The illusion of grandeur

Last night we went to dinner with 200 other people at the Savoy, to celebrate the other half's boss's wedding anniversary. It was a merry occasion full of lovely people; and not just medics, which was nice for those of us who are not members of that hearty profession. I was seated next to a large overbearing gentleman who introduced himself as "Old and Grumpy" and who was indeed both of those things. Turns out he was a former surgeon at our local hospital, and a rugby fan. Those in the know will get an idea of the kind of man this made him. He referred to himself for most of the evening as 'One', as in "One didn't realise Clare College admitted girls" and so on. It certainly was one of the more challenging conversations I've had to maintain, not least because he seemed to lapse in and out of deep depression during dinner.

The Savoy is, like so many of these historic London institutions, maintained in period, but staffed by people who don't speak English. This makes for a rather odd juxtaposition in which the illusion of old English grandeur and snobbery is contradicted by the fact that like everything else in Britain, they've capitulated to the cheapest form of labour. The illusion is shattered.

Essex beauty

I feel quite sad tonight. Coming home seeing the changes in the landscape here, first on the train, and then in the car, brings it all home to me how beautiful this county is - and I've lived in a lot of counties; one that doesn't even exist any more too! The fields of rape, brilliant acidic yellow against the intense green of the new leaves on the trees. The dappled sunshine on fields of crops. Peaceful horses grazing in the late evening sunlight. It strikes me how contented everything looks from a train window - nothing seems violent, or hateful, or miserable on a late sunny afternoon through the speeding window of a train.

And at home - cherry blossom out, the pond in full tadpole glory, the blackbirds singing and sparrows darting in and out of the hedge. Bulbs I planted last year coming back up this year. Bluebells shyly peeping from the shadows at the end of the lawn, a striking blue against the darkness.

I will be so sad to leave here. It's been three years since we left London and I've never wanted to go back to a city - but now I will be. I hope I can cope.

Fashion blues

How quickly time flies and the gaps in my blogging get longer. I've been at a lot of HE fairs recently. Seems like I've spent weeks watching identikit girls and boys (girls: vests, layers, belts, leggings, "that blue top"; boys: anything with labels on, and lots of hairstyling) shuffling by the stand. They are mostly nice when being engaged, but the odd ones are incredibly rude with that kind of 'showing off in front of friends' behaviour that makes me feel sort of wise and ancient in a strange way. I'm sure I did exactly the same kinds of things once upon a time although I was never as fashionable, it has to be said. My idea of fashion at that age left a lot to be desired, but that was also the result of being stuck in the middle of nowhere in Scotland and surrounded by hippies. One of my pinnacle moments involved a Laura Ashley dress, cowboy boots, purple hair and strings of purple beads. It is a moment that has survived in photographic form, unfortunately. I distinctly remember thinking I was *pretty* hot. So far be it from me to criticise others, but a change from high street look would be welcomed. Even the goths look better.

Meanwhile, in pictures, here's one I took of a peacock last weekend. Seems appropriate.

Pollen woes

Essex is covered in rape flowers and they are in full blossom right now. It looks beautiful from the train - fields of green and acidic yellow. Unfortunately the stuff stinks and also causes respiratory havoc. It's not helped by having a whole field of the stuff backing right on to our garden. This is life in the countryside; although I work in a polluted city, it's out here that my breathing gets troubled. I wonder what will assail the old bronchioles in Brum.

A new house, a new town, a new job

Well, it's been a hectic little period, hence no postings. We've got a new house (and here it is) in Birmingham. Amazingly smooth and hassle free purchase and now ours in return for a sizeable portion of our monthly salaries. This weekend we picked up the keys and camped out on an airbed, eating pizzas off the floor (not literally of course) and acquainting ourselves with a new location. Birmingham is dominated by roads, and scary driving prospects, and I'm not sure I will ever have the courage to do it. Meanwhile, I had two job interviews last week, necessitating a 5am start both days and an additional 5am start mid-week for our College open day which attracted a greater number of visitors than ever - several thousand. My first interview didn't go that well, and by the time of my second interview on Thursday, I was a jibbering wreck. Luckily that seemed to be what they wanted, because I was offered the job and accepted. So - here I come Coventry Uni.

Despite everything going relatively swimmingly, I am experiencing occasional quite large doses of anxiety. But when I think about everything that's going on - holding down a current job, applying for jobs and being interviewed, buying a house, plus the usual day-to-day stuff, I suppose it's not surprising.

The cost of being a student

Today we had an open meeting on marketing at our university. It is slightly disheartening that all our very labour intensive work with schools, teachers, parents and careers advisors may all be rendered entirely pointless in the face of the removal of the cap on tuition fees in 2010. We know already that several universities are discussing raising fees to £15k, minimum. We know that we can't do this (and wouldn't want to price any potential student out of our courses). But it does make me incredibly uneasy. The picture of UK university education in three years' time is going to be unrecognisable to us Brits.

The end of another week: ahhh.

What a funny week, again. I was at the Hereford & Worcester HE Fair this week, which entailed travelling up the night before. As the event clashed with the Cheltenham races, and I was late booking a hotel, I couldn't stay in Worcester itself, but I had booked a B&B inn place in what turned out to be the middle of nowhere in a possibly idyllic (I don't know, I didn't see any of it) village with the unlikely sounding name of Upton Snodsbury. One of the downsides of this kind of thing is that you have to then sit and have dinner on your own in a hotel or restaurant - I don't know which is worse - and that indeed is what I had to do. Hence Tuesday night found me sitting in a massive pub conservatory, alone, on my wicker/chintz cushion chair, gazing out of the window on to the A422, and feeling very lonely. The chair was so high my feet didn't even reach the ground, so I was perched uncomfortably with my chin in the goat's cheese tart. That was all ok, because I was alone. However, shortly after my tart arrived, so did three London lads, "happy" after a day's racing. Cue racist jokes, lairy behaviour and sidelong looks at the bird.

I had a very, very early night on Tuesday.