Fyse’s Floating Face

The Floating Face March 31st, 2006

Term finished two weeks ago, and the few students remaining in college are adrift in a sea of conference guests. Every morning Main Court plays host to a parade of delegates in serried ranks, each with a suit bag slung over one arm and a little suitcase trailing forlornly behind. Lost souls, they drift without apparent aim from one court to the next, peering quizzically at helpful signs placed out the night before. ‘Dining Hall’. ‘College Bar’. ‘J Staircase - up stairs’. ‘Flowerbed’. ‘Brick Wall - bash head here’. Inevitably the tiny wheels on their luggage cope poorly with cobbles, and every ten yards or so Mr Delegate’s case makes a break for freedom, taking Mrs Delegate along for the ride. Between them they regain mastery of their baggage, and ponder whether the concrete travesty of 60s architecture before them is the block known as ‘Gostlin’. More sharp eyed than her male companion, Mrs Delegate spies a door marked ‘Lift’ and they trundle off once more.

On a remote and otherwise deserted corridor is room E31, in which stands a butt-naked Fyse. Recently emerged from the shower, he is digging through drawers in search of some vaguely clean underwear. Just as he is excavating a pile of odd socks there comes the unmistakable sound of someone trying to open his door. He grabs for the closest object to hide his modesty, which turns out to be a box of ‘Crunchy Nut Cornflakes’, and dives toward the door to hold it shut. “Er, can I help you?” Silence. Fyse scrambles into his bathrobe and opens the door with great trepidation.

It is Mrs Delegate. “Ah, good morning. My apologies, I am new here. I think I am lost.”

“Oh. Er, where are you trying to get to?” stammers Fyse, clutching his robe tightly to avoid accidental exposure. It turns out Mrs Delegate is young, Scandinavian and rather attractive.

“Room G31. I am guessing I have taken a wrong turning!”, laughs Mrs Delegate with mellifluous tones and radiant eyes. “Perhaps you could be so kind as to direct me?” Fyse finds himself hoping Mrs Delegate is in fact Miss Delegate.

“Yeah, I’m afraid you’re in the wrong block. You need to go back down into the courtyard and take the lift in the opposite corner.”

“I see. Thank you, that is most helpful.”

“No problem.” says Fyse, attempting an air of heroic altruism.

Miss Delegate pauses, adopting ‘come hither’ eyes. “You look so manly yet sensitive in that scanty robe, and I require a shower after my hot and sweaty journey.” she purrs. “Perhaps you would care to soap my back?” (I confess I may have imagined that bit.)

“Goodbye!” sings Miss Delegate as she disappears down the corridor. Fyse watches her round the corner before turning back into his room, still a little shell-shocked. Returning his bathrobe to its hook, he resumes searching for the errant underwear. But not before pausing to firmly lock the door…

• university life
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Fyse March 29th, 2006

I was recently informed that I will graduate on the 30th of June. That’s the theory anyway, with a few little exams and project deadlines before it becomes a reality. Beyond lies July and the rest of my life, a great yawning chasm of unknown. The ‘what are you planning to do with your life?’ questions started long ago, soon after the ‘what are you going to study at university?’ questions were answered. The difference now is that not just grandparents have careers on the brain, but every single person I talk to.

I’m approaching the end of a four year course, but many of my friends graduated last year and are already out, making their mark. Whether that mark is earning £80k as a stock broker in the City, or fashioning a particularly fine arse-print in front of a TV somewhere, they are no longer students but part of the ‘real world’. Soon I must follow. How will I begin to stamp my presence upon the planet? How can I be sure that in centuries to come mankind will still speak of me in fear or reverence? (I’m not fussed which.)

We all have goals in life, however ill-defined, some of which we meet and some we must eventually relinquish in favour of other targets. I didn’t emerge from the womb with ready formed intent to become a physicist (let’s face it, that would have been twisted), and it took time for my thoughts to meander in such a direction. Legend has the young Fyse transfixed by a bridge whilst out one day, and asking who was responsible for such a wondrous creation. Thus when friends possessed fervent ambition to be a fireman or truck driver, I proudly stated my aim to become a civil engineer. This slowly warped into ‘physicist’, but the central interest in the workings of the world remained.

I have thoroughly enjoyed my time at university, occasionally even finding my subject rewarding, but I have been immeasurably lazy and my academic record is far from spectacular. I long ago accepted I would never set the world of physics alight, but possibly harder is that I now don’t even want to. Physics with a wow factor brought me to the subject, all black holes and quarks, but it is easy to become snagged by more obscure fields. Far from the particle accelerators and string theories of fundamental physics, I now find myself engrossed in the calling mechanism of the bullfrog, specifically how it produces very low frequencies in a small body. And how such work is related to speech recognition? Now that’s fascinating. Whatever I end up doing next year, it will not be what I envisaged ten years ago. Hell, probably not even a month ago.

Few and far between are people for whom plans remain set in stone, whose lives roll out in front of them as if predetermined. We all face harsh realities, and talking careers with a history finalist friend the other evening, he hit suddenly upon one of life’s great undeniables. The common bond that underpins the brotherhood of man, nearly all of us must face it at some point, coping in our own manner. Brow knitted with consternation, he sighed as if acknowledging some terrible reality. “D’you know”, he said. “I think it’s time to finally accept the truth. I am never going to be a professional footballer.”

Amen, brother. Amen.

• university life
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Fyse March 22nd, 2006

My long suffering bike passes life on the racks outside college, packed tightly with his peers. Brutally exposed to the elements and careless kicks from passing drunks, I cannot blame him for his moods. Little of his original body remains, now a Frankenstein’s monster of replacement components and industrial-strength tape. I rarely have him serviced and have not oiled him in a long while, so it is not surprising he shows his age. Nonetheless, he is my faithful conveyance for every journey, and I tenderly dig him from the inevitable mess of bikes, joining the stream of cyclists passing college.

Plugged into my walkman, hat pulled low and scarf wrapped high, little impinges on my world except the occasional suicidal Japanese tourist. I have a tendency toward day-dream and reverie, and cycling is the perfect time. Imagine if England won the World Cup. Or what if fusion power could replace fossil fuels entirely? “I’d like to dedicate this Oscar to my parents, who always believed in me.” And of course that standard musing, what will I do with my lottery winnings?

You know you’ve spent too long in Cambridge when the first purchase with your lottery jackpot would be a new a bike.

• cambridge effect
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Fyse March 11th, 2006

I was chatting to a friend earlier this evening, and to my utter disbelief he was complaining about not having any work to do.

“Such is the price of having worked hard all term”, said he.

“******* *******”, said I.

But I think on one level he was serious, and it set me thinking what an important life skill is lacked by the conscientious few. However modest I may be, it would be foolish to pretend I am anything but a world authority on procrastination in all its forms, and I have decided to share my wisdom. For those of you drawn to work for lack of alternative, I say cast down your lecture notes. Set aside that book and ponder that tricky calculation at a more appropriate time. Constructive activity be damned! The secret of inner peace is not to travel the arduous road to enlightenment, but to curl up next to the path and have a nap.

“You must be the change you wish to see in the world.”

The way to true sloth comes not from without, but must be drawn from a deep well of inner indolence. Many aspiring slackers look to construct an environment of inactivity around themselves without first addressing their own state of mind. The human brain is capable of hundreds of thousands of calculations every minute, but the true slacker can track his cerebral activity on the fingers of one hand, leaving the other free for scratching. Cease all but the most vital mental functions and you will soon find any instinct toward constructive activity fading gently away.

As a practical example of never doing today what can be delayed until tomorrow, I can reveal that I wrote the start of this post in December 2004.

Here endeth the lesson.

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Fyse March 9th, 2006

For which the phrase ‘an accident waiting to happen’ was surely invented.

• gallimaufry
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The Floating Face March 4th, 2006

Most Cambridge University drama centres round the ADC Theatre, a small but charming establishment which perfectly suits its use for student productions. Recent renovation has brought the building kicking and screaming into the 21st century, but backstage remains cramped and not a little squalid. With casts of thirty changing in a single rather small room, it is cosy and not without a certain rustic appeal, but could never be described as luxurious. It possesses a Green Room, but nobody seems to remember its original purpose as a place for actors to sit and relax when not required on stage. It is normally found full of set, props, lights, wiring and stressed techies. It is also painted floor to ceiling in a light-swallowing shade of black.

The Cambridge Arts Theatre also has a Green Room, which scores over the ADC version in a number ways, not least that it is extremely green. It has a TV, a fridge, a kettle and most importantly, a large (green) sofa. It is seated here that Fyse may be found, slouched comfortably with his feet up on the coffee table. He arrived more than an hour ago to enjoy a leisurely shower in his dressing room, and now has a large mug of coffee, a packet of chocolate biscuits and a cryptic crossword. He is a happy man.

An hour later another cast member arrives to find Fyse snoozing peacefully, the TV muttering quietly to itself in the corner. The mug and biscuit packet are empty, as is the crossword grid. She prods him to one side, clearing space for herself, and he mumbles in sleepy complaint. She produces a fresh packet of biscuits as if from nowhere, and he is happy once more.

As 18.30 approaches and the rest of the company arrive, Fyse finds himself on the route of an eclectic parade, spanning cello-toting band members and mildly-flouncing thespians. Black-clad noise boys flit about, attaching radio mics to anyone within striking distance. Fyse’s carefully structured pre-show preparation requires another half hour of slobbing in front of the TV, before getting changed at a slightly frantic pace when he realises time is running short. He decides against applying make-up, not because he thinks it is too feminine but because he can’t be bothered to remove it afterwards. Nobody has told him he looks too pale on stage so perhaps he has a naturally ruddy complexion. He would like to think this is a good thing, but fears it is not.

With fifteen minutes to go the full cast assemble for assorted infantile warm-up games. They pull silly faces, make stupid noises, jump about a bit and then finish with the peak of sophisticated, cerebral game play that is ‘Big Booty’. Final checks are made of costumes, props and microphones before beginners are called and the cast file from the green room, up towards the stage.

Fyse stands in the wings, shifting from foot to foot with nervous energy. The orchestra are tuning up, the techies perform final checks, the actors run things through once more in their mind. From the auditorium drifts a hum of excitement, the final few people find their seats. Suddenly the house lights begin to dim, and an expectant hush falls. Fyse flattens his hair, straightens his tie, and checks one last time that his trousers are safely zipped. He is ready…

• thespian life
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