Anonymous asked:

Is there a dress code at Cambridge?


At what event?

Matriculation: fo sho, depends on the college, generally suits for guys, dark blue or black conservative dress for ladies

at the Club: slutty, short, tight, black, + flats+ sweatshirt/coat tied around your waist (paying for coat check is so #freshers)

at lectures: no sweat pants at all, jeans uncommon unless Natsci or Medicine, general arts vibe = slutty librarian 

The impression I’ve got so far is that everybody wears jeans 90% of the given time, aside from formal things and going out. But maybe I’ve got a rare form of denim magnetism or something.

Anonymous asked:

On the practicalities of living... Are things like irons (+ironing boards), hoovers, brooms etc provided with the accommodation?


Hoover/Brooms won’t be neccessary as your bedders will be cleaning your accomodation (unless you’re at Newnham). 

Irons are not usually provided. Neither are pots/pans and other kitchen things. 

Newnham interjection: alas, it’s true there are no bedders (though cleaners do clean the kitchens, bathrooms etc), but there are hoovers on each corridor and there’s a mop and a dustpan & brush in the kitchen that you can use too. I discovered this when I knocked a water bottle off the counter and soaked the floor. The mop and I became well-acquainted.

I imagine the same is true in other places where there are no bedders — I think I heard rumours from Murray Edwards that they didn’t have bedders either? But I may have made that up. I’ve met a lot of people and it’s hard to keep track.

Apparently, there’s an ironing room somewhere in college. I haven’t found it, mostly because I haven’t gone looking for it. Nobody irons stuff, it seems.




when did we replace the word “said” with “was like”

When it occured to us that “said” implies a direct quote, while “was like” clarifies that you mean to communicate the person’s tone and general point without quoting them word for word.


it’s the everyday equivalent of when, in an essay, you say “[this historian] suggests that we’re wrong about everything, although others argue in favour of…” as an attempt to get out of directly citing them because you never finished reading the book and you can’t remember the page numbers or, really, anything else about it

(via iseektheholygrail)

Sometimes he’ll tell me about his college days, about an Afghanistan I have never known and very few people would believe ever existed.

"In the College of Engineering, there was this lecture hall, with seats for 1,000 students," his says as eyes begin to get bigger. "At the end of the lecture, the seats would move. The whole auditorium would shift as you spun along the diameter. The engineering of the building itself was very interesting." He continues to describe the construction details, then sighs. "I wonder if it’s still around?"

There is a pause. For 25 years I have tried to fill that silence, but I have never quite figured out what to say. I guess silence goes best there. He is the next one to speak. “You see, even your old-aged father was once part of something important.”

When he says things like that I want to scream. I don’t want to believe that the years can beat away at you like that. I don’t want to know that if enough time passes, you begin to question what was real or who you are. I am unconcerned with what the world thinks of him, but it is devastating to know that he at times thinks less of himself.

We are the same, but we are separated. People don’t see him in me. I wish they would. I walk in with a doctor’s white coat or a suit or my Berkeley sweatshirt and jeans. High heels or sneakers, it doesn’t matter, people always seem impressed with me. “Pediatrician, eh?” they say. “Well, good for you.”

I wonder what people see when they look at him. They don’t see what I see in his smile. Perhaps they see a brown man with a thick accent; perhaps they think, another immigrant cabdriver. Or perhaps it is much worse: Maybe he is a profile-matched terrorist, aligned with some axis of evil. “Another Abd-ool f——-g foreigner,” I once heard someone say.

Sometimes the worst things are not what people say to your face or what they say at all, it is the things that are assumed. I am in line at the grocery store, studying at a cafe, on a plane flying somewhere.

"Her English is excellent; she must have grown up here," I hear a lady whisper. "But why on earth does she wear that thing on her head?"

"Oh, that’s not her fault," someone replies. "Her father probably forces her to wear that."

I am still searching for a quick, biting response to comments like that. The trouble is that things I’d like to say aren’t quick. So I say nothing. I want to take their hands and pull them home with me. Come, meet my father. Don’t look at the wrinkles; don’t look at the scars; don’t mind the hearing aid, or the thick accent. Don’t look at the world’s effect on him; look at his effect on the world. Come into my childhood and hear the lullabies, the warm hand on your shoulder on the worst of days, the silly jokes on mundane afternoons. Come meet the woman he has loved and respected his whole life; witness the confidence he has nurtured in his three daughters. Stay the night; hear his footsteps come in at midnight after a long day’s work. That sound in the middle of the night is his head bowing in prayer although he is exhausted. Granted, the wealth is gone and the legacy unknown, but look at what the bombs did not destroy. Now tell me, am I really oppressed? The question makes me want to laugh. Now tell me, is he really the oppressor? The question makes me want to cry.

At times, I want to throw it all away: the education, the opportunities, the potential. I want to slip into the passenger seat of his cab and say: This is who I am. If he is going to be labeled, then give me those labels too. If you are going to look down on him, than you might as well peer down on me as well. Close this gap. Erase this line. There is no differentiation here. Of all the things I am, of all the things I could ever be, I will never be prouder than to say that I am of him.

I am this cabdriver’s daughter.