Another Brick In The Wall [part II]
This is Part VII (and the final segment) of the story of
Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K.
It is continued from Part VI
To read the story from the beginning, click here.
To see pictures, click here.
Monday, July 4
5:00 p.m.
watching TV at the flat
I'm watching a quiz show called Never Mind the Buzzcocks. It's more of a comedy show, really. Two teams of three music industry people are competing in several rounds of games. In the game they're currently playing one team must perform, using only their voices and air instruments, a popular song, and the other team is to guess the song.
In another round a now aged former member of a minor rock band appears on stage in a lineup with several other men of similar countenance and condition, and the teams must guess which man is the real former rock star.
The dialogue between the host and the competitors is fast paced, clever, occasionally rude (by Canadian standards), and very, very, funny.
It is so good to be away from Americans and the constant bombardment of their culture.
Monday, July 4
8:00 p.m.
Foxes Den pub
down the road from the flat
Eating out in England is complicated.
They cannot, however, be ordered if the server has taken your wooden spoon away. The posted rules fail to explain that, in lieu of a receipt customers are given a wooden spoon with a number, which is to be placed in the cutlery vase at your chosen table so that your server can locate you.
Woe is the customer whose spoon has been removed by an over-eager server.
Tuesday, July 5
5:00 p.m.
King George VI pub
I'm fascinated with the food in England. Not because it tastes good (it doesn't) but because of the unusual names for dishes, and the strange customs of serving it. This evening I've ordered the Black Pudding and Bacon Stack, an appetizer, for £3.95, and I'm perusing the menu, and wondering what they mean by "parcel." To me, a parcel is a package you receive in the mail. To them, it has something to do with feta cheese and spinach. A feta, spinach and pepper parcel is listed as a main course. Underneath the price, the description explains it is a puff pastry parcel. There's also something called Chicken Korma, £7.25, served with rice, poppadoms, and minted dip.
Denise and I are having a snack and waiting for Hutch, Dale, and Fiona, who is one of the research assistants at the university, to meet us here. We're going pub hopping in Bristol proper tonight.
Tuesday, July 5
7:00 p.m.
Shakespeare's Tavern
on the docks, Bristol
Hutch is telling us about the pirate tour of Bristol he took last year while he was here with his family. Before we stepped into this tavern he'd shown us the wall where they used to chain the pirates, so they'd drown as the tide rose. Apparently it was a well-attended public event.
Those of us presently ensconced at this cosy plank table will never see 14 again, and I for one am enjoying the Shakespeare Tavern immensely. English Lit major that I once was, I felt compelled to drag the others into this particular pub, but I don't think they mind, since, as with all taverns in England, there's a fine selection of draught.
Tuesday, July 5
8:00 p.m.
The Ostrich Inn
other side of the Avon, Bristol
We'd wandered the docks for some time, looking for this place, because Hutch remembered it had a pirate's hole, and now that we're here, we're sitting right beside it. The hole is gated to prevent us from entering, not that I have any desire to crouch doubled over in a three foot high dark tunnel. The pirates made their way a quarter of a mile through this tunnel from their boats along the quay.
What they went through, just to get a beer.
I can always have an endive salad when I get home to Canada.
The dish bears no resemblance to the breakfast food we called a toad in the hole in Beamsville in the 1970s. That was a piece of bread with a hole ripped into the centre, which you butter on both sides and lay in a frying pan, then crack an egg into the hole. Toast and egg all in one.
I still make those for myself, from time to time.
Tuesday, July 5
9:00 p.m.
pub hopping, Bristol
At the Hole in the Wall pub we find a plaque telling us that Robert Louis Stephenson wrote Treasure Island here. There is indeed a hole in the wall, through which one can watch the docks through a spyglass.
I silently mourn the fact that I'm doing my PhD in marketing, rather than in English lit.
Wednesday, July 6
10:30 a.m.
Bristol Business School
Denise will be giving her presentation at the Doctoral Students' Symposium in a few minutes. I'm sitting outside the door to the conference room, on the floor, waiting for the student who's presenting on an evaluation of the benefits and risks in offshoring business processes in the financial services sector to India to finish.
Denise and Hutch sit patiently through all the other presentations, no matter how far removed the subject matter from their own interests. Me, I believe that there's only so much room in my brain for things to care about, and outsourcing financial services, whether to India or elsewhere, simply isn't one of them. Neither is Denise's topic, strategic human resources management, but I can make room in my brain to support a friend and colleague.
I wonder if I'm in the right school.
On Monday night at the King George Denise and I spent the first two beers discussing her topic, the next three on mine. She's farther along with her work; I needed one beer's more help.
I hear Denise's voice from inside the conference room asking a question of the India Outsourcing Guy. He must be almost finished.
The director of research informs us that London has won the bid for the 2012 Olympics. Toronto has given up trying.
I've been slotted in at the last minute to give an informal overview of my topic, over the lunch break. I hadn't planned to present, but over the last couple of days as I outlined the landscape over which my brainwaves were roaming, I sparked some interest in some of my colleagues. Considering my brain cell conservationist attitude I suppose I can't expect too many to attend.
After the symposium I'll walk Denise to the gatehouse where the airport taxi is picking her up. I'll be spending the last couple of nights alone in the flat.
Yeoman Dale is giving his presentation now, and I've gone inside to be supportive. He's one of my PhD buddies, after all, but his subject is accounting — I won't even bother to recite his thesis topic to you — you can imagine how interested I am in it. I read his presentation overview, though, and, well, I found it encouraging in one sense. If that level of writing will one day earn him a PhD, then I have nothing to worry about.
Still, I'm worried.
* * *
Postmodern Sass believes it is better to finish a story three months later than to not finish it at all, and she gently reminds you, Gentle Reader, that this blog has never pretended to be journalism. And then there's the fact that she's under a deadline to deliver 20,000 words to her thesis advisors this week, and is procrastinating In the next story, which isn't so much a story as a very long paragraph, Clueless Sass asks her readers for advice.
Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K.
It is continued from Part VI
To read the story from the beginning, click here.
To see pictures, click here.
Monday, July 4
5:00 p.m.
watching TV at the flat
I'm watching a quiz show called Never Mind the Buzzcocks. It's more of a comedy show, really. Two teams of three music industry people are competing in several rounds of games. In the game they're currently playing one team must perform, using only their voices and air instruments, a popular song, and the other team is to guess the song.
In another round a now aged former member of a minor rock band appears on stage in a lineup with several other men of similar countenance and condition, and the teams must guess which man is the real former rock star.
The dialogue between the host and the competitors is fast paced, clever, occasionally rude (by Canadian standards), and very, very, funny.
It is so good to be away from Americans and the constant bombardment of their culture.
Monday, July 4
8:00 p.m.
Foxes Den pub
down the road from the flat
Eating out in England is complicated.
HOW TO ORDER
Find yourself a vacant table
Make your choice from the menu found at the table
Place your order at the food order point, informing your server of the area you are sitting in.
Relax and enjoy your meal.
Drinks and puddings can be ordered through your server at the table.
They cannot, however, be ordered if the server has taken your wooden spoon away. The posted rules fail to explain that, in lieu of a receipt customers are given a wooden spoon with a number, which is to be placed in the cutlery vase at your chosen table so that your server can locate you.
Woe is the customer whose spoon has been removed by an over-eager server.
Tuesday, July 5
5:00 p.m.
King George VI pub
I'm fascinated with the food in England. Not because it tastes good (it doesn't) but because of the unusual names for dishes, and the strange customs of serving it. This evening I've ordered the Black Pudding and Bacon Stack, an appetizer, for £3.95, and I'm perusing the menu, and wondering what they mean by "parcel." To me, a parcel is a package you receive in the mail. To them, it has something to do with feta cheese and spinach. A feta, spinach and pepper parcel is listed as a main course. Underneath the price, the description explains it is a puff pastry parcel. There's also something called Chicken Korma, £7.25, served with rice, poppadoms, and minted dip.
THEY SAY: poppadomsI heard earlier today on News Five that sales of Pink Floyd's records have soared 1300% since Saturday's Live 8 concert. Five also reports that Scottish soccer hooligans have descended upon Edinburgh, where they've been rioting all week in anticipation of the G8 summit, which starts tomorrow. Five showed pictures of a corral, built in a field outside the city, where the protesters are to herd themselves. They're expecting 15,000.
WE SAY: I have no idea
Denise and I are having a snack and waiting for Hutch, Dale, and Fiona, who is one of the research assistants at the university, to meet us here. We're going pub hopping in Bristol proper tonight.
Tuesday, July 5
7:00 p.m.
Shakespeare's Tavern
on the docks, Bristol
Hutch is telling us about the pirate tour of Bristol he took last year while he was here with his family. Before we stepped into this tavern he'd shown us the wall where they used to chain the pirates, so they'd drown as the tide rose. Apparently it was a well-attended public event.
THEY SAY: travellersHutch has two teenagers, and can't understand why they didn't want to accompany him to Bristol again this year. Perhaps if you've ever been to Bristol, you'd understand. It's a nice enough town, don't get me wrong, but as tourist destinations go, well, there are more interesting places to be, especially when you're a 14 year old girl.
WE SAY: gypsies
Those of us presently ensconced at this cosy plank table will never see 14 again, and I for one am enjoying the Shakespeare Tavern immensely. English Lit major that I once was, I felt compelled to drag the others into this particular pub, but I don't think they mind, since, as with all taverns in England, there's a fine selection of draught.
Tuesday, July 5
8:00 p.m.
The Ostrich Inn
other side of the Avon, Bristol
We'd wandered the docks for some time, looking for this place, because Hutch remembered it had a pirate's hole, and now that we're here, we're sitting right beside it. The hole is gated to prevent us from entering, not that I have any desire to crouch doubled over in a three foot high dark tunnel. The pirates made their way a quarter of a mile through this tunnel from their boats along the quay.
What they went through, just to get a beer.
THEY SAY: puddingI decide to try the Giant Toad in the Hole (£5.95) because I'm curious to know whether it's what I remember eating as a child. It turns out to be a Yorkshire pudding — or so I'm told; I don't really know what that is, either — with fat pork sausages floating in onion gravy. Like all British food it is greasy and salty, and so appeals to my baser instincts.
WE SAY: dessert
I can always have an endive salad when I get home to Canada.
The dish bears no resemblance to the breakfast food we called a toad in the hole in Beamsville in the 1970s. That was a piece of bread with a hole ripped into the centre, which you butter on both sides and lay in a frying pan, then crack an egg into the hole. Toast and egg all in one.
I still make those for myself, from time to time.
Tuesday, July 5
9:00 p.m.
pub hopping, Bristol
At the Hole in the Wall pub we find a plaque telling us that Robert Louis Stephenson wrote Treasure Island here. There is indeed a hole in the wall, through which one can watch the docks through a spyglass.
THEY SAY: warehouse apartmentsWe walk along Merchant's Quay, which is dotted with pubs, many of which boast literary connections. The roads are cobblestone. The Llandoger Trow pub was established in 1664, and claims to have been Daniel Defoe's local. It's in the Welshback, an area of the docks so named because that's where the Welsh were forced to stay — back from the rest of the merchants. I gather their reputation as traders was not a good one, and that this is where the expression to welsh on a deal comes from.
WE SAY: lofts
I silently mourn the fact that I'm doing my PhD in marketing, rather than in English lit.
Wednesday, July 6
10:30 a.m.
Bristol Business School
Denise will be giving her presentation at the Doctoral Students' Symposium in a few minutes. I'm sitting outside the door to the conference room, on the floor, waiting for the student who's presenting on an evaluation of the benefits and risks in offshoring business processes in the financial services sector to India to finish.
Denise and Hutch sit patiently through all the other presentations, no matter how far removed the subject matter from their own interests. Me, I believe that there's only so much room in my brain for things to care about, and outsourcing financial services, whether to India or elsewhere, simply isn't one of them. Neither is Denise's topic, strategic human resources management, but I can make room in my brain to support a friend and colleague.
THEY SAY: toiletAmong the other topics in today's symposium is mathematical formulas for calculating credit ratings for U.K. quoted companies. I'm sure that's very interesting to many people, I'm simply not one of them. Of the 53 students currently registered in the BBS PhD program, I am one of three working on a dissertation in marketing.
WE SAY: bathroom
I wonder if I'm in the right school.
On Monday night at the King George Denise and I spent the first two beers discussing her topic, the next three on mine. She's farther along with her work; I needed one beer's more help.
I hear Denise's voice from inside the conference room asking a question of the India Outsourcing Guy. He must be almost finished.
The director of research informs us that London has won the bid for the 2012 Olympics. Toronto has given up trying.
I've been slotted in at the last minute to give an informal overview of my topic, over the lunch break. I hadn't planned to present, but over the last couple of days as I outlined the landscape over which my brainwaves were roaming, I sparked some interest in some of my colleagues. Considering my brain cell conservationist attitude I suppose I can't expect too many to attend.
After the symposium I'll walk Denise to the gatehouse where the airport taxi is picking her up. I'll be spending the last couple of nights alone in the flat.
Yeoman Dale is giving his presentation now, and I've gone inside to be supportive. He's one of my PhD buddies, after all, but his subject is accounting — I won't even bother to recite his thesis topic to you — you can imagine how interested I am in it. I read his presentation overview, though, and, well, I found it encouraging in one sense. If that level of writing will one day earn him a PhD, then I have nothing to worry about.
Still, I'm worried.
Postmodern Sass believes it is better to finish a story three months later than to not finish it at all, and she gently reminds you, Gentle Reader, that this blog has never pretended to be journalism. And then there's the fact that she's under a deadline to deliver 20,000 words to her thesis advisors this week, and is procrastinating In the next story, which isn't so much a story as a very long paragraph, Clueless Sass asks her readers for advice.
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