Take a peak....Extracts from
Imagine Oxford edited by Jackie Vickers
The city clocks began to chime. It took a full five minutes before they were all finished. ‘Twelve o’ clock!’ the stranger said. ‘A very
interesting time. Oxford can never make up its mind when it is.’
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Thomas Madison Browning had long intended to give up smoking, but women, – or rather one woman – was making it impossible. Every Friday, after filing papers in his briefcase, he would stroll out to savour the two loves of his life: Cohiba Exquisito cigars and the woman who sold them.
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The entrance to University College was unremarkable, as was the quad immediately inside, but there was an interesting door in the corner that
led to a domed room, stars painted above, an elaborate plinth below, and an astonishing white marble figure of a naked man lying on his side, head thrown back, mouth open, vulnerable. There was something voyeuristic, disturbing, as if I was watching the dying gasps of this drowning man, his agony frozen in time.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Born Aug 4th 1792
Died July 8th 1822
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Overhead, the clear Oxford skies were masked by a canopy of lush green foliage. It was hard to believe that the Botanic Garden was only metres away from the bustle of the High Street with its traffic and roadworks. But even in here, she couldn’t escape. The voice of the man on the television came back to her: ‘We will always remember her sparkling green eyes and her beautiful smile.’
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‘Media studies’ replied Mildred. She hoped Joyce wouldn’t ask her what that meant because she didn’t know herself.
‘That sounds awfully modern.’
‘It is. And Brookes has one of the best courses in the country.
Hundred of candidates apply, but they only take the cream.’ Mildred knew she sounded smug but couldn’t help it. ‘And lots of good jobs afterwards’ she added. Whatever it was, she was certain there were better prospects in media studies than in Byzantine art.
....................................................
The gargoyles that infested the buildings of Oxford were spreading, peering down from the roof tops and pulling faces. But they were the
old ones. Too old to do her any harm. Their powers eroded. But now new young ones had started creeping limpet-like down the buildings and were peeping into windows, watching her. They had started breeding, adapting and changing. What would they do when they reached the
ground?
......................................................
Visitors were gathering to take the next guided tour of the building, but she decided instead to make some attempt on the eight million
books currently held there. She liked the sound of Duke Humfrey’s library and the Upper Reading Room. A porter asked to see her ticket and laughed when she explained that she had purposely brought her biggest bag.
‘This isn’t a lending library! They even refused to let the King borrow a book.’
‘Which King?’
‘King Charles the First, the one who was executed.’
‘They have had nearly four hundred and fifty years to change the rules!’ she said.
‘And only members of the University and visiting academics have the right to a Bodleian ticket,’ the porter added.
...................................................
Pimms and lemonade sounded perfect in this beautiful place. Perhaps it was a thirst for freedom after ten days of being hostage to The Tour.
Probably, it was because Derek was not there. He would have said ‘No thanks, I am not with this group.’
‘Yes please,’ Charlotte heard herself say.
.....................................................
She repeats her aunt’s words to herself,‘whatever it takes, whatever it takes’. A student leads her to a room where a tall, bearded man is bent over some drawings on a large table. The man waves her towards a folding screen which stands by a large sofa, covered with a white
sheet.
‘Take your clothes off,’ he says, barely looking at her.
interesting time. Oxford can never make up its mind when it is.’
..........................................................
Thomas Madison Browning had long intended to give up smoking, but women, – or rather one woman – was making it impossible. Every Friday, after filing papers in his briefcase, he would stroll out to savour the two loves of his life: Cohiba Exquisito cigars and the woman who sold them.
......................................................
The entrance to University College was unremarkable, as was the quad immediately inside, but there was an interesting door in the corner that
led to a domed room, stars painted above, an elaborate plinth below, and an astonishing white marble figure of a naked man lying on his side, head thrown back, mouth open, vulnerable. There was something voyeuristic, disturbing, as if I was watching the dying gasps of this drowning man, his agony frozen in time.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Born Aug 4th 1792
Died July 8th 1822
.......................................................
Overhead, the clear Oxford skies were masked by a canopy of lush green foliage. It was hard to believe that the Botanic Garden was only metres away from the bustle of the High Street with its traffic and roadworks. But even in here, she couldn’t escape. The voice of the man on the television came back to her: ‘We will always remember her sparkling green eyes and her beautiful smile.’
........................................................
‘Media studies’ replied Mildred. She hoped Joyce wouldn’t ask her what that meant because she didn’t know herself.
‘That sounds awfully modern.’
‘It is. And Brookes has one of the best courses in the country.
Hundred of candidates apply, but they only take the cream.’ Mildred knew she sounded smug but couldn’t help it. ‘And lots of good jobs afterwards’ she added. Whatever it was, she was certain there were better prospects in media studies than in Byzantine art.
....................................................
The gargoyles that infested the buildings of Oxford were spreading, peering down from the roof tops and pulling faces. But they were the
old ones. Too old to do her any harm. Their powers eroded. But now new young ones had started creeping limpet-like down the buildings and were peeping into windows, watching her. They had started breeding, adapting and changing. What would they do when they reached the
ground?
......................................................
Visitors were gathering to take the next guided tour of the building, but she decided instead to make some attempt on the eight million
books currently held there. She liked the sound of Duke Humfrey’s library and the Upper Reading Room. A porter asked to see her ticket and laughed when she explained that she had purposely brought her biggest bag.
‘This isn’t a lending library! They even refused to let the King borrow a book.’
‘Which King?’
‘King Charles the First, the one who was executed.’
‘They have had nearly four hundred and fifty years to change the rules!’ she said.
‘And only members of the University and visiting academics have the right to a Bodleian ticket,’ the porter added.
...................................................
Pimms and lemonade sounded perfect in this beautiful place. Perhaps it was a thirst for freedom after ten days of being hostage to The Tour.
Probably, it was because Derek was not there. He would have said ‘No thanks, I am not with this group.’
‘Yes please,’ Charlotte heard herself say.
.....................................................
She repeats her aunt’s words to herself,‘whatever it takes, whatever it takes’. A student leads her to a room where a tall, bearded man is bent over some drawings on a large table. The man waves her towards a folding screen which stands by a large sofa, covered with a white
sheet.
‘Take your clothes off,’ he says, barely looking at her.
Tell Tails edited by Wendy Greenberg
There are, they tell us, three great lies in history: the cheque is in the post; I shall love you forever; Human Resources-we
are here to help you. According to this joke, lies are about money, love and business. This story is about a fourth great lie, the one that goes, ‘I swear to God, I never touched a drop!’ It’s about a man called Paddy, his wife Molly, and their dog, who lived in a small village not far from Cork City, in south-east Ireland.
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I don’t like blood,’ Ginger the kitten said. He waved his tail in annoyance.
‘Everyone likes blood. Even humans eat rare steak. You’re just a fussy eater.’
He thought about the farm animals. ‘Pigs get fed,’ he said.
‘They get eaten.’
‘Cows get fed.’
‘And they get eaten.’
‘Sheep…’ he began.
‘…Look,’hissed his mother, ‘farm animals get fed, they get eaten.’Then she said, in her fiercest tone, ‘cats are different, we catch our own dinners. And, remember, no-one eats us.’
....................................................
This latest purchase had been a personal recommendation from Sandy. ‘I got just a ting for your troubles Mrs Anderson,’ Sandy said after the second cup of tea. ‘You the only one of my ladies who hasn’t bought one.
Last month ‘just a ting’ had been the ever-lasting nylon carpet anti-static device; the previous month it had been the tropical spider-displacer; and before then the simple pimple-extractor, the all-purpose metal handle degreaser, the ready-steady anyway-up household glove, and the under-shelf handy bottle top storage compartment. Margaret had lost count of all the objects that had been ‘just a ting’for her troubles.
‘This catalogue is the modern solution for the busy woman,’ Sandy said. ‘It is time, Mrs Anderson, for us women to rise up from our domestic
chains and be free as the cat on the roofs.’
....................................................
Wrapping her thick coat around her she leaned into the fierce wind as she scrambled to the oak tree. It was her third visit. The sapling trees that surrounded her were bent almost to the ground, and the branches of the old oak thrashed so violently that her photographs were a blur. The tree stood naked before her, muscular, arrogant. Despite the cold and the wind, she found she was not ready to leave just yet.
are here to help you. According to this joke, lies are about money, love and business. This story is about a fourth great lie, the one that goes, ‘I swear to God, I never touched a drop!’ It’s about a man called Paddy, his wife Molly, and their dog, who lived in a small village not far from Cork City, in south-east Ireland.
.....................................................
I don’t like blood,’ Ginger the kitten said. He waved his tail in annoyance.
‘Everyone likes blood. Even humans eat rare steak. You’re just a fussy eater.’
He thought about the farm animals. ‘Pigs get fed,’ he said.
‘They get eaten.’
‘Cows get fed.’
‘And they get eaten.’
‘Sheep…’ he began.
‘…Look,’hissed his mother, ‘farm animals get fed, they get eaten.’Then she said, in her fiercest tone, ‘cats are different, we catch our own dinners. And, remember, no-one eats us.’
....................................................
This latest purchase had been a personal recommendation from Sandy. ‘I got just a ting for your troubles Mrs Anderson,’ Sandy said after the second cup of tea. ‘You the only one of my ladies who hasn’t bought one.
Last month ‘just a ting’ had been the ever-lasting nylon carpet anti-static device; the previous month it had been the tropical spider-displacer; and before then the simple pimple-extractor, the all-purpose metal handle degreaser, the ready-steady anyway-up household glove, and the under-shelf handy bottle top storage compartment. Margaret had lost count of all the objects that had been ‘just a ting’for her troubles.
‘This catalogue is the modern solution for the busy woman,’ Sandy said. ‘It is time, Mrs Anderson, for us women to rise up from our domestic
chains and be free as the cat on the roofs.’
....................................................
Wrapping her thick coat around her she leaned into the fierce wind as she scrambled to the oak tree. It was her third visit. The sapling trees that surrounded her were bent almost to the ground, and the branches of the old oak thrashed so violently that her photographs were a blur. The tree stood naked before her, muscular, arrogant. Despite the cold and the wind, she found she was not ready to leave just yet.