First day of the holidays and I’d promised the kids I’d take them to Oxford. As I reflect on this fatherly gesture of kindness, I realise it was for my benefit more than theirs. Specifically, they wanted to go to the toyshop on the ring road. That was all they wanted to do. Centuries of history and the aura of the gentle dignity of learning can’t compete with a pop-up shed full of brightly coloured plastic things when you’re five.
I wanted to go to Oxford itself, to feel Oxford, to be a part of that silently whirring occult machinery. There are many things I always feel I should be doing more of: going for long walks, writing to my granny, taking photographs, braising, learning the names of birds and their tunes. Going to Oxford is always right at the top of the list but I’m still a stranger in that city, even though I’ve lived nearby for six or seven years.
Things seem to happen so fast there. I’ve never managed to feel the stillness that I enjoy in London, the sense of repose that comes with belonging somewhere. I’ve tried to linger but lunch never takes more than 20 minutes. Everyone has gone before I have had time to think anything beyond what I was already thinking. Even dinner only lasted half an hour last December. It’s like being part of a mad train-set where everything happens more quickly than normal. I’ve even tried staying at the Randolph Hotel, but when I woke up, all I could think about was the car.
Well, parking is a number. In London, parking is never really a problem. It’s expensive and never glamorous but you can, always. Sometimes in Oxford you just can’t. The last time we went there in the evening it was a Sunday, and the only place I could find to park meant I had to exit through the driver’s window and I still got to the theatre late.
It wasn’t a city designed around the car. It’s all squashed into a tiny space, like lunch. Two nannies, four children and myself left home well before nine in order to get a spot in the centre of town, but the pram was already causing problems before we left the car park. The city centre evidently predates the wheel. I’d gloated as I paid for six hours parking, but immediately discovered that if we stayed to watch a film in the afternoon, we’d get a ticket.
We marched on down the High Street towards Magdalen Bridge where the punts are kept. ‘Who wants to go on a boat with daddy?’ One of the three-year-olds showed some inclination, but only because he thought it was the way to get to the toyshop. Even one of the nannies was trying to run a mile. I’d carried this dream of a sunny day’s punting with the family through the bleak hotel rooms of Wolverhampton and Shepton Mallet while on tour. It was what had kept body and soul together. The day was here and my wife had to be somewhere else and now it started to rain and there was no one at the boathouse.
We walked along the Isis in the rain. There was too much goose poo for the three-year-olds to avoid waddling through a fair amount of it. A scary-looking man in leggings was playing Frisbee with his extra-large dog with one hand and drinking Tennent’s Super with the other. On the river a couple of beautiful women sculled quietly past. I suppose that is Oxford in a nutshell, the loud and repulsive on one side, the silent and sublime on the other, in the rain.
We were sitting under the canopy of St John’s boathouse when a couple wobbled past on a punt. The wife looked bored and I recognised something of myself in the husband. Still, soon I had persuaded most of the kids and one of the nannies aboard our punt and we were gliding up a side stream. It was all pretty murky. The children wanted to pull slimy things out of the water in between licking their fingers. ‘It’s dirty,’ I said. ‘Stop that, or no toyshop.’ Then tears.
Punting is tricky. It’s like trying to park a bus using only a long matchstick. I always nearly fall in. I’ve never actually fallen in, though. Maybe that was why I felt so confident. The pole got stuck in the mud. I gave it a good yank, fell off the back and took a spectacular header into the dirtiest stretch of the Thames I’ve ever seen. Underneath the slimy surface it actually felt quite clean and refreshing as I paddled back towards daylight. The kids were howling with delight. One of the nannies was crying, she was laughing so much. The other was trying to take photographs from the bank. A couple walking their dog stopped to watch. Suddenly the sun was shining and everyone was laughing. Everything was all right. We went and had milkshakes. Really good milkshakes. Somehow everyone had relaxed, including me. Baptised. Initiated. At ease. Must go to Oxford more often.
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