new visuals

The first batch of photos from recent Englandshire adventures have made their way to flickr. Check them out here.

crash course

It's tough being a lit-kid in an MBA world. There's a sense that one must understand words like "hedge fund", "valuation" and "strategic innovation" in order to earn the right to use them :)

So this month, in addition to polishing off my first issue of the magazine, I've been getting a business education.

I'm sitting in on the School's Senior Executive Program, partly to research a feature article, and partly to understand all this business school mumbo-jumbo.

So here's me. In a room with 52 seasoned CEOs, General Managers, and big wigs in general. From companies you KNOW. For four weeks.

It takes great feats of charm and long bus journeys considering what questions to pose in order to engage a CEO during his 15 minute coffee break during which he'd rather be checking his Crackberry. I am frequently intimidated.

I broke some ground last night when I joined the gents for an evening of winetasting followed by a dinner of mussels, frogs legs, coq au vin and also some fillet of sole on a bed of something-or-other. Wine tastings and obscure meats have a way of loosening tongues.

Anyway, it's a timely season for a crash course in business education seeing as stocks have just suffered their biggest one-day decline since 9/11.

See, a month ago this wouldn't have interested me, nor would I have even known who these unfortunate Lehman Brothers are!

But suddenly my coffee breaks are being spent in front of Sky News, shaking my head in disgust along with my fellow CEOs at the horrible state of the economy, poring over the Financial Times, thanking my lucky stars I never invested with those fools (or anywhere else mind you) and speculating about the arrival of the next Great Depression.

Business School is actually pretty easy.

big stuff

This is one of those long overdue "proper" updates, and oooo, it's full of biggies.

For example, since we last spoke I married a doctor... or rather, the man I married became a doctor. My hubby defended his PhD last week and passed. As if there was any doubt.

Also, we got a new housemate. My wee sis-in-law, Jillian is now in the room next door, taking a semester pause on her path to becoming Saskatchewan's next big thing in science. So Oxford's not so lonely any more! Jill kicked into full job hunting mode the day she got here, and managed to shop her way through Oxford as she went. I have much to learn from this gal ;)

More exciting stuff: I've been exploring this little Island, and discovering there's a lot to see! In the last two weeks I've spent a day in Brighton, an afternoon in Windsor & Eton, and this past Saturday was spent at Blenheim Palace - birthplace the greatest Briton ever and home to a good many dukes and dutches of the same surname.

We've had our first overnight guests - first a friend from Toronto and her new British love, and now two of our bestest buds from Aberdeen are here to stay a wee while.

Workwise, I just signed off on my first issue of the magazine! In my mind the publication is definitely a work in progress, but it has been fun to talk with our designers and discover that our visions align and that we all see the potential this (relatively dry) magazine could achieve.

Commuting is still manageable, but is becoming more so as I'm moving down to 4 days in London and 1 in Ox... an ideal arrangement!

Photos of it all are on their way soon.

xo

a valuable lesson learned

There is no need to prove anything. Riding your bike through town in the rain to get a DVD (when you could take the bus) does not make you a more authentic Oxonian. It just makes you a girl with stiff jeans and streaky mascara.

good things, the Oxford edition

We've been Oxford residents for nearly two months now. I'm not sure this makes us Oxonians per se, but it HAS given me sufficient opportunity to fall in love with this city and the things that make it special.

I ponder them sometimes on my walk home - past quirky boutiques on The High (including Britain's oldest coffee house), and up Catte St past iconic sandstone spires.

Here are a few of my favourites:

Nerds - every university town has its fair share, but here nerds flourish. Perhaps because they are living their dreams of academic greatness. Or perhaps it's because they're finally permitted to be themselves - no longer concealing their love of fleece, RPGs and fantasy lit. We live across from the university science park. it's a nerd haven. Their older counterparts - the white-haired, herringbone-jacketed, bike riding professors - are another great Oxfordism.

The Bod - Oxford's library, the Bodleian, has approximately a gajillion books. Actually, it receives a copy of every single book published after a certain date (which I cannot find at the moment). The books are stored in underground compact stacks, so if you are looking for a certain volume, you have to put in a request and wait a good chunk of time for the book to make its way to the surface.

Oxford is still an elite institution, so regular old proles like myselfare not admitted, but I like knowing that all the great literary works are beneath my feet. Fortunately I am married to a Bod Card holder, and while this doesn't admit me to the Library, it does mean I get access to all the lovely College quads around town.

Boswells - Boswells is an independent department store in the heart of town, totally unique to Ox. It is a somewhat ramshackle affair with everything crammed into three disjointed floors, but they sell EVERYTHING there. The cashier is straight of a movie with his Albert Einstein hair and specs pushes down on his nose while he fumbles with your purchases. The perfect mom'n'pop shop.

Preppy togs - For every nerd in Oxford there is a Pimms-drinking crew-rowing Abercrombie-wearing"public school" kid. They love their Jack Wills button downs, loafers, ribbon belts, side-parts etc etc etc. Though never much of a prep myself, I just can't resist it. You will currently find me in cuffed jeans and plaid shirt, sartorial guard down.

One-speeds - nothing says Oxford like a black sit-up-and-beg one-speed. While practicality dictated my choice of an 18-speed road bike, I did nearly put down more money on a nearly useless cruiser, just because it looked cool.

scottish pride

Subtitle: Making my own national identity

Preamble:
Though it's mildly fallen out of fashion in North America, the British still loooove to be PC. A large part of this is ensuring ethnic diversity in companies. As such, any job application you fill out requests that you identify yourself with one of a long list of racial groups.

Other objections aside (potential for reverse discrimination etc) I always resent being made to choose. Afterall, I could check the box beside "White - English", but that would preclude me checking the box beside "White - Irish", and checking either would mean denying my paternal "White - German" heritage, which is not even agiven option (obviously neither is the "Colour withheld - Canadian" classification). You can understand my predicament.

Solution:
I went to Brighton this week, too briefly, to meet with our design agency.

Over lunch, our designer Fiona asked me how long I'd been living here.

My straightforward reply was, "well, we've been in England for about a month, but we lived in Scotland for almost two years before that."

She guffawed and made me repeat what I'd said for the rest of the table. They all reacted with similar glee, but the joke was lost on me!

Someone explained that they would never make that distinction, and before I could explain that this was because they're not Scottish, the onslaught began:

"I confess I'm bothered by the increasing number of Scottish accents in parliament."

"Sure, they want 'independence' but they don't want FINANCIAL independence!"

"Andy Murray was such an arse at Wimbledon."

"The oil industry isn't as significant to our economy as they think."

"The only good things to come out of Scotland are whiskey and footballers!"

"Haggis is vile."

"It's bloody cold in Aberdeen, why would anyone live there?"

okay, so the last comment was mine...

All this to say, I suddenly felt VERY defensive. I made my case - haggis is quite nice with a spot of gravy - but no one was convinced of Scotland's merits.

I had an inward pout and it occured to me that Scotland has become part of my identity (though yes my accent is rubbish). Sure, I have my own things to say about Scottish food and weather, but that's just it - I feel I've sort of earned my right to slag Scotland, in the same way black kids are allowed to use racial slurs. I know and love the people there, and can even understand the crazy North East Doric.

On the train home, I resolved that my British identity henceforth shall be connected to the Scots. Kilts and thistles and Mel Gibson statues and all that jazz. No more puzzling over check boxes!