring on the brief-case psychos, the yahs and the Africa girls; I'm squeezing all that I can out of the time I've got left here.