All the memories. A smell, a sight, a sound. The smallest things evoke a flood of shadowy echoes from the past. I walk across a bridge then halt in my tracks with the sudden realization that I have done so before. Years ago. Yup, that’s the Oxford experience.
Walking around Christ Church a week or so ago, I spotted in a group of tourists, a tall man with immaculate blonde hair.
He walked as though he were constantly balancing a pile of china plates on top of his head. His attire was all black; black dress pants with a black coat with a short black cape and shiny, black shoes. He strutted along with a silver-topped walking stick and an air of complete superiority, not even bothering to look down his long nose at anybody around him. He seemed to take great pleasure in the fact that people stared at him. Definitely extremely egotistical and vain. Scurrying along, slightly behind him like a faithful sidekick, was a short, unremarkable man in a grey suit. Most likely, the egoist chose him as a companion in order to make highlight his own stature and striking looks.
Anyway, if I can manage to get complete strangers in eccentric clothing to pose for me, I’ll start a photopage. I’m sure that man would have posed, but it was probably a good thing I didn’t ask him. His ego was so big already that if I asked for a photoshoot, his enormous head might have become too heavy for his legs to support, and he would have fallen to the ground, unable to rise.
With tourists from every continent, Oxford is a mine for odd fashions. And the British themselves are known for eccentricity. All these weird clothes! You see all sorts of eccentrics here. Some you can’t tell until you talk to them. (aka my Physics teacher)
On the topic of British eccentricity, I remember our school pantomime of Cinderella in 4th year. 2 boys played the Ugly Stepsisters. One was named Max. Half the girls in the class were head over heels in love with him. I still don’t know why. His hair was shoulder length and he always blabbered on about his Greek heritage. The other was Oliver who we all called Ollie, a nice, sturdy boy with brown hair and a perpetual smile. They put on these poofy dresses and wore lipstick. It was hilarious.
This tradition of boys playing the evil/ugly women traces back to the days of Shakespeare when women were not allowed to act in plays. Men played female parts as well as male. The British, being British and therefore possessing a quirky sense of humor and a strong one of tradition, decided to continue this practice right up to modern times. We went to see a pantomime of Rapunzel one day, a man playing the witch role.
And no, I was not scarred. Things like that do not usually scar small children. They don’t think it’s weird. They just find it hysterical. At least, that’s how I was. . . .
Let’s see; is there anything I can say to make this post a little weirder. . . .? Hm, can’t think of anything at the moment. But be on the lookout for an Oxford fashion page. It -might- exist in the future.
Farewell.