Buying a new pair of glasses after five years in my own private cocoon was probably a good idea. There are birds in London! The only problem now is that I feel like a dwarf because I can see the ground beneath me in some detail. As I said, it was probably about time I made that purchase.
It is sad, but I only have work updates to offer at the moment:
Most of my time is spent working on a project for the UNDP, developing new social and environmental performance indicators for the new EU Member States, both the countries themselves and the companies within them. In my field, tasks do not come much more interesting than that.
We are moving to nice new offices down by the Thames, at Embankment. As part of the new decor, everyone has been asked to commission a painting of their favourite spot(s) in London. Some of them have already started appearing on the artist’s blog. My choice? The South Bank Skate Park.
Yes, I will make the annoying text above go away at some point…
…from a lovely walk in Hampstead Heath. London is feeling more and more like home.
I certainly have. Today I started reading a book I should have finished at least a decade ago. The kind of book that goes with guitars, long hair and a curious mix of late-teen wanderlust and adolescent weltschmertz. And this special book contained a quote that I really like, or at least the original typescript did:
[…] I shambled after as usual as I’ve been doing all my life after people that interest me, because the only people that interest me are the mad ones, the ones that never yearn or say a commonplace thing … but burn, burn, burn, burn like roman candles across the night.
Jack Kerouac, On the Road
Naive bordering tacky, yes - but there you have it.
This weekend I followed in the footsteps of many a great poet and went to the countryside. Not just any place in the countryside, but to a site so unique and beautiful that I better keep it a secret. The place was a favourite of Arthur Conan Doyle and W. B. Yeats, and the movie adaption of Pride and Prejudice was shot here.
Where else would you find a quote like this one, inscribed into the floor of a mausoleum:
The poets who loved penns
W. B. Yeats
Walter de La Mare
W. I. Turner
Ruth Ritter
V. Sackville West
Dorothy WellesleyThey learn in suffering
what they teach in song
As a foreigner, I plead guilty to complaining a lot about the standard of living and quality of life on this island, especially in London. BUT, there is no use in denying that English gardens and manor houses are made of the same stuff as dreams. Unfortunately, pictures cannot convey that message.
Ever wondered what idiocy in its purest form looks like?
Here is a serious contender.
PS. It is a little odd - not necessarily good or bad, just odd - that ‘German humour‘ has such a long entry on wikipedia.
What better way to introduce Google’s controversial UK Street View service than to show off my new home.
London, here I come.
I normally do not post random clips, but I would so much rather be there than here right now. (I am, of course, only saying this because I am chained to my desk).
wingsuit base jumping from Ali on Vimeo.
Via Bering.
…is making pancakes for breakfast and realising at 10.50pm that you are still wearing an apron.
For far too long I have neglected writing about my current residence. The house itself is quite famous because it was built and for many years inhabited by a guy who has been described as the “Father of Modern Medicine.”
Sir William Osler was a physician, clinician, pathologist, teacher, diagnostician, bibliophile, historian, classicist, essayist, conversationalist, organiser, manager and author. In short, your average Oxford don.
My mum forwarded me a couple of quotes of his from this week’s Journal of The Danish Medical Association:
Look wise, say nothing, and grunt (on the art of medicine)
Go to bed. Put a hat on the bedpost. Drink whiskey until you see two hats (about the best remedy for the common cold)
He is known for other brilliant pieces of advice:
…listen to your patient, he is telling you the diagnosis.
Remember the abdomen begins at the neck and ends at the knees.
Punctuality is the pure essential of a physician. If invariably on time he will succeed even in the face of professional mediocrity (source).
In addition to my house being steeped in history, I have recently learned that my opposite neighbour is pretty famous, too. Punctuality aside, it is easy to feel mediocre around here - Oxford is a bloody brilliant place to live.