Fyse’s Floating Face

The Floating Face March 24th, 2008

Bzzzz.

“No answer. You’re sure it’s not the top flat?”

“No, but we are meant to be meeting the agent. Don’t you think we should…”

Bzzzzzzzzzzz.

There is a pause then a loud rattle, followed eventually by a male voice, heavy with the aftermath of inebriation. “Hello?”

“Hi there. We’re supposed to come and look round the flat?”

“…”

“Hello?”

“Crap. Hold on.”

After a lengthy pause, Fyse and friends are buzzed in. They climb four flights of stairs and wade through unidentifiable debris, only to find cupboard-sized rooms with paisley wallpaper and a kitchen thick in primordial vegetation. They make a break for freedom before catching something lethal and within five minutes are back outside, shivering at the mere memory. As they stand discussing other options they notice a man approach and wait nearby on the pavement, looking at his watch.

“Does that look like a letting agent to you?”

“You mean with the soulless eyes and odour of pestilence?”

“No, Fyse. I mean the suit and clipboard, coupled with the fact that we’re meant to be meeting one.”

It is indeed a letting agent, one both extravagantly flamboyant and somewhat manic. “Hello there, sorry I’m a touch late. One of those days, I’m afraid! Aha ha ha! I’m sure we’ve all been there! Am I right? One moment, I’ll just lay my hands on those keys…”

“Oh, don’t worry. I hope you don’t mind but we’ve already had a look around.” The agent emerges from his bag with a confused look.

“Now how have you managed that? I’m pretty sure you don’t have a set of keys!” He shakes them for emphasis. “I was here only yesterday, and I know I locked that door. Aha ha ha!”

Fyse and friends pause, looking at each other. “Ah. Right. So that would be the lower of the flats, would it?”

“That’s right. Wonderful kitchen, very spacious.”

“Not the one with the grumpy, hairy, hungover hippy.”

He blinks. “No, the flat’s currently between tenants.” Fyse and friends are pretty sure they have just been categorised as undesirable. “Not the largest rooms in the world, I’m afraid. Only single beds, but I don’t suppose you lot will have much call for doubles anyway! Aha ha ha, I’m only pulling your legs. Shall we proceed?”

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The Floating Face March 22nd, 2008

“Christ, there’s about half a dozen buttons. Which one is it?”

“Er, number 12. 12A”

“I have ‘Smith’ or ‘Vickers’, and assorted illegibles. I’ll phone them, say we’re outside.”

Fyse stands on the edge of the pavement, hands in pockets, scrutinizing his surroundings with pursed lips. “Ooh, look guys. There’s a Tesco’s right opposite, and regard that delightful little coffee shop! I love this place already.”

“Yes, well. Let’s see inside first, shall we?”

Fyse spins to look once again at the building with the poorly labeled buzzers. An off-white front door is set back a little from the pavement, allowing room on one side for another entry, propped open and emitting tantalising smells. In the basement is an Indian restaurant, and a large gilt sign clearly delineates the route to food from that of the accommodation above. It is to these flats that Fyse and friends are heading, beginning with this single step the thousand mile journey of sorting housing for next year. With collective hysteria very similar to that of a financial crash, the student rental market has gone crazy this year. A critical mass of jittery undergrads was reached and suddenly everyone is steaming round the agencies six months early, desperate not to miss the boat and end up lumbered with a dingy cupboard in the middle of nowhere.

The door opens and another group stream out, profusely thanking the landlord as they go. So, rivals for the house’s affection, thinks Fyse. The plot thickens. He snaps from reverie into action.

“Yeah, like I was saying guys, right opposite a supermarket? I bet that’ll be NOISY. Lorries at all hours, no doubt.” The rivals begin to walk away down the street. “And look at that DREARY LITTLE CAFE, a real ‘greasy spoon’ dive. Seriously guys, is it even worth looking at this DUMP? Guys?”

Fyse turns round just in time to slip through the door behind his friends, who appear eager already to disown him.

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Fyse November 7th, 2007

This new start manifests itself in several ways…

1. New city
2. New job (sort of)
3. New look website!
4. Renewed enthusiasm for blogging (hopefully)

So, to the first of these. I have relocated to the exotic climes of Bristol. My initial month-long investigations reveal that my new home varies in two primary ways from my old stomping ground. First it is considerably bigger, and second it is STEEP. Bristol appears to consist of one giant hill that somehow you are always climbing without ever reaching the top. Cycling is hard work, especially mounted on an antique bone-shaker more suited to the pancake-flat fenlands of Cambridgeshire.

I’ve moved to Bristol in order to start a PhD, which is very exciting and almost makes it seem as though I have long-term plans and career prospects (providing I still want to continue in research after four years of this). I don’t suppose there’s much risk of getting dooced while still a student, but even though I’m (reasonably) anonymous I probably wont blog about work very often. At least, not in a specific or wildly derogatory way. Not that I have anything bad to say, of course. I’m going to stop digging now.

D’you like the new look Floating Face? It’s a customised version of the FallSeason theme, and my modifcations basically consist of making it look less awesome and more rubbish. I’ll sort things out properly one of these fine months, but in the meantime posting photos is neater (which I plan to do much more of) and I’ve removed the sidebar (which was just a waste of space for me). There is also now an RSS feed, which will hopefully prove useful for some of you.

As for the increased enthusiasm for blogging, I really hope to get back into updating this site regularly. I’m not ready to give it up, despite being a bit of a lazy sod of late. Well, for quite a while actually. Perhaps the key to this might be in expanding my readership, so I’m toying with the idea of advertising it widely to all my real-life friends, rather than just the very few who currently visit. First I need to get some new content for these supposed new readers to peruse. I’m taking a LOT of photos these days, so at the very least you can expect to see more of those, and hopefully some contributions from the Floating Face himself.

The take-home message from this post is that I am still here, and to watch this space.

• work (or lack of) , university life , blogging
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Fyse March 23rd, 2007

The slightly sinister news feed on social networking site ‘facebook’ informs me that a friend of mine has just joined a new group called…

• I love volunteering!

All very well and good. Laudable, even. In the related groups section…

• Marks and Spencers food is the best food in the world

Ah, so that would be a decidedly middle class store selling expensive if delicious food. Interesting, and a complete coincidence I’m sure. In turn, this group is related to…

• 1000 reasons why the south is better than the north.

The plot thickens. And next…

• I went to a proper British boarding school.

Am I reading too much into this? Do the relationships between groups have so much to teach us about the world? An alternative route…

• I love volunteering!
• Dr Karl Kennedy: Master of the Universe
• You know you’ve been in university too long when…
• People who don’t sleep enough because they stay up late for no reason
• If Wikipedia Says It, It Must Be True

I have just joined those last two groups.

• university life , procrastination
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The Floating Face July 19th, 2006

Britons as a species have a tendency to be somewhat melodramatic about weather. An inch of snow has everyone buying tons of tinned goods before hunkering together for warmth. Anything greater than a stiff breeze and suddenly the ‘wrong sort’ of leaves are blown onto the railway lines. But this time it is actually pretty warm. As warm as most people have ever experienced. Warm enough to set all-time records. Warm, just to clarify, by the standards of places that are actually warm. The weather stations are bleating about temperatures topping 38 degrees (100 Fahrenheit). Cambridge is melting, and Fyse is certainly a little on the hot side.

West of the Cavendish Laboratory and beyond the Vet School is a cluster of smaller buildings, lost in a tangle of tarmac and each constructed in gleaming steel and glass. Amongst these lies a slightly less prepossessing structure, and in an office on the ground floor sits Fyse, nose pressed against a desk fan. Desiccated eyeballs and a facial grill-print are a small price to pay. The seconds tick by and his computer program remains resolutely useless. Using the metaphor of international relations, Russia has important information for China but the two are unable to communicate. Enter Fyse, who knows of a French chap that speaks both languages and is more than willing to help if asked. Fyse doesn’t speak French terribly well, but he’s learning. He writes a quick test program. “What is 4 + 5?” asks the Chinese delegation. The Russians mutter amongst themselves and the Frenchman returns with a reply. “4 + 5 = -22,234.” Fyse decides it’s time to head for home.

They say that only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun, and this is clearly because everyone else waits till Fyse is trying to cycle through town. Market square is swarming with foreign tour groups, jammed shoulder to shoulder, rucksack to bumbag, camera to ludicrously huge map. After a brief Argos visit Fyse proudly carries his very own fan, and has battled the tourist tide toward Sainsbury’s supermarket. Wandering the isles at a leisurely pace, he takes his time perusing products, unwilling to hasten departure from this air-conditioned piece of paradise. Round the bakery and toward the checkout the cries of over-excited American teenagers ring the air, each of them clutching alcohol in one hand and their passport in the other. Fyse stares vacantly at a shelf of dried fruit, positive that he’s forgotten something vital. “Bing-bong. This is a staff announcement. Would Pope John-Paul please report to frozen goods.” Perhaps the heat has got to him slightly.

Back at home Fyse sweats in the oven that is his room, so hot that his computer wont run. An extension perched atop a block of flats, it is a metal box with south-west facing windows, roasted throughout the day and late into the evening. Fyse leans from his bedroom window with sellotape in one hand, a roll of extra-strong tin foil in the other. Panes of glass become shimmering sheets, casting nacreous reflections from the heavy sun. He retreats into his heat-shielded cocoon, collapsing onto bed and into the blast of his new fan. He sighs. Summer sucks. Roll on winter.

• university life
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Fyse June 28th, 2006

Argh. I know, and I’m sorry. What excuse do I have for not writing, eh? My exams are out of the way, so I should have all the time in the world. But it just hasn’t worked like that, unfortunately. Still, I’ll make my excuses and promise to improve, since after this weekend things should settle down a bit. Currently I am in the throws of starting work full-time, house-hunting, packing in order to move, preparing for graduation this Friday and watching an almost superhuman quantity of football. Once all that is sorted, however, I’ve got some freakin’ awesome posts in the pipeline. Just wait and see…

PS Cate Blanchett.

• university life
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Fyse June 16th, 2006

Cambridge has a particularly sadistic way of announcing exam results, where the class lists are posted for all to see outside the Senate House. They don’t tell us when exactly this will happen, so entire days can be spent repeatedly checking the boards, and my results were posted on Wednesday morning. I’m hugely relieved to say I got a 2i, equating to ‘good’. As I said in previous posts, I thought I was probably hovering around the 2i/2ii boundary, and this was indeed the case. It was close. This makes me hugely pleased that in the the veritable car crash of my final paper, I resisted the temptation to give up with half an hour left. In those final thirty minutes I worked out a long question that had previously stumped me, and if it hadn’t been for that I could well have been ‘poor’.

While not spectacular, this result is probably more than I deserved, given my immense laziness on everything but the research project. It leaves options open, and with some relevant experience I ought to be able to get a PhD place somewhere. With undergraduate life finally behind me, I can throw myself into the hectic summer ahead. Working at the British Antarctic Survey, house-hunting, visiting Edinburgh during the festival and being Company Manager for a show in Cornwall. It’ll be busy but fun.

PS I owe you one post about Cate Blanchett.

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The Floating Face June 14th, 2006

“Engaaaarrrrllllaaaaaannnnnd! We’re England till we die! Engaaaarleeeernd!”

Through the assembled crowd a small group of thoroughly inebriated football fans career wildly, beers held high and tattooed torsoes crisping in the midday sun. Riding aloft is their mascot for the day, an inflatable young lady with legs akimbo and arms flailing wildly. Her synthetic anatomy is ill-concealed by a football shirt, her mouth a fixed gape that we shall charitably assume is shouting in patriotic support.

“England all the waaaay!!”

The scene of their merry and mildly offensive conga-line is the grassy expanse of Parker’s Piece, temporary home to the BBC World Cup tour. At one end is a massive television screen that will show England’s opening match against Paraguay, and in their thousands the residents of Cambridge have gathered, as if in some ancient ritual of worship. Many arrived early with picnics, booking prime spots close to the front. Others shun food entirely and seem intent only to drink their body weight before the first ball is kicked.

Then there are those who strike a happy medium, and thus can Fyse be found, cold beer in one hand and a sandwich in the other. He and his friends make conversation full of insightful analysis and intelligent commentary on ideal tactics. Fyse explains at length the advantage of deploying a midfielder in a holding role, his lecture interrupted only briefly by the passing of the flailing inflatable, whose splayed legs catch him round the back of the head. He tuts in a disapproving manner, and returns to his pontification.

The carnival atmosphere builds as kick-off approaches, and everyone shares that brand of absurd over-optimism unique to football fans before a big tournament. How could we possibly lose? After all, we’ve clearly got the best team in the world. We’re bound to score at least three goals every game, if not four. “Crouchy’s a dead cert for the Golden Boot!”, a particularly deluded gentlemen is heard to shout. Two o’clock arrives, and the crowd shows glorious disregard for tune or rhythm as they join singing the national anthem. Then, after hours developing heat stroke in the baking sun, the match is finally underway.

The sublime spectacle that is football unfolds for the delectation of the viewing public. Children sit on father’s shoulders, waving their little flags and cheering their favourite player. A hairy student near the front produces what looks like a wooden hunting horn, the sound of which exhorts the crowd to yet greater hysteria. The now-shirtless pneumatic female bobs above the crowd to the rhythm of chants whose vulgarity is matched only by their inventiveness. Amid the uncouth chaos, Fyse is of course an island of intellectual calm as he appraises the subtle cut and thrust of the match, continuing to eat and drink in good measure. Suddenly, when the match is but a few minutes old, there is a scramble in the Paraguay area and somehow the ball ends up in the net. The crowd erupts, and Fyse sprays a mouthful of pork pie as he leaps to his feet.

“Yeeeaaaaahhhhh! Come on Englaaaand!!”

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Fyse June 8th, 2006

With all the crushing inevitability of England losing in penalty shoot-outs, exam term is that ever present shadow on the horizon of life at university. Waiting to punish you for a year of revelry and frivolity, it reserves special retribution for the congenitally lazy. The atmosphere of Cambridge is palpably different and there is an accepted term for that particular brand of associated stress. Try as they might, everyone gets ‘The Fear’ eventually.

Often it is an airborne contagion, where students with an ostentatious work ethic are asymptomatic carriers of a particularly virulent strain. Sometimes ‘The Fear’ stumbles upon you in the most unexpected moments; half-way through an episode of ‘Lost’, or while chewing a mouthful of baked potato in the dining hall. At night ‘The Fear’ actively stalks its prey through silent corridors, digging heads forcibly from cosy piles of sand and filling them with screaming nightmares of abject failure. Even the strongest will eventually fall, and however it happens they are clearly marked as a warning to the rest. With library-bleached complexion and a hunted look, they sway through college under the weight of a dozen textbooks, files heaving with unread lecture notes. They are the students who never sleep, maintaining a sizeable library population right through the night, fuelled by caffeine and chocolate with occasional forays to the nearest kebab van.

But with the angst comes a certain comradery; a bond of common suffering between inmates of the library. There are over-competitive attempts to find distant bins with balls of paper, and whispered debate on optimal England tactics for the World Cup. In the small hours of the morning, paper aeroplanes sail from the windows overlooking main court, ghosting through the lamp light and onto the grass beyond. Comedic relief is provided by furious emails from the librarian, complaining of flagrant disregard for the rules and particulary the discovery of a tea pot and kettle hidden amongst the book stacks. The residents suffer together, and it is extraordinary that others choose to lock themselves away in their rooms for the duration. Nothing could be more guaranteed to exacerbate exam-induced insanity than complete isolation.

The conveyor-belt of education carries generations of hapless students from one exam to the next, and for those that continue with higher education the journey to emancipation can take nearly twenty years. Children join the process at progressively earlier ages, and henceforth all schooling is preparation for the next set of tests. The years turn to decades and education tapers as it climbs, until the ultimate piece of the pyramid is reached in the shape of final exams. It is no exageration to say that your life’s work has been building to this moment and suddenly, as if by magic, only a single paper remains. Everything rests on a few scrawled pages.

For those of an academic bent, never before has the next step been in doubt. The only question was what degree you would choose, not whether you would pursue one at all. You get your GCSEs and A-levels, then off you trot to university. But then it’s over. Around you the exam hall empties, and you scrape your chair back from the table, casting a final anguished look at your inadequate answers. Stepping blinking into the sunshine, both literally and metaphorically, the rest of your life stretches before you. The exam may have been difficult, but only now does the hardest question require an answer.

What in the hell do you do next?

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Fyse June 4th, 2006

In around ten hours I sit the final exam of my entire degree, and I’m not feeling exactly ready. Results thus far suggest I’m probably hovering around the class boundary between 2i and 2ii. That effectively means ‘good’ or ‘poor’, and so this paper could well determine the course of my future career. They don’t give PhD studentships to people with ‘poor’ degrees.

Then again, in about thirteen hours I will be finished. No more twelve hour days in the library. My entire degree will be done, and freedom beckons. So I guess that’s something…

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