The matador was suddenly knocked to the floor. He rolled desperately between the bull’s horns and hooves and the banderilleros returned, urgently trying to distract the bull. It reluctantly moved away from the helpless target and stood frustrated, dazzled by the return of three forgotten capes.
The matador stood. He had lost one of his shoes. It was small and dainty, for dancing.
Early Writing: Oxford
I found myself sitting in ‘Oxford’s Oldest Coffee Shop’ clasping a mug of strong coffee closely. The rather nasal voice of a flustered young student, about 20, resonated between my ears as she elaborated on the lack of reading she had done for a certain course to two companions. They nodded intermittently, blank looks on their faces. The caffeine’s effect slowly began to awaken my slumbering brain, the girl’s metal chair legs grated against the floor, she leapt up and hastily shouldered her way though the glass doors, half a dozen books balanced against her chest. “Whether I’ll actually be at the lecture later remains to be seeeen…” Monday morning in Oxford.
We walked beyond many of Oxford University’s colleges to Magdalen, one of the wealthiest, which has extensive grounds including a deer park along the river Cherwell. It is an ancient establishment set upon rugged, yet tranquilly green surroundings, dating back to the 15th century. The stone from which the buildings are built is common to much of the old architecture in the city – centuries have turned it beige with shades of darkened and rich colour that evoke a sense of weather-beaten and enduring grandeur. I found these aged exteriors with their smoky chiaroscuro strikingly attractive. ‘The Hall’, where Magdalen’s scholars are fed daily is an immaculate and well-organised room of dark wood panels, long tables and dim lamps, under which tomorrow’s ladies and gentlemen sup in sophistication. Continue reading Early Writing: Oxford>>
