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.