Oxford house

Our family lived in Oxford for a year when Jonathan was three years old. Jonathan doesn't have many memories of that time, but Tim and I do. More importantly, I still collaborate with the professor I worked with during that year. Since I would be traveling all the way to the UK, I arranged to stay an extra two weeks in Oxford to work on new projects with him. And because those two weeks overlapped with school holidays in Melbourne, I arranged to take the entire family again. I rented a little English row house for the two weeks. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, three people.

The house I rented ended up being very lovely, with a lot of character. It was built in the 1890s for canal workers and their families; a canal runs parallel to the back gardens of the houses on the other side of the street. The houses have mostly been updated since the time they were built. For example, they now have indoor plumbing. However, I think our carpet may have been original to the 1890s.

Aside from the carpet, it was a lovely little house.

This is what it looked like on the outside: We're one of those many houses in a row behind the cars.

Inside the master bedroom looked like this:

There was a cute little garden out the back. It was well-maintained and very lovely with autumn flowers. The shoes on the table in the garden were decorative, I think. They were there when we arrived, and we didn't touch them. Maybe we could have used them to stomp around in the mud in the garden, but we didn't actually go into the garden much. 

The kitchen was a long galley, with the dining area at the end. These were both added on since the 1890s, at the back of the house.

Living room. We didn't use the wood burning stove. We did turn on the TV a couple of times, though.

Front room, where Tim made his office for a week and a bit.

Bathroom, also updated since the 1890s. There was a shower in addition to the tub in the opposite corner. Luckily for the three of us trying to get clean in the mornings.

Smaller bedroom, where Jonathan stayed. 

The location was great. We could walk 20 minutes along the canal to the train station, or 15 minutes down the road to my colleague's office. Fifteen minutes in another direction took us to shops for groceries, and a five minute walk put us on a main road with many bus lines.

It was a lovely place to stay.

Hot breakfast

On Friday morning, I woke up a little early and decided to cook a nice breakfast.

The cooking took longer than expected, however, and even with the early rising we were finishing just barely with enough time to clean teeth, put on shoes, and run out the door to catch the tram.

From the tram I waved goodbye to Jonathan, and walked to the train. I took the train out to the suburbs, then caught the shuttle to my university, as usual.

Just as I was stepping off the shuttle, a little panicky voice in my head said:

"Wait! Do you remember to turn off the stove this morning?"

I paused.

Did I remember to turn off the stove?

Well, I know I turned on the stove, because I cooked breakfast, and it was cooked, not cold. And so the stove was on.

Did I remember turning it off?

I remember turning the stove down to low to simmer while breakfast was cooking. I remember taking the food off the stove. I remember eating the food. I remember washing the dishes. I even remember putting away the ingredients when finished. I remember all of that.

No, I didn't remember flipping the switch to turn off the stove.

And then the little voice in my head said:

"PANIC!!!! AAAAAAAAHH!!!! YOU'RE GOING TO BURN THE HOUSE DOWN!!!"

I paused there on the sidewalk, just off the shuttle, letting the students stream past on either side, like Moses parting the waters of the Red Sea, and I did a few calculations.

I could go home, to check that switch, to see if I turned it off. I could turn right around and get back on the shuttle to the train to the walk to the apartment, and I could run upstairs and check. I could be home within the hour. Would the house have burned down by then?

And then I took a deep breath, and sat that panicky voice down in my head, and told it that even though I don't remember explicitly turning off the stove, chances were 90% that I did. I reminded the voice that I had an important meeting on campus in 40 minutes. That I couldn't get home and back in  time. That I almost never moved a pot off the stove without turning it off. That even if I had forgotten to turn it off, there was nothing on the stove that could burn. That Italian cooks left their stoves on all day on low, albeit supervised. That surely I had turned the stove off, hadn't I? 90% surely. Or at least 85% surely. Maybe 80% surely. Surely?

And I took a shaky step forward.

And then another, and another.

And the panicky voice started to hyperventilate, screaming all the way, but I ignored it and walked to my office. And I started working. And I had a reasonable, albeit somewhat more stressful, day.

I hurried home right after my last meeting in the afternoon. Shuttle to train to walk to apartment. The apartment was still there, no smoke pouring from the windows. No firetrucks. Quiet. Calm.

"Mom, you're late. We need to go now!" said the teenager, just as I opened the door.

Bus to practice. One hour. Bus to home. And then, finally, 12 hours after finishing breakfast, I remembered to check the stove.

It was off.

Take that, little voice in my head, I said. It was off the whole time!

From now on, we're eating cold cereal for breakfast every morning.

In the UK

I attended a conference at Warwick University in England near the end of September. England is nearly on the opposite side of the world from Melbourne. To get there, you fly 14 hours to somewhere in Asia, spend a few hours in an airport, then fly 9 more hours to England. It is a very very long trip, especially if you are in economy class.

I was in economy class. My university won't pay for better seats.

But I knew the flight would be painful, so to maximise benefit to pain, I stayed three weeks.

They were three lovely weeks, early in autumn. It was nice to get a hint of autumn as we transition into spring in Australia.

Those weeks, weather in Melbourne and England was pretty much the same. There was some rain, some clouds, some sunshine. Temperatures hovered around the same maximums and the same minimums. Because the visit straddled the equinox, even the amount of daylight was about the same.

But even though the weather and the daylight were similar, I could tell I was not in Australia, because first, the accents were all different.

Second, the landscape was much greener and English-ier. Look at all those English-looking trees in the photo below. That does not look Australian.

And third, there were English ruins dating back to the 1600s or earlier. Kenilworth Castle is such a ruin. I visited Kenilworth on my first weekend, less than two days after that very long plane flight.

According to the tourist info provided, the castle was left in ruins after the English Civil War, to limit the amount of property of the monarchy. Now that the queen doesn't own the castle, you can walk all over it. Provided you pay your entrance fee. And so I did.

The gardens were lovely. They kept parakeets.

And here is a picture of me looking somewhat perplexed. Or perhaps that is my jet-lag face. In any case, I can offer it as proof that I was in England.

More pictures coming later.