Lessons Learned, Inside and Out

Ahh...a (quick?) break from work for a short blog update.

The answer to the question of where to begin this post came via my fingers. If you looked at my right hand at this moment, you would see a rather unsightly homage to the perils of Oxford cycling. Well, I should be honest. Let me amend that: you would see a rather unsightly homage to the perils of Oxford cycling when done in a complacent manner. Yes, I admit that my journey to Somerville College for a voice lesson was less than fastidious. I should have paid more attention to that little voice, less attention to the Oxford autumn scenery, and no attention to my growing sense of comfort on a bicycle. Because I didn't, I am now the not-so-proud owner of two band-aided cuts, numerous smaller scrapes, and one ominous-looking (yet completely superficial) graze on my chin. I will also have to have my bike repaired, as the front brake pads are misaligned in regard to the wheel.

If I need an excuse, though, I could cite the fact that this is merely the last in a series of circumstances that have made my life rather stressful in the past couple of weeks. For instance, my voice is still a little too reminiscent of Joan Rivers, thanks to a belated version of the urban surprisingly-corroborated-myth known as "Fresher's Flu." Even as the sympathetic on-lookers to my accident crowded around with napkins (sorry, "serviettes"), my nasal cavity had not altogether stopped its recent back-and-forth between imitations of Niagara Falls and a college girls' shower drain. So, I wasn't in my normal healthy state of mind.

Furthermore, I hadn't slept much, due to trying to complete grad school applications for one country while living them out in another. This probably precipitated the latter physical condition.

Regardless of cause, though, I was turning off of Mansfield onto Holywell when it happened. Unable to see around a large red van parked at the corner, I, in my "I'm used to riding around Oxford" state, failed to slow down adequately to compensate for the blind spot. I hit another cyclist (who happened to riding very close to the curb, of course) and we both experienced gravity.

All told, however, there is much for which to be thankful. First, neither of us was hurt. The other biker went forward over his bike, but didn't even exhibit a visible scratch. I was also wearing a helmet, which I believe cushioned my head in the fall. The guy (another student) also turned out to be extraordinarily gracious about the whole thing. Evidently, accidents happen frequently enough around Oxford that this is somewhat to be expected for a person cycling for any length of time.

The accident also made my shame-faced request for a term-length hiatus from voice lessons more pitiable. I had by that time gone home, bandaged my hand, and washed off my face, but evidently I was still a pathetic sight (I didn't realize until later that I had a bloodstain on my pants--ugh, trousers). My teacher completely understood, and was perfectly amenable to waiting to hear from me after Michaelmas.

All this to say it could have been a lot worse. Moreover, getting excused from voice lessons also allowed me to arrive in time for the bi-weekly Early Modern manuscript lecture series held at the Pitt Rivers Museum. This series is utterly unique in that it combines talks given by leading scholars with the actual manuscript(s) in front of them. So rich are the Bodleian's resources that we lowly master's students can learn about the primary source for John Donne's sermons while actually looking at it!

Speaking of the Bodleian's resources, I should mention that last Friday was the first class on the hand-printing press. Little did you know that deep in the bowels of the New Bodleian Library lies an eighteenth-century wooden press on which us same lowly master's students can actually practice the art of printing! The first three classes are lectures, though still held sitting next to the presses, but it was nevertheless amazing to learn about how watermarks are made from a young Father Christmas-type figure with a paper mold in his hand. Who knew that people have gone so far to make vellum from the skins of condemned prisoners? I don't think I'll have time to attend the class once they actually get to the printing stage, but I don't regret going to the first one and seeing bona fide proof that yes, typewriters were not the first type-writers.