My Oxford

A push back against the romanticisation of the gleaming spires, ivory towers, and Inklings Cult in favour of everyday life

My Oxford is
visiting the Kilns, not because of C.S. Lewis,
but because I happen to have a friend living there now.

My Oxford is
wandering around Christchurch Meadows because
it's the most convenient place to meet a friend and go for a walk.

My Oxford
celebrates martyrs that most people don't even know,
yet prophesied a fire that has still not gone out today in my city.

My Oxford
has countless churches
of all denominations and theologies and traditions.

But my Oxford
is not the romantic notion that you will think it is.
It is not gleaming spires and ivory towers.

My Oxford is
the river.
It is cycling past open walls covered in graffiti art.
It's crawling along Abingdon Road on the bus.
It's Florence Park and Flo's Cafe, 
where the midwives look after you before you have your baby,
and your husband starts getting a real penchant for cinnamon buns
every time he takes you for a checkup.

My Oxford is
filled with parks,
not necessarily nice landscaped parks where you would go for a walk.
Or you might imagine Lewis and Tolkien strolling, discussing.
No, the parks I go to are full of ducks and swings and slides.
They're filled with the sounds of my child's giggles.

My Oxford is
an hour's walk into town, sometimes along the river,
sometimes through suburbia and inner city terraces,
in order to go along to baby and toddler group,
where I'm greeted by smiles of people who are practically family now.
People who know my child's name and habits and quirks almost as well as I do.

My Oxford is
J getting into church and already knowing as soon as she's down
where the stairs are that I don't want her to climb,
where we go for the services and,
most importantly, where the toys in the creche are.

My Oxford is 
really, really trying not to go shopping on a Sunday,
but we're out of milk and Sainsbury's is right next door to church,
so of course we're going to pop in.

My Oxford is
going to John Lewis with other mums to catch up
because it's one of few places that is big enough for all of us with prams
where we feel safe and comfortable.
Or going to the Weston Library Museum because,
as much as you think a library and museum cafe is not the place for a toddler,
they have the Toddelian.
And that is a game changer.

My Oxford isn't
gleaming spires and ivory towers.

My Oxford is
the Mama Flow WhatsApp group
where people recommend that you go to the Museum of Oxford or the Museum of Modern Art.
Not because they're trying to encourage you to be more intellectual about your life,
but because so many of the exhibits are interactive and can handle a toddler
climbing over them or giving an artistic impression at the end of the visit.

My Oxford is
ice creams in G&Ds with the kids group I helped with
to celebrate the end of the summer term.
And it's the joy that comes of introducing a friend to your favourite coffee shop
with the added bonus of having somehow collected enough stamps for two free coffees
and then the barista explains precisely how to make the best of your free coffee
and not to go for the set menu items.

My Oxford is,
on the rare occasions that I'm in town without a pram and a child,
when I get to go to the Independent Cafe and not for a takeaway.
I get to sit and pretend for a moment I'm a childless hipster
who can be there for as long as they want and read a book or work on a laptop.
And blend in with the students that take over every single seat.

My Oxford
is Bagley Woods
and the River Isis
and Wittenham Clumps
and Chilswell Fen.
And knowing that although I live in a city,
I can get out and breathe fresh air within minutes.

My Oxford is
the Isis Farmhouse,
knowing that there are places where formality doesn't exist,
where you can go, be yourself without having to fit in
with whatever it is that you think is how you should fit.

My Oxford is
being part of a place where walking around,
wearing dragon scale leggings,
and a top that says the milk bar is open because you're breastfeeding
is okay.

My Oxford
isn't academic;
it's not intellectual.
It's not Morse.
It's not Barnaby and Midsomer Murders.

My Oxford is
joyous and incredible.
It's not the Bodelian Library; it's the Westgate Library
as I run after J while they try to pull all the teenagers' books off the shelves
rather than looking at their own board books.

It's... home.

P.S. This post started life as a voice note with me listing the things I love about Oxford that were off the beaten track for most tourists. Spending time amongst the online community of The Rabbit Room fans had shown me that Oxford had been romanticised far more than I realised, especially with regards to C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. So I wanted to push back against that and show a different side to Oxford - the everyday side for those of us who call this city home.

P.P.S. Sorry there are no photos. As soon as we sort out the cloud storage switcheroo Mr FC is working on, I’ll get some up.