Dear Diary...

I don't have time to be clever right now...but today is a beautiful day. There's just a hint of spring on the breeze, the sky is currently a lovely restful grey, but sometimes the sun peeks through, and the University Parks are covered in snowdrops, daffodils, buttercups, and crocuses. I found twenty pounds on the ground, and I just got back from a meeting with Professor Plunkett, this really incredible neuropsychologist/linguist who started the BabyLab. He's letting me work for him (he says he can't discern any horns under my hair). So I get to play with babies! for science! at Oxford! !!!!!

In other news, I have discovered Bounty candybars and they are delicious.

Snow Day

There’s snow in Oxford!

I’ve changed my socks five times today, and I’ve gone through three pairs of shoes. I think it’s reasonable to say that the British have a serious preoccupation with the weather, but when a snowstorm rolls through, they haven’t got a clue of what to do with it. Okay, so just because I haven’t seen a salt truck doesn’t mean there are no salt trucks…but there’s not a salt truck in sight.

Last night, I left the library around midnight for my room, but was summoned forth again near one in the morning by a combination text message/snowball to the windowpane. Natives here may be preoccupied with precipitation, but it’s nothing compared to the sheer exuberant joy displayed by the Singaporean and Malaysian crew. Gloveless and hatless, the snowball fight broke up just before two, thanks to an intervention from the porters, but we stayed out a bit longer to build a snowman and walk around the gardens behind the main building. I don’t know if it’s because I haven’t seen this much snow in a few years, or if acting like a kid in snow is infectious, but now my knees are bruised from falling and my ribs hurt from laughter.

I woke up early to go on a morning walk through the untrampled snow by the River Cherwell, and took about two hundred photos. It was eerily silent, most people here adhering strictly to the student’s schedule, and the trees were lacy and white. I wasn’t the only one out, though…while I didn’t see a soul as I wandered through the hedges and past a flock of cold-looking ducks, Facebook informs me that nearly half the campus went out to photograph the snow.

I sludged off to lecture – as the day went on, the temperature rose and the sidewalks got increasingly sloppy, so that the best way to travel was, in my opinion, this ridiculous-looking but controlled slipping motion, sort of like skating and sort of like falling over – and delivered some brilliant remarks to my lecturer about initiation rituals and Rwanda before sliding back to LMH through the University Parks. Where playing fields once lay, people from the colleges and town appeared to have spontaneously gathered (dogs and infants in tow) for the chance to stand ankle-deep and chat, probably about the weather, for a giant snowball fight, and for giant snowballs. Remember the snowmen you used to build as a child? Now multiply that by five. I now can appreciate how it’s possible to make a giant snowball as tall as me, as I witnessed three or four rugby players rolling a roughly spherical heap around the field, but I have no clue how they managed to lift the second ball on top of the first. I’m no Samson, but even for these guys, snow is heavy.

It’s funny how someone’s snowball fighting attitude reveals something about their character. Maybe. Or not. Anya, at least, is the type of person who throws snow at the back of your head, and then when you turn around for retribution, shrieks that she doesn’t want it in her face or hair, and proceeds to unceremoniously tackle you to the ground. Constance is in the white the majority of the time, flat on her back making angels or giggling at the sky. David whips a few handfuls at you, and then runs back inside to his cup of coffee (well maybe that was just because it was late at night). Kalpana seems fairly serious about throwing snow, but only when hit first, and tries to stay out of throwing distance – although that could have been because she was gloveless. And Owen, normally immersed in his law books, is more ruthless with a snowball than Anya at least had figured. I don’t know how my snowballing reads...let me know, but I bet someone will be shouting "violent Emily!" at this point. Bring it.

After a brief hot cocoa interlude, I’ll have to venture out again to meet my second of three tutors, who seems from her emails to be young and socially awkward…we should get along wonderfully. I’ll probably need a sixth pair of socks.