The Four Minute Mile - Kit Villiers

Lots of things happen in May in Oxford. With the university disappearing on its endless Long Vacation in early June, May is the month for summer balls, Eights Week (28th to 31st), exams, and of course the traditional start of spring with May Morning at Magdalen Bridge (see earlier article).

More by way of a one-off occurred at the Iffley Road running track on 6 May 1954. On that windy afternoon, at 6pm to be precise, one R.G. Bannister, running for the Amateur Athletic Association against his old Alma Mater, Oxford University, made history. He became the first person in the world to run a mile in under 4 minutes, achieving the feat in 3.59.4. About 2,000 spectators were at the track that day, although if all those who claim they saw Bannister breasting the tape were speaking the truth, there would have been approximately 10 times that number! I'm almost one of those fibbers. I was actually about one mile away, assiduously doing my 'prep' at New College School in Savile Road when the epic event took place, and heard about it only the next morning.

Why was it such a big deal? Before it was broken, the 4 minute barrier was held in some mystique; some doctors said that the human body just wasn't capable of running so fast. But Bannister (a doctor himself) thought it only a matter of time before someone did it. The Swedes had got awfully close during the wear when not much athletics took place, and now John Landy in Australia and one or two others were threatening too.

So the AAA put together a fantastic team for this normally fairly low key match in Oxford: Chris Brasher (the founder of the London Marathon) would set the pace for the first 2 laps, then Chris Chataway (later the Mo Farah of the day, and an MP)  would take over for the third, leaving Sir Roger to make his bid for life time fame over the fourth, and final, lap. The rest is history.... and Bannister is a household name and will be for the rest of his life for this one achievement, now 60 years in the past.

I suppose Sir Roger is particularly well-known in Oxford: he was an undergraduate at Exeter College, much later Master of Pembroke College and still lives here.  But, judging by my asking a few of our learners at OISE and some other non-Brits, he seems to be almost totally unknown abroad. I suppose this might be because the mile is now a rarely run event, as we've all gone metric now. 1500 metres is the equivalent Olympic distance, and it's quite easy to run that in under 4 minutes - or so I'm told!

On the other hand great crowds showed up at Iffley Road for both the 40 and 50 year anniversaries, and even this year (the sixtieth) the Oxford Mail was reliving the whole event yet again; it also gave great prominence to Sir Roger's recent announcement that he has Alzheimer's and sadly has difficulty in walking. Certainly for English people of a certain age, whether they are runners or not, Bannister is a household name, but perhaps less so for younger people. I read somewhere that Bannister has the unusual distinction of having a road named after him in Oxford while still alive. They've changed the name of the track too.

In fact, despite the fuss, Bannister's world record didn't last long: it was broken by Landy shortly afterwards. But it's still Bannister whom we remember, at least for now. But perhaps when he and his generation are no longer with us, the four minute mile will just fade into history. After all, who nowadays remembers the awesome breaking of the 6 foot barrier in the high jump, which took place in Marston in the 19th century? Answer - almost nobody!

By Kit Villiers

Oxford University - Kit Villiers

Those of you who saw or read about the Boatrace a few weeks ago will be aware of one of the things the University does - as opposed to the individual colleges -  is organise sports teams or crews to take on ancient rivals, Cambridge. Oxford and Cambridge try to beat each other in every sport they can think of, from American Football to darts. Team members must belong to the University in the sense that they must be undertaking a full-time course of study; this means (see previous blog) that they are all members of a college, though they may be graduate students or undergraduates. Apart from studying towards a degree the only other stipulation is that they are within a certain number of years of matriculation.

 

Since the end of National Service and the rise of professionalism in many sports, the general level of team sport in Oxford and Cambridge has relatively declined, but the Rugby team as well as the rowers is still of a high standard, although I couldn't say the same about tiddlywinks or croquet.  In cricket, as mentioned in an earlier article, Oxford has been forced to join up with Brookes in order to maintain its first class status. If you represent Oxford against Cambridge you are a 'blue', and there is a special blues' club called Vincent's in St Edward's St., near OISE.

 

But the main thing that the university does is award degrees. You might say, for example, "I read law at Pembroke (College). I got an upper second and am now B.A. (Oxon)." 'Oxon' is the short form of 'Oxoniensis', i.e. Oxford in Latin. Degrees are awarded in a very formal way in the Sheldonian Theatre in the Broad, usually in the presence of the Chancellor. You have to wear gowns, etc., both to get your degree and to sit the exams. This formal attire, known as 'sub fusc', is also required for matriculation, which is the ceremony all new undergraduates attend in their first term, also in the Sheldonian.

 

Most first degrees at Oxford are three years, although Classics, known as 'Greats' - perhaps the most famous degree course at Oxford - is four years, as is Chemistry. However as school exams have become easier, more and more subjects are finding that four years are now needed to bring students up to the required standard. An example of this is physics which has become a four year course in recent times; undergraduates now have to complete a new first year - mostly in maths - to reach the standard of freshers of earlier years.

 

Generally the Oxford system is that you have only one exam to determine your degree. This is taken at the end of the summer term of your last year. It's called 'Finals' (although in my day it was called 'schools' - shows how traditions even at Oxford can change).  This means that one's course is continuous - you study throughout the three (or four) year course, including vacations. OISE learners are always surprised at how short the Oxford terms are: just 3 eight week terms a year; i.e. the total vacation time  - 28 weeks - is longer than term time - only 24 weeks. But don't be fooled - tutors give undergraduates piles of reading for the vacations, and then test them on the first day of the next term.

 

Although teaching continues to be a college activity by the weekly tutorial, the university does have a lecture programme to support the work of college tutors. These mostly take place in the Examination Schools building in the High, where most people also sit finals. But law lectures for example take place in the Law Library, near New College sportsground.

 

The university also provides facilities that are too big for individual colleges, and to avoid duplication. Science laboratories fall into this category, but of greater interest to a wider public, I suppose, are the world famous Bodleian Library and Oxford University Press (OUP). These are worth separate articles. Finally the university runs several museums, of which the Ashmolean is the best known.

 

So, here is a question: who organised May Morning? The university or the college (Magdalen, for those who failed to read the earlier piece!). Answers on my Twitter account only, please.

By Kit Villiers

Oxford University - the colleges

"At last!  I've found the University!" my learner announced one Monday morning. Since he'd been at OISE at least two weeks by that time, and I knew he'd already visited Harry Potter College (sorry - Christ Church), I was a little puzzled by this opening sally. I thought I'd subtly enquire somewhat further before proceeding with the topic of the day, the Second Conditional.

 

"Congratulations!" I responded. "Er - where exactly did you go?"

 

"Oh, it's a little bit of a walk," he said, pointing vaguely in a northerly direction. "I don't recall the road names, but I was walking around on Saturday, and suddenly discovered all these laboratories and I think there was the University Museum as well."

 

It transpired that in his quest to discover England's most ancient university he had dismissed the whole of the City Centre and the colleges, assuming that 'college' meant the same as in France, i.e. that the colleges were for the education of English schoolchildren, and therefore they could not be anything to do with the university.

 

In fact the 38 or so colleges are an integral part of the University of Oxford. If you've got some good 'A' levels and  want to study, say, English at Oxford, you must apply to a college in order to do so, not the university itself. This is because the great majority of teaching is done at the college level, generally by means of a weekly meeting with your 'tutor' (teacher) who will expect you to have researched and written an essay on a topic he or she gave you at the previous week's 'tutorial' (one to one lesson, usually of one hour). Your essay will be read out by you and criticized by the tutor. Tutors are employed by your college. It's because of the college teaching system that the individual colleges compete in the BBC TV quiz University Challenge, and not Oxford University.

 

To clear up another commonly held misapprehension, the colleges do not specialise in any particular subject: one can 'read' - i.e. study - history, for example at any college, although it is true that certain colleges get a reputation for excellence in something, and this can be self-perpetuating as better students try to get there.

 

Colleges are not just 'dorms', as one learner I taught recently thought. Colleges are self-governing entities. They have their own traditions and, very often, extensive land holdings. St John's College  - where Tony Blair studied - is one of the largest land-owners in the UK, and used to be even richer until the Leasehold Reform Act in the 1960s resulted in much of its holdings in North Oxford being sold to its tenants. The Queen's College owns most of Southampton Docks, or so I heard the other day, and the shops on one side of Cornmarket are owned by Jesus College.

 

Apart from teaching their undergraduates, colleges also provide accommodation and, in their famous dining halls, meals too. They run sports teams, having (mostly) their own sports-grounds and boathouses. All of the colleges are, officially at least,  Anglican; they have a priest or rector (called a Chaplain) and, usually, a beautiful chapel. Music plays a big part in college life; almost every evening in term-time one can attend a concert or chapel service in one college or another.

 

Although it wasn't true for the university's first 800 years, all colleges are now mixed; another fairly recent trend is that there are almost as many post-graduates as undergraduates these days.

 

Even before Harry Potter, Christ Church was the college most visited by tourists. Its links with Eton (a great 'public' school where many leaders of British society were and are educated), its famous Hall where one can see portraits of several Prime Ministers, philosophers and other distinguished old boys, including Lewis Carroll, the creator of Alice in Wonderland, saw to that. Second most popular is Magdalen, the grounds of which extend a full mile back from the famous Tower and Magdalen Bridge, the scene of the May Morning celebrations.

 

And what does that leave for the University to do? That'll have to wait for another time.....

Kit Villiers

May Morning - by Kit Villiers

Would we make it in time? Dawn was approaching, and our punt 'Jemima' was still way upstream of the bridge. Gradually though we became aware of other boats on the same mission: i.e., to get to Magdalen Bridge in time for the 6.00AM rendition of two Latin hymns by the choir of Magdalen College, Oxford.  Going by punt is the traditional way of celebrating May Morning. That may be fine if you are an undergraduate with a college punt moored handily nearby: you and your girlfriend, possibly with another couple or two (punts are supposed to hold 5, but 6 is OK at a pinch) might be able to embark early on May morning, but we had had to punt down from the Upper Cherwell, and had even endured a night in sleeping bags on that little island near the Dragon School in order to get to the ceremony on time.

 

At about 5.55AM the bridge, already thronged with people, loomed up in the early morning mist, and our little flotilla joined dozens of other  boats, the occupants - mostly students in dinner jackets and long dresses fresh from all-night College balls - gazing expectantly skywards. Suddenly the bells on the ancient college tower struck 6.00; the crowd, both those on the bridge and on the water heard the peels loud and clear, and we all fell silent. What followed though was unfortunately a bit of an anti-climax: the words of Hymnus Eucharisticus were rendered almost totally inaudible by the breeze and the distance from the top of the tower to the river beneath.

 

The scene I have tried to describe took place many years ago. I tend to go by bike now - when I wake up in time. We didn't really care about not hearing the music. After all, May Morning is an Oxford tradition. The choir has been climbing Magdalen Tower and singing the same music on 1 May for over 500 years. And in fact you can hear the singing now, as one innovation of recent years seems to be some sort of amplifier system on the tower.

 

Then as now, 10,000 people get up early and struggle down the High St for the ceremony. I suppose it must be in all the tourist literature, because I would say the crowd is about one third University, one third townsfolk like me, and one third visitors, including language students. I recall the last time I went I ended up having breakfast with two Japanese ladies who were in Oxford at some language school or other - I forget which. 

If the hymns were all, I don't think I'd bother to go again. But that's just the start. The bells toll for the next 20 minutes, and the crowd slowly disperses back up the High towards Carfax. The first thing you see is the Morris dancers; most tourists seem to ignore these fine old rustic gentlemen these days, but I rather like the feeling of a tradition largely unchanged through the ages, and that, the Morrismen being largely townies, May Morning provides a nice link between Town and Gown. Passing by the Morrismen - perhaps now there are Morris ladies too - I haven't been recently to check it out - many folk head for breakfast. Lots of coffee houses and restaurants open early, and from what I've seen do a cracking business for most of the morning. It's a really nice scene, and revellers throng the High for hours, the Latin hymns quite forgotten.

 

If you go  - and I recommend it even if you make it only the once - there are two things to remember. Firstly don't jump off Magdalen Bridge - it's dangerous! The Cherwell is not as deep as it looks, and you can break a leg. And secondly, for those learners who live beyond the bridge, you might experience delays as the whole area of St Clement's gets very busy. Having said that, you'll still make it on time for the News Review as the Council and the police have said the bridge is to remain open this year.

Kit Villiers

The Oscar Pistorius Trial - by Kit Villiers

I happened to be in South Africa once during the Apartheid era and saw a cricket match in Capetown - a possible future story in itself - and have been fascinated by the 'Rainbow Nation' ever since. It seems that the legal system is a mixture of Roman-Dutch law - the Dutch were there first of course (not counting the Portuguese who preferred to settle elsewhere) and English law, following the large number of British migrants in the 19th century.

Pretoria where Oscar's trial for the murder of his girl friend Reeva Steenkamp is taking place was once a solidly Dutch (or Afrikaner) city, and even after Mandela and the rise of the (Black) ANC, judging by the people the camera picks up, most of the participants are still white even today. In fact one of the few people in the court who isn't white is the lady judge. It seems she is to decide the case alone without a jury; but for the rest the procedure seems to be very similar to our Crown Court. In particular the system is adversarial - very much so judging by the way the prosecutor is currently attacking the Defendant in the witness box. The judge in contrast remains silent, apparently writing things down all the time. (Actually the last pictures I saw showed two people flanking the judge, so I'm not 100% sure if the lady is really sitting alone.)

I have a college friend who is retired in Cape Town lives in a gated compound. This is because the crime rate is so high. It would seem that Oscar must live in a similar place as most of the witnesses for the prosecution were white, almost entirely Afrikaners. Afrikaans remains one of the official languages of South Africa, but until this trial began I had thought it was on the way out. But amazingly even the police chief in charge of the investigation gave his testimony in Afrikaans and they had to use an interpreter so that the judge could understand! The current exchanges between Nel (the prosecutor) and Pistorius are in English, but it seems clear that both men would be happier speaking in Afrikaans.

Is he guilty? I won't anticipate the verdict, but the whole thing seems distinctly odd, and rather bad for Oscar. Surely one would have checked where one's girlfriend was before firing through the toilet door. Nel also appears to have shown that Oscar is a bit bad-tempered and likes guns.

One thing I remember about the Para-Olympics in London was when Oscar, the hot favourite for one of his track events, was beaten, he was most ungracious and complained about the length of the winner's blades. He rather lost my support then - before that I had thought him rather a good chap, and a good ambassador for disabled sport. Anyway I suppose there will be a re-examination of Pistorius by the Defence lawyer, and some of the damage one by Mr Nel might be reversed. We shall see.

Kit Villiers

Boat Race Aftermath

By OISE Oxford tutor Kit Villiers

It's over for another year, and at least one can say that Oxford won; rather easily too - by 11 lengths. But it was a bit unsatisfactory both for the large victory margin and for the manner of it. 11 lengths reminds me of the one sided contests during my formative years, normally with poor old Oxford trailing in far behind, exhausted and demoralised. The races were so often not proper contests in those days, and therefore can't have been much fun for the public lining the banks of the Tideway.

I suppose it's impossible to know how many spectators there were, or indeed how many there ever are. The BBC estimated 250,000 in London (plus of course countless millions on TV). My impression is that interest continues pretty unflagged, and that crowd figures if anything are increasing. I'm sure this is because the standard is higher with all the internationals on board, but it probably also reflects the fact that we've had so many close and dramatic races in recent years. Oxford's victory by just 1 foot in 2003 is one such example. The 2012 race was shaping up to be another classic when it was interrupted by that rather foolhardy swimmer - but that incident itself gave the event added interest. So let's hope we're not returning to the days of boring processions again.

And so to the clash. In brief, Oxford drew steadily away from Cambridge following an overlap near Harrod's Depository  - well before Hammersmith and only about 5 minutes into the race - where the Light Blues' 2 (that's Cambridge) came into contact with the Dark Blues' 7. Unfortunately the Cambridge man  (a large American, like most of his crewmates) came off worse; he caught a crab - i.e. his oar hit him with terrific force in the chest, knocking him backwards into the lap of bow - and he then missed about 6 strokes. The missed strokes are less important than the fact that catching the crab meant that the boat had to come to a dead halt in order to extract the oar, and Oxford just went clear.

Cambridge's 18 year old cox raised his arm in protest at the finish, but the umpire  - rightly in my opinion - wasn't having any of it, as he'd warned Cambridge to stop boring in on Oxford only a few seconds before. The BBC commentator raised the question as to what might have happened if it had been Oxford in the wrong, claiming that Cambridge's protest might then have had some merit. Theoretically perhaps, but discussing the matter at home we could think of no time when a crew has been disqualified. Of greater interest to me was Cambridge's claim that 2's rigger was damaged in the clash and he couldn't pull properly afterwards. I must say his difficulty wasn't apparent, but perhaps that was just his skill. I suspect that there must be truth in the allegation as I don't think there was really 11 lengths difference between the crews.  Having said that, Oxford had moved out to a half length lead just before the incident and were about to embark on the long Surrey bend in their favour. I note the Oxford President was fulsome in his condolences in the Oxford Mail, and he - an Olympic gold medal winner - was in the best position of all to see what occurred from his position of 5; after all his eyes would always be on his No. 7 from whom he takes his time.  

Well, unlike Oxford, most of Cambridge return for another go next year. But I suspect the 2015 event will be overshadowed by the first ever women's boat race over the full Putney to Mortlake course. Up to now, the Varsity women have raced each other at Henley, far from world media, and have rowed less than half the distance.

And finally to the perennial (but rather hypothetical) question as to how would Oxford Brookes get on in the Boat Race, I can only quote the Brookes student newspaper when I was doing my teaching training there: they might struggle for a year or two, but then they'd give the old universities a very good run for their money.....

/

It's ignored as far as I can see by Lynne Truss in Eats, Shoots and Leaves  - The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation. It has no place in The Economist's Style Guide - The best-selling guide to English usage, and I recall no mention of it in English lessons at school.

 

I'm talking about the oblique/slash. And yet it seems to be coming more and more popular: "Delete one of the following - 'male/female'."  "Do you smoke?'Yes/No'. " Or simply: 'S/he'. One wonders whether the reticence of grammarians and other pedants to deal with this gripping topic is simply due to the vagueness of nomenclature - oblique/slash/forward slash/virgule, etc. Or is it simply that schoolboys might titter at the rudeness of one of these, and so sensitive teachers move swiftly on to less controversial subjects like the French Revolution or what caused the banking crisis.

 

So what does an oblique mean and when can/should it be used? One might conclude from the above examples that '/'  is simply a lazy way of writing 'or' - particularly when the choices are mutually exclusive. How about when the choices are clearly not mutually exclusive, such as "Grand-parents/parents may come with their children to the school open day" or "Help yourself to knives/forks/spoons from the sideboard" (as is now the case in Brown's in the Covered Market now that the waiters have got so idle, although I still pop in for the 'All-day Breakfast' from time to time)? So perhaps it would be incorrect to limit the oblique to the mutually exclusive. It would seem as if one could replace the oblique with either 'or' or 'and' in these examples, with the 'or' being of the non-exclusive variety.

 

Perhaps therefore the oblique has developed into a neat way of writing 'or' (exclusive or inclusive) or 'and', particularly if you're not quite sure yourself. In other words it's deliberately vague. How about 'and/or'? This is an expression much loved by legal draftspersons, the reason apparently being to try to indicate the inclusive 'or': "Would you like sugar and/or milk?" would seem to mean that you can have sugar, milk or both. But surely lawyers (those most popular and useful members of society) who use 'and/or' to try to achieve unambiguity as above fall into the same trap:  if '/' itself can mean 'or' or 'and' then the 'and' and the 'or' of 'and/or' are superfluous/misleading. Confusing/wrong? Answers by 15/4/14 please.

 

Recommended further reading: the last word on this subject is of course the Danish work "Either/or" by the philosopher Kierkegaard. Good/luck!

The Boat Race

By OISE Oxford tutor Kit Villiers

The 160th University Boat Race takes place on the River Thames in London on 6 April. This rowing race is the oldest annual battle between the students of Oxford and Cambridge, and most probably the oldest rowing fixture in the world; it still runs virtually unchanged from 1829 when the first race took place. England's two famous universities try to compete with each other in every conceivable sport these days from dance to darts, but it is the Boat Race which still captures the public's attention with thousands lining the banks of the river and millions more tuned in to the TV coverage.  

Even people who have never been to Oxford or Cambridge shout for their favourite and wave a dark blue flag (Oxford) or a light blue one for 'the other place'.  The two crews have become much more professional over the years. More and more postgraduates, some of them international oarsmen, now appear in the two eights and the standard is high. Last year Oxford in training defeated the German Olympic Eight, and this year they have 3 Olympic medal winners on board. Oxford have 4 Britons, 2 Canadians, 2 New Zealanders and 1 American while Cambridge include 4 Americans and a German who is 6' 8'' (about 2 metres).

But equally important in the Boat Race is the smallest man in the boat - the cox. Because the race is over a long (4 and a half miles) and twisty course with complex tides and currents, a good cox is vital to a crew's success. He's important for safety too. 2 years ago, an Australian protester jumped into the chilly Thames and tried to obstruct the race by swimming out in front; luckily he was spotted and quick action prevented an accident, and probably saved his life too - an eight travels very fast, and of course the oarsmen are facing where they've come from and only the cox had a chance of seeing the danger.

So if you are in London on 6 April, go down to the Thames anywhere between Putney and Mortlake and join in the fun. There are plenty of pubs on the route, so after the crews have sped past you can follow the rest on TV. Don't forget your (dark) blue flag though! Perhaps you'll be lucky enough to see a dead heat - for the first time since 1877!

How about the women, do I hear you ask? Well, about half of the students these days are ladies, and the good news is that, starting from next year, there will be a women's Boat Race too, over the same demanding course.

So, good luck to Oxford: they are slightly behind in the overall series, so need another win to catch up.

China Here we come: Part 3 by Kit Villiers

Oops! There was a clatter of sandy gravel, and John Barrett came sliding past me and on down the hillside. Luckily the run was nearing the end; the bus was parked about 500m away on a dirt road at the bottom of the hill, and when we got John down to road level there was a little shack which, after some misunderstandings involving our regretfully rejecting Mr Wang's fine selection of fireworks and bananas until next time, provided our wounded runner with a soothing cup of tea. Soon the bus turned up, and we bathed the wounds with bottled water, a spot of Savlon, etc. and the incident was soon forgotten, especially once John had sunk his teeth into his first Carlsberg.....

 

That was on the Sunday, our last day in China.

 

The first run had taken place the Saturday afternoon of our arrival and Bob (HSBC) and Roger ( a Kiwi) had set it. Although the terrain round about was mostly flat (and boring) rice paddies, they had decided to set the run directly from the hotel.  As they didn't need our bus, the Sunday run team (Chunder Chan, our only Chinese member) and I, were able to use it to look for a suitable site somewhat further afield for the second run.

 

To some extent I was just a passenger to begin with, as Chunder and the driver settled down to natter in Cantonese as we drove off down the dusty road. Just as I was beginning to think they were talking about the state of the HK stock market or something (China had no stock market then) and forgotten all about the run, I noticed we had reached a rather promising area of partly wooded low hills. It proved to be perfect. Sandy paths led up through attractive country to a series of ponds. The ponds had steep sides, so you had no choice but to run through them. It was about 25c so we thought the harriers would appreciate a little cool down after panting up the hills.  

 

Generally our runs were circular: i.e. ideally they ended up where they started. Otherwise you need transport to get runners back to their bags, etc. In a strange land this can be problematic, especially for those such as me who have little sense of direction, and Chunder if anything had even less. Our other problem was lack of time - we had both to find a runnable trail, but also to mark it for the runners to follow the next day. We went a little beyond the ponds, and saw a road at the bottom of the hill. Despite our being in the most crowded province of the world's biggest (in population) country, we had seen no-one to ask. But we seemed to have come vaguely in a circle, and we thought, well, there aren't many roads in the area - it must surely be the one where we'd left the bus. We decided to go back and mark the trail, dropping blobs of flour as we went.

 

At least we were right in one respect - the bus was on that road; but unfortunately after our brilliant water feature, there was no real path, and the hillside sloped ever more steeply downwards. The trouble is, of course, that one can't exactly pick up flour once you've marked the route. We did eventually emerge, slightly scratched it has to be said, on to the road, and just kept our fingers crossed that the pack would enjoy the scramble too - after all, it wasn't a race, more of an excuse to have a quiet convivial drink. As related earlier, we almost got away with it......

 

You would be forgiven for thinking that the whole weekend could have been almost anywhere: we'd had minimal contact with the locals apart from the very friendly hotel staff. This changed somewhat right at the end of our break: we were to return to Hong Kong by train, and said goodbye to our driver at the station which was heaving with people, mostly staring at us, although whether it was because we were foreigners or because we were heading for freedom, we never found out.

China here we come - Part 2

By OISE Oxford tutor Kit Villiers

We passed up the passengers' breakfast of cold rice, and filed down on to the old wooden dock. After wandering through various cavernous dimly lit warehouses (15 watt bulbs seemed to be the maximum)  which looked as if they'd seen no trade for decades, certainly not since the Communists took over in 1949, we finally saw a few official looking people who wanted to see our passports. I say 'see' rather than 'read' as some of these gentlemen, who all wore the ill-fitting military uniforms so many officials sported in those days, included several for whom reading Latin script was a bit of a challenge. This became apparent even to our half-awake group when some of the oldest (officials, I mean - not our fellows) were spotted scrutinising our documents upside-down. As the minutes passed, our hearts sank: our passports were by now in a large pile, being passed from one official to another in a somewhat aimless fashion not perhaps surprising amongst people who probably would see no other passengers that day, and would get their salary however many or few long nosed foreigners they admitted to the Middle Kingdom.

Eventually we emerged again into the lovely bright sunlight (this was many years before the pollution which ravages much of China today), and were amazed to find that the bus we'd hoped we'd arranged was there and waiting, and that it looked like it had been built in relatively recent times.

We were the Hong Kong Hash House Harriers, then as now an all male drinking club with a running problem. Normally we jogged non-competitively around the trails of Hong Kong of a Monday evening, but once a year or so we went on a foreign jaunt somewhere in S.E Asia. Now, following the death of Mao and the opening up after the Cultural Revolution, it was China's turn. Our plan was to base ourselves on a hotel outside the city and try to find some nice countryside to run in. One of our number had organised all this beforehand - at least the voyage, the bus and hopefully the hotel.  I imagine, even using his Cantonese speaking secretary, he would have needed extreme patience to achieve this, bearing in mind the primitive communications of those days.

Our driver seemed to know where to go, and we trundled off through the back-streets of Canton. I was amazed how dirty it was, and how shabby the people were in their Chairman Mao suits. It did remind me a little of Seoul in the winter 10 years before - ramshackle brick buildings covered in soot, with people staring at our bus, as though they had nothing to do except stand about all day. I looked in vain for anything that might have been a shop or restaurant , or even had a bit of colour.  Eventually MacDougall (another Aussie) spotted something and yelled for the driver to stop. He dashed out and came back laden with fireworks, telling us that there were only two things you could buy in China - fireworks and bananas.

I later found out why the fireworks: outside the city,  China was totally dark; our hotel proved to be a pretty basic affair out in the ricefields, and once it got dark you really couldn't see a thing until MacDougall (who'd remembered to bring matches) set off a rocket or two. Of the hotel itself I recall only the so-called disco. There was a band of sorts, and a sign in Chinese from which even I could see that foreign folk had to pay three times more to go in than locals. We looked in after the fireworks, hoping that we might be able to dance with girls from surrounding villages, but there wasn't a soul. The band played to nobody the whole evening, and looked like it performed this ritual every evening. One was left to ponder the economics of communism....

Next time - we actually get to run in the Chinese countryside. 

China here we come! By Kit Villiers

The ancient passenger liner turned slowly out into the busy waters of North Kowloon, and most of the passengers, clutching their Carlsbergs (the preferred tipple of our club), made their way on to the deck to take a last look at Hong Kong, at least for a couple of days. We were on our way to the ancient city of Canton (now Guangzhou) up the Pearl River. We sailed at 11pm and were due to arrive at dawn the next morning.

We'd already had our first brush with Chinese bureaucracy. While we were alongside we were in Hong Kong territorial waters, and had been paying for our tipple in HK dollars and at (very cheap) HK prices. As soon as we cast off, the girl suddenly charged us about five times as much: "It's a China ship" she explained, "China price now." She also seemed to have some difficulty with what currency to use. We had at that stage never seen renminbi nor did we have any of the Foreign Exchange Certificates which foreign visitors could use in China in those distant days.  US dollars would have done apparently, at a pinch, but not having many greenbacks amongst us either, we finally persuaded her to continue to accept HK money -  or, we said, the little ship's bar would do no more business.

This affair being settled, although not wholly satisfactorily, I leant on the ship's rail in company with Ted Brown, an official with the HK government and 'an old China Hand', watching the junks and sampans still criss-crossing the harbour late at night. We had to be up early and my thoughts were turning towards sleep, but Ted said he thought we'd soon get a spectacular view of the Portuguese colony of Macau. He was right: suddenly to port there was a glow, and soon the lights of the myriad casinos which graced the shoreline came into view. Macau, Ted told me, was already full of gamblers from Hong Kong, who always rushed there after work (it was a Friday night) by fast ferry and gambled non-stop for 48 hours before returning tireder, poorer but not wiser at the end of the weekend.

I don't think any of our group (we were as I recall the only passengers) had ever been to the Mainland. During the Cultural Revolution visits were all but impossible. If you wanted to see China from Hong Kong in those days, you had to go to Robin's Nest in the New Territories, climb a small hill and then if you were lucky you might see a peasant in a distant rice-field; it's amazing to think that those rice-fields have now become Shenzen, a city of (probably at least) 10,000,000 today, crowded with Chinese whose life differs only from Hong Kongers in that they drive on the wrong side of the road...

It's difficult to describe our entrance to Canton the next morning. We had been warned that although Canton was the most advanced city in China, it was light years behind Hong Kong. Well, about 100 years anyway;  then as now, I would put Hong Kong about 10 years ahead of England - they had a new spankingly efficient underground, trucks that beeped when they reversed, fast lifts, free local phones, etc. - but by my calculation that meant there was still about 90 years between South China and the UK.

Looking back I don't know now whether it was the silence (after the bustle of the metropolis we'd left the night before) or the colours which made the greater impression on us all.  We got up to a beautiful October day and the ship was gliding quietly towards what appeared (speaking of impressions) to be an Impressionist painting. Canton harbour seemingly hadn't changed since the 19th century; the early morning sun was shining on what seemed like banks of faded yellowing go-downs (warehouses), with a few orange ones thrown in. Neither ashore nor at sea did there appear to be any movement at all. We were heading for an ancient pier that would I'm sure would have been recognisable to many a 19th century trader plying his trade in tea, gold and drugs. But the tea clippers had long disappeared and instead as we watched we were awed at the sight of a real old fashioned junk creeping down the river under full sail. (Even in those days commercial junks in Hong Kong had for decades been motorised, and the only ones to be seen under sail  were a few made for the tourist trade).

A few sleepy looking shorehands (perhaps the first Communists I'd ever seen, apart from the girl in the bar) were standing by to make fast our mooring ropes, and we'd arrived....

To read more of the thrills and spills of this first weekend in China, watch this space for the next instalment.

By Kit Villiers

The language of the supermarket by Kit Villiers

"Did you want a bag?" the girl at the check-out counter enquires brightly.

 

"Yes, I did," I respond, hopefully equally brightly, but meanwhile wondering whether to add: "Well, it's nice of you to ask.  I did want one last week, but I don't need one today," but rejecting this particular sally knowing the implied sarcasm of her choice of tense would no doubt fall on deaf ears. I'm also a bit afraid that she would only conclude that I was simply another North Oxford toff, or possibly a rather pedantic English teacher.

 

"Have you got a card at all?" is her next question. Now even I know that she's probably referring to some wretched so-called 'loyalty' card which is supposed to persuade the discerning, money-conscious punter to purchase his or her Mother's Pride or original Flora at this particular shop, or one of its identical sisters, for the rest of his or her natural life. But of course, being one of the aforesaid toffs, I take her literally and hunt desperately in my wallet.

 

"Ah, how about this?" I exclaim, fishing out my Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club card. This is quite a useful response, I feel, as it seems to be strictly to the point but distinctly unhelpful; it works even if she has asked whether I have a 'club' card, rather than just a card. The assistant looks at me in a withering fashion, and explains patiently what it is that she wants.  One look at her distinctly unamused face convinces me that a mention of my Priority Club card, the only other remotely relevant one in the said wallet, would go down rather poorly. (Being in the Priority Club gets me about 10p off my dry-cleaning - not perhaps quite the cachet of the Hong Kong card). Finally I'm forced to admit I have no card - at least not the one she seems to be looking for.

 

I'm also tempted  to take her up on the 'at all'. But from past experience I decide not to go too heavy on this one. On an earlier occasion I tried: "Well, I think I might be able to lay my hands on part of a card, but I seem to have left it at home." This was also received with a blank look, and now as an alternative I just say "Sorry, not at all" - and receive an equally blank look for what I consider has been a genuine attempt to help her get the question right next time.

 

But of course she wins in the end. When she's finished whacking the till, she asks: "And did you need help packing, love?" I am naturally really hurt at the implication that I've become an old dodderer. The impression  I have been trying to get across is of an admittedly slightly mature shopper, but one still capable of stepping pretty smartly up and down the aisles when the occasion demands. I try not to show my dismay.

 

"Well, perhaps I could manage to load these sugar-free Polos on my own,  but if you could help me with the Vim, etc., it would be much appreciated."  Once more, she's not amused. Where do they get their staff from these days?

Kit Villiers

Cricket in the Parks

I don't know if my fellow one-to-one teachers have had this experience, but on more than one occasion a learner has said to me brightly at the start of a lesson "Can you tell me about cricket today please? Is it true that it really lasts 5 days?". He (it's usually a 'he', but not always) then settles back for an easy 'listening' lesson, knowing that there is no short way to explain this somewhat bizarre game. This is especially so when the learner comes from a country where there is no 'summer' game such as baseball where at least you have some sort of concept of batting and scoring runs.

These thoughts came to mind with the arrival in the post today of this year's cricket programme for Oxford University, whose home ground is the University Parks, just off the Banbury Road in North Oxford for those who don't know. I don't really recall now why I'm a member of the OU Cricket Club: after all it's pretty easy to see a match - there's no charge whether you're a member or not. The only advantage is that you can almost always sit down as you have the right to sit in the pavilion. This also means you can keep out of the rain - but they don't play when it rains anyway, so that's perhaps a limited advantage.

I'm not going to explain the rules here, except to say a match involves two teams of eleven players, who wear white shirts and long white trousers, and that while it can last 5 days, 3 is more common, and even 1 for a 'limited' overs' match.

Sport in the UK has become much more professional over the years with both rugby and cricket going this way in relatively recent times, and this has had an effect on the fixture list in the Parks. Oxford and Cambridge, dating back to 'Chariots of Fire' times, used to provide many of Britain's top sportsmen; and indeed with the public schools some might say they were the bastion of the 'true' amateur spirit in sport. Oxford used to play almost entirely 'first class cricket', i.e. against the County teams, but a few years ago the combination of professionalism in their opponents and university tutors hesitant about allowing their students 3 days off just to play sport caused a decline in competitiveness in these matches; so much so that the cricket authorities decreed that unless Oxford agreed to field a combined team with neighbours Oxford Brookes University it would lose its first class status. This merger now has now taken place, and although team lists are not normally available at the ground these days, enquiries reveal that around 9 of the 11 players in a typical match today are Brookes men - 'not quite cricket' the purists might say.

So, what should we tell our students? The easiest thing, rather than getting bogged down in explanations of 'leg before wicket' or 'silly mid off' is to point them in the direction of the Parks and tell them that this season there are a couple of early season first class (3 day) matches: 1 - 3 April against Nottinghamshire and 7 - 9 April against Warwickshire. If they ask how the England team is doing these days, tactfully change the subject, pointing out that we're doing the second conditional today.

The Cutteslowe Walls

By OISE Oxford tutor Kit Villiers

We're sometimes told that we're moving towards a classless society. That might be true in Britain today, but it certainly wasn't a little earlier in my lifetime, if events in north Oxford in the 1950s are anything to go by. In 1934, at the instigation of a developer of private housing nearby, high and forbidding walls were erected between the new development and a City Council housing estate which bordered it to the east. Apparently the developer thought that having 'slums' next door would adversely affect his sales! Amazingly the walls remained in place right up to 1959 (long after the houses on the 'middle-class' side of the barrier were sold), when the City Council finally removed them.

Where are we talking about? Going north from the Summertown shops you pass first Wentworth Road and then Carlton Road on the right, shortly before you reach the Cutteslowe Roundabout. These two are the 'fancy' streets named by the developer; but proceed down either of them and you'll be surprised to note that for little apparent reason the street names suddenly change, before you get to the junction with Jackson Road. Wentworth becomes Aldrich, and Carlton becomes Wolsey. 2 metre high brick walls used to block these roads completely, preventing even pedestrian passage to the other side.

As a child, the walls were a great mystery to me. There were rumours of the most awful folk living on the other side: they had crew-cuts, were armed with bicycle chains and - most intriguingly - wore something called 'drain-pipe' trousers. And that was just the women!  Or possibly the men - we never knowingly met any of the denizens of the sealed off estate, so we didn't really know. Of course the key word here is 'knowingly'. I'm sure we mingled perfectly happily without realising it. After all, the estate was not prison; one obvious way in (and out) was along the A40, as not even the snobbiest developer was able to build a wall across that.

Our family (and doubtless many others) were forced to use this route, as one of the anomalies of the situation was that the only primary school in the area was on the 'wrong' side of the wall, and children such as my brother had to walk down the busy A40 just to get to Cutteslowe Primary School each morning, usually accompanied by one of my parents.

The walls were notorious, and tourists came from miles around to see them. They proved very hard to get rid of. A tank knocked down one in the war, but it was rebuilt. Finally the council had to buy the land they were built on, and knocked them down in September 1959. They would have liked to have changed the street names too, but this was a step too far.

So, if you are interested, stroll down Carlton Road one day and see if you can still see any change. Actually there is a plaque there now, put up by the Blue Plaque Society. This was done as recently as 2006, showing how interest in this bit of rather unfortunate bit of Oxford's local history still continues.

Man in the Kitchen - Part 2

By OISE Oxford Tutor Kit Villiers

By last Sunday I'd finally run out of excuses. It had been a full 6 months since I did my cookery course in July 2013; OK, I had been able to play various cards - the wounded cook (a cut finger), sheer exhaustion brought on by the course, and far more competent cooks being around - to stave off the inevitable , but on January 19th a combination of factors condemned me to at least one more bout with the pots and pans.

It was my sister's birthday. She and her husband would be visiting from Surrey, and it seemed a bit tough on her to have to spend the day slaving over a hot stove. She also gently reminded me that it had been her idea for me to do the course, and that she felt after all this time perhaps it was time that she got (so to speak) her pound of flesh.

'We' -that is they - decided that I would have a shot at 'Sausage and Fennel Seed Ragu', one of the four menus I'd grappled (not entirely successfully with last July, as it appeared to consist of four simple steps. One step not mentioned was how to obtain the simple ingredients. On the course the coach/trainer had prepared little trays in advance for d each of us (unwilling in some cases) participants. '3 garlic cloves, crushed' and 'pinch chilli flakes' proved tricky as of course I had little idea what they were or where to get them, but after some searching I finally assembled everything - except the fennel seeds themselves. My suggestion that we should cancel the whole thing and send out for fish and chips instead through the lack of this essential ingredient was regrettably turned down out of hand, and I was shown where our kitchen was and unceremoniously dumped there.

The first issue was cutting up the onion. I reflected in passing that cookery seemed to involve amongst other things mastering a whole new set of verbs. Here was the first one - the onion had to be 'finely diced'. My niece said she'd kindly help, at least to set me on my way. "It means cutting it up into small bits" she opined. "Surely your instructor taught you how to do that?" We both tackled the thing, and after frequent rests to recover from streaming eyes were faced with another baffling verb: the onion had to be 'sweated' until translucent. "That means 'cooked' my niece (now realising that little would be accomplished unless she stood guard) patiently explained - "in the frying pan".

I was starting to feel the pace a bit by now, and we'd only done step one; luckily even I was able to follow step two which basically said throw in all the other ingredients, and step three which said cook the tinned tomato for an hour. I had more trouble with the last step which required the aspiring (perhaps that should be perspiring) chef to fry the sausage meat until golden brown. I'm a bit colour-blind, but my meat never really attained this hue, and despite the cries of rather exaggerated rapture which greeted my effort I warned the party that perhaps they should temper their praise until they'd slept on it...

And the last verb? 'Season'. I thought it referred to the time of year, but apparently it means you can add salt and pepper to taste. Even I could manage that.

More on cars and the police

By OISE Oxford Tutor Kit Villiers

You may recall my recent account of falling foul of the Royal Hong Kong Police regarding a 'stolen' car.

I once had a potentially far more serious incident. It was when I was working in Oman, in Salalah to be precise. Salalah was in the process of rapid modernisation, and as part of this the old sand tracks were being paved and converted into a modern highway network. One of the major players in this process was Taylor-Woodrow, who had a large expatriate workforce in this ancient Arab town. As there was little to do of an evening, films were shown in their clubhouse to which anybody could go for the price of a ticket.

One night, after seeing 'Lawrence of Arabia', I think it was, I drove off down towards the main road on my way home. This road had recently been paved, although it had no street or traffic lights. As usual I paused on reaching this new road. A couple of cars went by, and, although I could see the lights of a third car in the distance, it seemed to me perfectly safe to proceed. I edged out on to the tarmac, turned right (i.e. I didn't need to cross the road) and was just accelerating when the the car in front stopped and a soldier got out and ran towards me."That's the Sultan's car behind you, didn't you realise?" "Er- sorry - no," I stammered. "You are to report to the Chief of Police in the morning," he ordered, stalking off.

As you can imagine, I didn't sleep well that night, wondering what dire punishment lay in store. As I wasn't that enamoured with the job, the ideal punishment would have been banishment - i.e. a flight back to England remaining on full pay, but I realised this solution was a little optimistic.

Somewhat full of trepidation, I showed up at the police station at 8am the next day. To make matters worse, I thought a spot of flu was coming on. I was shown into the Salalah police chief's office. By then I was sniffing away, and I think the constable must have thought I was about to have a breakdown and grovel for mercy on the floor. It seemed a long wait for the boss...

Finally the chief strode in. To this day I'm not really sure how well briefed he was about the previous evening's incident, but very fortunately he said that as the cells were a little full I could just sit in his office. I was also able to ring my office and explain my predicament, and get someone to bring an aspirin too.

After a bit, boredom gradually replaced apprehension, and I was beginning to look around for something to read when the chief re-appeared. "You're lucky, the Sultan's just flown back to Muscat. So off you go!"

Phew! another lucky escape! 

Fair cop, Gov! By Kit Villiers

It must have been sometime on that well-remembered Sunday that Mr K.K. Wong of Realty Gardens, 41A Conduit Road, telephoned Central Police Station to report that his car was missing, presumed stolen.

A couple of miles away and at about the same time I was also beginning to get somewhat worried: well, I thought, there's not much I can do about it now. I resolved to check with Tony's secretary next morning, and, if what I was beginning to suspect was true, I could quickly inform the police too.

Basically what had happened was that my boss at the time, Tony Grant, had kindly lent me his car while he was on holiday. He had handed over a set of Morris keys and said that his car was parked in the basement car-park at Realty Gardens. The Saturday after his departure I duly pitched up at his block of flats and found a Morris in the basement, and drove off. As I saw no other British car and the keys fitted, at first I never thought any more about it. A little nervous about driving with all those hills and the heavy traffic, I didn't in fact use the car at all after I'd got it over to my flat.

What had caused slight alarm was the fact that there was a child seat in the back. Tony had no young children.

I dashed into work early that Monday, and Tony's secretary rang the maid in Tony's flat. She went down to the basement, and confirmed my fears: his car was still there! I don't know if you have ever reported a crime to the police. It seems that the police (the Royal Hong Kong Police at any rate appeared at that time to fall into this category) are ill-equipped to deal with criminals confessing to their misdemeanours; their system could handle only calls from victims. 'Has your car been stolen?' the officer kept asking. 'No', I kept replying, 'I am the the thief!'

Having finally established the fact that I was the perpetrator of the dastardly deed, I was summoned to appear at Central Police Station the next morning. I had of course returned the the car in the meantime. Sub-Inspector Chan (who looked about 18) sat Mr Wong and me down together and made what I thought was a pretty sensible decision: if Mr Wong didn't complain of misuse of his property while in my possession within the next 24 hours I could regard the matter as closed. She asked me to hand over a few dollars for the petrol I'd used, and then I was dismissed. Luckily I heard nothing further.

And what had caused this (take your pick) confusion/mistake/crime? Well the fact is I didn't realise that Realty Gardens has two car-parks. When I made off with Mr Wong's car from Basement A, Tony's car was lurking all the time in Basement B, just beneath my feet. I guess I'll know next time!

By Kit Villiers

Angkor Wat Half Marathon

By OISE Oxford tutor Kit Villiers

Was that an elephant I see before me? I had reached about the 20k mark when I noticed that there was a slight delay ahead; a couple, possibly French, who had just passed me, were slowing right down, together with about 3 other runners ahead. We were near the back of the field, and I supposed that the course had been re-opened to traffic: sure enough, a mini-bus was trying to get through the narrow gate of one of the lesser temples which surround Angkor Wat, and which the course seemed to be taking us through. Slightly irritated, the 6 of us paused as it squeezed past, but then, hard behind the bus was an elephant; nobody seemed to be riding it, and as far as I knew it might have been a wild one fresh out of the surrounding jungle. Anyway we were still on the narrow causeway inside the temple so there was little choice but to run on and hope one wasn't scooped up in its trunk or, in the alternative, crushed under its large feet. Well, we survived, slightly startled but intact, and shuffled on towards the finish, all of us no doubt reflecting that we had one more  'animal encounter'  story to add to our respective collections. There were lots of monkeys too....

I was in Cambodia for the Angkor Wat half Marathon, the 18th running of which was on Sunday 1 December. It seemed a great idea when we conceived it a few months ago - seeing a new country, experiencing an exotic tropical location, and joining one of the most international fields you could imagine sounded like fun too. My mate Steve had suggested that we fly out the Friday before the race,  meaning we could have the pleasure of working the whole week beforehand(!?)  Steve then pulled out, leaving me (with great assistance from Jo) to battle on with the arrangements alone.

The issues with flying in to a strange country with a race to run the next morning became apparent even before I left England, and I more than once soundly cursed Steve for his somewhat optimistic last-minutism.  I was going to arrive at Siem Reap (the airport for Angkor Wat) too late to register. You had to collect your racepack the night before, before 8pm. I didn't land until 8.20pm, and then needed to get my visa and find my hotel. After a mad flurry of emails to the organisers and my hotel beforehand, luckily the hotel had come up trumps and for the cost of a return taxi fare, they sent some unfortunate minion to register on my behalf. You can imagine the sigh of relief when they handed my number and chip over when I checked in, and without demur I handed over the $12 they requested for the minion's time and trouble.

The start being at 6.30am and not having a clue where to go or how I was going to go to wherever it was,  the next thing was to get a really early morning call organised, and I plumped for 4.30am. I'd also worried in the plane as to what I could eat or drink before the start, as I was clearly going to be too early for the hotel breakfast, and I presumed tap-water would definitely be out. Fortunately in the room there were two complimentary bananas and two bottles of water. So what this nourishing fare  together with half a Yorkie bar left over from Heathrow I hoped I had just enough inside me to get at least to the first water station. In the event getting to the race proved no problem as the lobby soon filled with runners of all descriptions, and all the tuk tuk drivers had clearly got up early too so there was plenty of transport.

Apart from a slightly messy start, which might have been caused by the semi-darkness and the fact that there were other races to set off (including, this being Cambodia, divisions for amputees as well as the more normal wheelchairs),  I really enjoyed the race. The temperature naturally climbed as the sun rose, but it never got too hot nor too humid. Even so, jet lag and lack of fitness told in the later stages, although I finished in one piece, sharing a tuk tuk back to the hotel with an Australian girl who just pipped me at the end.

Would I do it again? Certainly! Although I didn't see it in the dark, to start at Angkor itself could hardly be more exotic. Later on we passed innumerable other temples and runners would dash over and get a picture before carrying on through the treelined course, telling their friends back in the US, or wherever, all about it on their devices....Very friendly, and worth the trip. My hotel even kept its buffet breakfast going for the less talented runners (e.g. me) and the beers are cheap in Cambodia too!

Horse Chestnuts for the Chop

By Kit Villiers, OISE Oxford tutor and Chairman of the Friends of Cutteslowe and Sunnymead Park.

Another of England's classic trees is under threat. The horse chestnut, better known to hordes of English schoolboys down the ages as the conker tree, has developed a deadly disease. Will it go the same way as the elm, which has virtually disappeared from our countryside?

Cutteslowe Park, Oxford's largest public park, has over 100 of these beautiful trees, many of them in three large avenues. Some trees are more badly infected than others, so one possibility that has been put forward is to remove the worst ones and replace them. However, at a well attended AGM recently, the Friends of Cutteslowe and Sunnymead Park were told that the problem with that solution is that new trees find it hard to get established against existing ones. The Council's tree officers therefore would prefer to fell a whole avenue at a time, and replace the chestnuts with something else. The denuding effect of this suggestion appalled some worthy locals in the audience, who in a questionnaire generally inclined to the view that if filling the gaps was not acceptable, at least we should spread out the felling as long as possible, perhaps over nine years. It was also suggested that after the first avenue has gone, we should take stock of the situation before demolishing any more. Unfortunately it would appear that all the chestnuts will go in time. The Council can't take the risk of a diseased limb falling and injuring someone - a distinct possibility in this very popular park - so they are not keen on delaying the felling and replacement process too long.

Luckily the news isn't all bad. There are 119 chestnuts altogether, 69 of which are in the three avenues, but this is out of a total of 1,711 trees in the Park as a whole. Also we can be quite imaginative in what replaces them. Here we have some choices, and nothing has been definitely decided. Should we retain the avenues with one species? Or perhaps a different type for each avenue, or even alternating types within the avenues? One possible replacement which has been suggested is liquid ambers. We've got one at home, and it looks lovely in the autumn, so I'll be supporting that as at least one replacement possibility. Let either Oxford City Council or the Friends of Cutteslowe and sunnymead Park know if you've got other ideas.

The other mitigating factor is that replacement saplings are likely to be be at least two metres tall even when first planted, so hopefully the Park won't look totally bare even if a whole avenue is taken out at a time.

What I want to know is what will schoolchildren do for conkers when all the conker trees disappear?

Man in the Kitchen - by Kit Villiers

Phew! Give me teaching any day! Cooking? I never realised what hard work it is. Following a day's cookery course at Denman College last week, I crawled back to Oxford determined never to enter the kitchen again except perhaps to select 2 slices of Mother's Pride and casually flick down the lever of our old trusted toaster, spreading the result with thick butter and having no greater decision to make except whether to slap on Marmite or jam.

I had been enrolled on the course as a birthday present some months ago, and as the day got nearer I got more and more apprehensive.  Surely I wouldn't need all these freezer blocks, food bags and plastic boxes to take home the result of my efforts. It was more likely that anything I produced would immediately be binned or possibly put down as a new kind of rat-poison.

I was somewhat reassured by the olde world appearance of the college, and by the low-key coffee reception where I took the precaution of eating an extra cake in advance of my now imminent failures in the kitchen, and finally by the fairly unforbidding appearance of my 5 fellow "students"  - all of whom seem to have been dragooned into attending by their wives. Soon the cook/trainer/coach arrived and I marched off after the others through the lovely grounds to a large block, part of which was an enormous kitchen.

I thought I was fairly fit, but I found being on my feet all day, cutting, slicing, trying to figure out how to turn the gas on, not to mention endlessly washing up, totally exhausting. We all had our own cooking range, but I was constantly sneaking a look at my rivals trying to ensure I wasn't last or to see I was doing it right (mostly not). There was quite an incentive to get the stir-fry chicken right as we were going to eat our own concoctions for lunch. Actually despite everything even mine was pretty tasty. We must have been a pretty poor class though - the instructions said we were going for a nice walk around the grounds after lunch, but instead we found oursevelves slaving away over our respective hot stoves again almost immediately.

The day ended with cake in the lounge - fortunately not made by us - and a chance to get our breaths back.

For the record I took home: sausage and fennel seed ragu
coq au vin (with apologies to Delia Smith)
keralan prawn curry
one minor flesh wound