London, GB | Formerly of New York, Buenos Aires, Fife, and the Western Cape. | Saoránach d’Éirinn.

A Ramble Down St Andrews Way

“Thank God for beautiful Scottish girls in pretty summer dresses, for if we cannot give thanks for this we have become more hard-hearted than Pharoah.” – Ezra Pierce

Part the First: On St Andrews, Oxford, and Leisure

The past few days have been nice and relaxing, which, come to think of it, are what most St Andrews days are like. I think Josef Pieper would thoroughly prefer the University of St Andrews to the University of Oxford. We are an institution which makes leisure – the basis of culture – possible. Truthfully speaking, Oxford students are so laden with work that they actually do in one week what St Andrews do in an entire semester. As a result, they are stressed out of their minds and worked to an extreme. This situation ideally suits Ezra Pierce, formerly of St Andrews and now a first-year at Hertford College Oxford, who has been up here in town visiting for a few days, sleeping on the sofa in our living room.

For me, therein lies the attraction of the Universitas doctorum magistrorum et scholarum Sancti Andreae apud Scotus: free time in which you are allowed to develop yourself, or not to develop at all, or even to devolve. I may be taking classes titled ‘France Since 1940: Politics, Culture, and Society’ and ‘Art and Piety in Western Europe 1400-1700’ but I have ample time to delve into subjects more akin to my interests; Graf von Stauffenberg, the architectural works of Lorimer, the humour of P.J. O’Rourke, or the holiness of Pier Giorgio Frassati. I have always prefered self-learning to formal instruction, and I wish that it was not until my third year here before I realized I have more free time now than I ever will in my entire life.

So I do as I please. I go for leisurely strolls down the West Sands. I read random books about architecture or history or religion or whatnot in the University Library. I muse upon the architecture of St Salvator’s Chapel. I mourn the withered ruins of our once-great cathedral. I run something which can approximately be described as a newspaper. I have pints of John Smith’s in the Central or the Russell, or a Leffe in the Cellar Bar. I discuss. I go to balls. I read the paper. This and that. Were I at Oxford I would have to read and write and read and write and read and so on and so forth. What a terrible bore! Though I pine to return to the motherland, I much prefer the leafy, lacsidaisical approach to academia which I live out at St Andrews than all that work nonsense they make you do at Oxford.

That said, some part of me (say, my thumb, or perhaps my epiglottis) admires those who, both here and at Oxford, actually work very hard and get very good grades and all that jazz. David Taylor got a twenty on his dissertation. A twenty! Out of twenty! I mean, you’ve got to give a guy credit for that, especially when he’s an affable chap with a decent personality instead of some spoilsport who spends all his time in the library. I sometimes try to start arguments with him over various topics when my cook has him over for tea, but as much as I try to be approbrious to him for his ridiculous Guardian-influenced views we actually get along quite well.

Part the Second: On the merits of Miss Jennings

Speaking of my cook, there are two folks to whom I owe a lot to over the span of my university career, one of whom is my cook, Jocelyn, and the other is my secretary, Miss Jennings (or Personal Assitant to the Editor, as she is officially styled). Miss Jennings is simply amazing. Presented with any Cusackian crisis she faithfully answers the call of duty. Miss Jennings, I need a cell phone. Miss Jennings, I want to have lunch with Tom Leppard sometime next week. Miss Jennings, we need to give disapproving looks to local townsfolk. Miss Jennings, remind me I have a club dinner in the Golf Hotel on Friday. Miss Jennings, how do I get this or that, etc., etc., etc. Without her help, I would not have been able to organise my various responsibilities so that I still am able to spend half my time doing nothing in particular.

Eventually, I was convinced I needed to scale back some of said responsibilites and have done so accordingly. This freed up time for Miss Jennings to persue interests of her own (which are myriad). Nonetheless, we all need a little break sometime, and Miss Jennings has decided that she will not be finishing the semester, but will return in the fall. If anyone deserves a break it’s Miss Jennings!

In the spirit of appreciation and celebration, a good number of us gathered at the bar of the Byre Theatre last night to kick back a few in honour of this great young lady. I consumed an appreciable amount of Budvar myself, while White Russians seemed to be de rigeur for most of the ladyfolk. And best of all, since this coming Wednesday is my twenty-first, Miss Jennings conferred upon me a wonderful little gift: a coffee mug marked “His Lordship”.

Part the Third: The Evening Previous

Began with the Opus Dei talk at Canmore; a very plain-speaking guy named Jim McFie who lives in Glasgow. (Sr. Roseanne Reddy is coming back after the break, Stefano informs me). Then back home, where one of my flatmates was hosting a Chapel Choir party (pajama-themed). I changed garb to jacket and tie and headed over to the Officers Mess at Wyverne (cheapest pint in town) to enjoy a few Grolschs with Chris C., Matt Normington, and George Irwin, and to discuss affairs of varying importance. Midnight closing time we headed to George Irwin’s flat (No. 14 in my building), played some poker, lost £3, headed down to my flat around 1:00 after having a brief conversation in the hallway with George’s neighbour Tamsin who’s a friend of Piers Thompson.

I have, of late, also noticed the presence of a canine in our beloved Southgait Hall; a West Highland Terrier by the name of Molly. Has she been here the whole time and I’ve just never run into her? Perhaps. Nonetheless, I held the door open for her when she returned from an evening promenade this very evening and she growled at me! Ah well. They say you should never let the sun go down with an argument unresolved. I disagree. I find that by the time I wake up the next morning, I couldn’t give a steeplejack’s penknife for any disputes from the day before.

Published at 3:47 pm on Friday 25 March 2005. Categories: Journal People St Andrews.
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