Institutional dining halls have not treated me well with respect to fish and chips (Oxford University seemed to see this meal consistently as an ironic art piece more than sustenance, such as here, and here). But, the catering company at UniBrum treats this as if it is what it is: the National Dish. Yum yum! I had this two days in a row and would’ve made it 3 save for the fact that it was the weekend by then.
Leaving drinks…what a fucking nightmare, especially when you are leaving the job to get away from one or more of your cherished colleagues. So, I looked to my former colleagues (many of whom cut short their academic careers to escape the same sociopath for whose sake I am taking my leave). Some, closer to London, were keen to meet up but that would require the homeward commute THEN making my way back to the house.
In Oxford, that left Helena as the sole soul that could help me wipe that turd off my soles (or soul … 6 of one, half-dozen of the other). If I left anyone out that meets the criterium (I refuse to drink with anyone that drinks with Joe), my humble apologies.
We made a start at 1855 Wine Bar, and I took minimal ribbing for it being so outrageously posh (I’ve run out of dives not already on the map) and, despite the hewn timber all around, expensive. I bought the round here, a very nice Italian bottle.
We compartmentalized the conversation into My New Job, current group members we both know, group members from the past (and, as we eventually concluded, the human race), running, canoeing, the ills of aging parents (hers and Jackie’s as mine, we established long ago, are happily burning in hell), and our plans for the future despite our future being so obviously finite — at least, we both seem to see the little light we are all eventually absorbed into starting to increase in diameter.
We caught the end of Wine O’Clock (25% off, so about what the plonk should cost) for another glass apiece, then went toward Vine which is closer to her house and my bus stop and which was closed when we arrived. Shit. Second bottle and some chips at the Cowley Retreat and we were able to maintain a vigourous chat right up to the moment I realised I had to sprint to make the last coach home. Success!
Although there is still a lot of Oxford shit scattered around the half of my and my colleague’s space, the Office Tavern is almost entirely de-Bunny’ed. The hand coloured picture of the missus circa 1986; the beaver skull harvested from a dangerously ill planned canoe trip down the swollen Broad River with dear, old Deb in the mid-90’s; and, the framed photo of the old AMOLF building (the screwiest part of the leaving gift package from my first post-doc position) were packed for home and replaced with a bottle of nectar from Canada. I hate to call something this grand “Canadian,” but it can’t, for reasons of regional protectionism, be labelled bourbon.
I doubt I will share this one with anyone who visits The Tavern in its (and my) final two weeks here. Aged in Jamaican rum barrels for ten years, it really takes on vanilla and molasses notes without a hint of the bite that usually takes another two years to beat down.
I hope that after ten years of being beaten down here in my own alien container, I am even half as mellow as this.
Everyone has one. For me, it is probably a runny Camembert. But, this poor man, emailing to the entire department, seemed distraught:
Sent: 28 November 2018 12:46
To: CRL
Subject: missing cheese
I would like to report a theft of cheese from the fridge in the first floor tea room.
Having left the cheese in the fridge overnight, I returned the next day to find only a morsel remaining, with distinct bite marks indicating the culprit bit directly from the block.
To rub salt in the wound, the cheese was Port Salut, my favourite mild lunch time cheese. I hope this doesn’t happen again.
Cheers,
Rob Szp—
I don’t know Rob. I think this might be what he looks like:
Previously mentioned here and here, this is the official announcement of the members-only pop-up pub conveniently located at my desk. So far it’s just a whisk(e)y bar…oh, show us the way….
Picked up some Buffalo Trace on my way home yesterday, had a couple of snifters, poured up a small flask to keep there, and brought the rest to help stock The Office Tavern.
The device is a quadrupole from an X700 triple quad sent to the skip in Tucson ten years ago. Learning aid and cudgel in equal proportions (either description serves for education and for punitive violence, in equal proportions).
Seven weeks to the day until I will have completed my 3 month notice at work and I have about 2 weeks worth of work to fill the time. It seems the stench of death is on me and no one will acknowledge my existence unless my replacement has bollocksed up a repair that I wasn’t notified was required. If I hadn’t already paid for my bus ticket until the end I probably would just stay in London (no, not call in sick, just not show up: if I get fired for anything less than gross misconduct, Oxford would have to pay me severance several times the remaining wages, so the risk is minimal).
People still come by to chat about personal things and even about mass spectrometry (about which I am surprisingly knowledgeable); no one in the research groups I still watch over, mind you, but I get a couple of visitors per week. I feel like, as their host, I should provide a refreshing beverage.
To that end, I stopped by the Tesco Metro on my way in this morning to add a bottle of bourbon to my nearly empty desk drawer but all they had on the shelf was their store brand and Jim Beam; I had hoped for something nice, like the Bulleit sitting on the bar in my home office, but it was not to be.
Instead, I went for an entry-level single malt. Jura Journey isn’t especially challenging but the office isn’t exactly a posh, clubby atmosphere. A glycobiologist I’ve known for the last 6 years (half the age of the whisky) stopped by and we had the first few drams finding it serviceable, lightly smoky, and just what he needed ahead of a meeting with his supervisor and a lecture.
Endless British Pub Crawl (Part 3) 