My First Night in Oxford

Something I’m often asked is what was it like in Oxford? Well, it was amazing. I wrote a lot. I made lifelong friendships. I read in front of 300 students and professors. I got told off for being too loud in the Bodleian library, and tried to jump into the Thames on May Day. I learned to think differently, and gained a thousand stories. But it didn’t start out that way.

When I first arrived in Oxford, I had never been overseas alone before. In fact, I couldn’t even eat in a café on my own. I was nervous, but excited as hell. To quote Peter Pan, it was going to be an awfully big adventure.

Firstly, I was in Oxford, which was like living inside an episode of Inspector Morse (without the whole murder plot, I hoped) with the sound of bicycle wheels rattling against the cobblestone, and standing amid the world’s most famous libraries, which I couldn’t enter yet because I hadn’t registered for my student card.  

Oxford, the city of dreams and spires. The city of thought. Of Tolkien, C.S Lewis, and the inspiration (and film location) of Hogwarts. My plan included a brief meeting with my course supervisor, and then onto a charming solo dinner followed by an exciting exploration of the cities famous pubs.

From my small town of Kiama, it wasn’t easy getting there. Beginning with a competitive application process, Skype interview, followed by the organisation of student visas, flights and accommodation, and not to mention saving for university fees. But I got off the plane in Heathrow, found the correct bus to Oxfordshire, and promptly arrived at the little office for my first encounter with an Oxford Professor, which I thought was going to be an informal meet-and-greet. Instead, following a brief welcome, it went something like this.

Professor: How did you go with your preparations?

Me: Preparations?

Professor: The reading list.

Me: What reading list?

Professor: The reading list we sent to everyone.

Me: Oh… I haven’t seen it.

Pause.  

Professor: Well, Clay, so you know, we expect 80% of the reading list to be completed every three months. So what percentage of the reading list would you say you’ve completed?

Me: I haven’t seen it… So zero.

Professor: Zero?

Me: Yes, zero.

Pause.

Professor: Why have you read zero percent of the reading list?

At this point, the course director began to scribble notes on her paper. On my file, which before this moment, I could only assume was blank and better than whatever she was writing.  Then she looked up and said, ‘You know, Clay, Oxford is a very competitive university. How confident are you that you’ll be able to keep up in this course?’

Looking into her patronising stare, I began to wonder if all my efforts up until this point had been a huge mistake. Should I have lied and said I’d read the entire reading list? Perhaps this might’ve been one of those rare cases where honesty was not the best policy. I feigned confidence, ‘Well, I believe I can keep up. I’m here. And while I may not have read the reading list, I have read books before.’

The Course Director continued to write on my file. Then she smiled and closed our first meeting with,  ‘I guess we’ll see.’

And that was it. I left the little office feeling completely dejected. A cyclist zipped past and almost knocked me over. I walked back to my hotel, purchasing a hamburger from a dingy takeaway, along with a bottle of Malbec from Tesco. In my room, I opened the reading list on my Macbook.

It was 100 texts long - Books. Essays. Poetry. Drama scripts. Radio scripts.  

I cracked the bottle of wine and began to drink. As the bottle went down, I had a crazy thought. It was 7pm. I had to be at our induction breakfast at 7am. 12 hours. If I started reading immediately, I had a good chance of getting through at least 80% of the reading list.

Around 2.30am, the bottle long finished, I fell asleep with my Macbook open on my third text, and woke up hungover and looking like death for my induction breakfast. I’m lucky anyone still wanted to be friends with me.

Over the next two years, I’m pleased to say that the Course Director and I formed a wonderful friendship. In fact, during our final meeting I switched her water glass with a glass of tequila. I also consistently read 80% of the reading lists.

But I’ll never forget my first night in Oxford.

A magical place where hobbits thought of being heroes, children thought of becoming wizards, and a drunk Australian thought he could read 100 books in one night.