Mr Thorndike, I presume.....

At Large Mansions, Concretia, despite her status as Ace Of Spades in our own house of cards, still stands resolute. Battered, but resolute. I attend Friday morning's Introduction to Social Anthropology Lecture with the abomination that is Concretia very much on my mind. Pretty soon, the anticipation of basking in the rays of knowledge cast by my Lecturer cast thoughts of Concretia from my mind, and I arrive at the lecture, five minutes early, sit in my accustomed seat (the furthest away from the furtive sounds of texting), and assemble, in good order, my pens, highlighters, notes, textbook, writing pad and lecture notes. All is going well, and it is a good early (by University standards - I have been to Large Mansions to meet my tradesmen, sent a few e-mails and had breakfast) start.

The lecturer fires up Powerpoint and the first slide hits the screen. I halt in the middle of note taking, because the topic of the lecture is "Dirt, Pollution, Taboo and Abomination". The blasted slab jumps immediately back into the forefront of what passes for 'mind' in the Old Noggin, and I have to regain a little composure before fully attending today's topic. As it happens, the topic does not actually refer to Concretia, although the definition provided for 'pollution' by Mary Douglas, the anthropologist of "matter out of place" certainly applies. Without, at this time describing the topic in detail, I find it spooky (perhaps because it is HAlloween) how many anthropologists have come close to the findings of the masterpiece "Civilization- Why???", and if it were not for the fact that some of these people stumbled upon their research some time ago, I would have justifiable grounds for crying "Plagiarists! They're all out to copy me". At the end of the lecture, I decide to introduce the lecturer, gently, to the concepts of "Civilization- Why?" by asking her if she can point me in the general direction of some cross-cultural studies on taboo "as I've been doing a bit of work in the area myself".

She looks at me closely,

"...Well....yess and no. Have you been talking to Richard?"

The glint in her eye, and the tone of her voice are a dead giveaway that she is a victim of a phenomenon I have very recently learnt about, namely "Classic Conditioning". Not only that, but her attitude demonstrates another phenomenon that I have very recently been lectured on, and that is the phenomenon of "priming".

Further evidence, as if it was needed, is provided when she stats hastily (Flight or Fright Theory, MicGuiness, 1465) gathering up her laptop and lecture notes. Richard, it seems, her research assistant, has obviously "primed" her to my advances, and in a clear case of classic conditioning if I ever saw one, she has reacted, not with free-will (or ID, as Freud has it), but as a typical Structuralist, and with a mien suggestive of the whole "Frustration-Aggression Complex" (Tyler-Hammick, 1902) has started salivating (probably because she recognises an opportunity to nick me whole theory) which, if you ask me, is as Operant as it gets.

I come round, and realize that the whole thing has been a horrible dream, and that I'm so tired that I have fallen asleep during 'Onka's Big Mokka' , a film about recirocity in Papua, New Guinea. Later that day, back at Large Mansions, I do demomstrate some real aggression towards the scaffolder who still has not removed the scaffold (that we had erected so that the place could be roofed) and who is now holding up all our work on the new extension. Later that afternoon the scaffold gets removed, which makes me happy, but what does not make me happy is that dealing with tradesmen (yes, unfortunately they are all MEN) is just same-old, same-old pointless macho bullshit, and the reason that the scaffolder has been dragging his feet is because I shouted at him weeks ago and he's been sulking/proving-a-point ever since. I did'nt realize, and just thought he was an idiot, which is why I shouted at him in the first place.


I've done this construction politics/ shit in various guises for twenty years, and it is just so old. Uni could not have come at a better time and despite the fact that I'm as genuinely confused about the facts I am learning in Uni as my dream would suggest, it is new. And not just new-therefore-novel-therefore-good, because with our Gypsy-esque lifestyle, we have 'done' new to Death, and 'new' for it's own sake lost it's appeal about three moves ago (Ontario-Nova Scotia-Birmingham), but new as in interesting, challenging, fun, thought-provoking.

A noisy Introduction

"Mmmgnafghh" is admittedly a curious noise. And it is no wonder that a noise such as "Mmmgnafghh" would attract the attention of practically anyone who hears it. Much to the distress of the most recent undergraduate of your collective experiences. "Mmmgnafghh" might be emitted in a variety of circumstances, to whit:

#1. When falling off a climbing wall at an altitude of less than nine inches.
#2. When getting attacked by a hungry black bear
#3. When riding one's Hog, or other two wheeled vehicular transport over a particularly bumpy road in the direction of Kejimakujic National Park

I can think of several other examples, but I am too kind to include them, even though "When getting run over by a lawnmower" does sound extremely funny.

All of which should not distract from the plain fact that shortly after sitting down in my tutor's office for a seminar on Reflective Learning, among a group of complete strangers whose presence, age and, admittedly, sex, made me quite apprehensive, "Mmmgnafghh" did, once again, erupt from the old mouth, involuntarily and completely unwelcomed.

The circumstances are to do with how we(ie RHB and self) are currently (dis)-organised, as we adapt to the change in circumstances which has accompanied my undergraduateness. It has become very, very obvious very, very, very quickly that if I have a seminar/workshop at 12.15 at the University, I may possibly have to rethink my scheduling. Specifically, this would refer to organising meetings with tradesmen ( at Large Villas) that are timed so that I just about have enough time to get to the University thing after the meeting, provided I can sprint (in my dirty site clothes) from the house renovation (Large VIllas) to Nickson Mansions (our apartment), shower, get changed into my Uni-togs, jump on the trusty Crosstowner, and ride like the very divil hisself to the Wilberforce Building.

This scheme, which for the moment I will refer to as my 'plan', is, as I discovered, full of potential. There is the potential that the shower in our attractive-on-the-surface-but-so-badly-done-in-practice apartment will not be working. There is also the potential that the trusty Crosstowner has suffered a slow puncture, likewise that the cat will choose to escape, and double likewise that the only clean top I have is creased like tissue paper. On this day, all of these potentials are realised, as I sprint to make my seminar after a meeting which went on too long. I pull my jeans from the dryer, which has malfunctioned, and nearly cooked all my clothes instead of drying them, float some of RHB's deodorant under each arm and liberally across the chest, and nurse my valiant steed Universitywards.

Miraculously, I arrive at my tutor's office with five minutes to spare, enter at the appointed time, and then wait for the rest of my seminar group to turn up. As I am rapidly learning, undergraduates are late for F****ing everything, and are completely unapologetic about it. Eventually, the rest of the seminar group arrive, with an attitude that seems to say that the tutor is lucky they decided to show up. A big part of me wants them to get a job in Leeds. Nevertheless, the lecturer starts the session.

I am very uncomfortable with the topic we are about to discuss. This is because we are about to discuss a Chapter of our assigned text titled "Issues Around Reflective Learning". I do not have to read further than this Chapter title to realize that me and this topic are going to have issues of our own, and that if I do reflect at all about the topic, it is with an accompanying sense of nausea. Nevertheless, I have independently researched the topic and have written three pages of foolscap notes, littered with phrases I intend to use in the seminar, phrases such as 'Bullshit', 'Twaddle' and the familiar stand-by 'Post Modern, Freudian pseudo-scientific clap-trap'. Naturally, I have referenced research papers to back up my opinions.

Unfortunately, as the rest of my colleagues take their seats, my uncomfortability with the topic is matched only by the uncomfortability rendered by my jeans, which, having been cooked in our malfunctioning dryer are now tighter thanI am used to. As an expectant silence settles on the Prof's office, I lean back in my chair, and attempt a re-jig. This involves crossing my legs. It is at this moment that the "Mmmgnafghh" is emitted. Apparently, the seam betwixt my legs has issues around the contents of my physiology that occupy the same space and exerts a sudden, inexorable, intense and focused pressure on the now totally-redundant-for-at-least-the-next-five-hours aforementioned objects. Experience (I was after all a Goth and used to wear VERY tight jeans) has taught that relief can be obtained by instant, gentle massage, but that is probably a questionable route, given the circumstances, so I opt for a massive cough and banging my notebook around as if I am arranging it.

The professor, still with a look of mild surprise on her face, invites us to reflect on what we have learned since our course began.

The Fresher's Ball

"Do you fancy a pint", except in JJ's rough Dublin brogue it sounds like "Djy fancy oh poyint?".

Twenty minutes later, sitting in Sleepers, nursing a poyint of Worthington's Cream Flow, we agree that we'll just "have the one". It's Monday after all, about five thirty pm and our first day of proper lectures has just finished. Naturally, midnight comes and goes and the good stuff is still flowing, except now we've moved to JJ's kitchen and its two stiff fingers of Bushmills each. The acid test comes, inevitably, as JJ is pouring the juice. He glances casually at me and asks

"Yer want some ice in that or something?"

I look at him like he's from Mars, and nothing further needs to be said. We sit there and sip, neatly. Perhaps us getting along (as we have been doing), is not just because we're the only men in the class, but I do sense that although my new found comrade in arms and I have hit it off immediately, I shall be missing out on an important facet of University life if I dont also attempt to mix a little more broadly.

The question of how to do so without being either creepy, or well, creepy, is one I am considering the next day when I pass our Departmental noticeboard and discover to my horror that I have been placed in a small seminar group that, self excepted, consists entirely of young female students. I realize quickly that it is not the 'female' that particularly bothers me, it is the 'young'. Young people can be scary and tend to notice all sorts of things that us old'uns do not - things like the make of one's trainers, nose hair, ear hair, lack of hair and excess hair in the form of sloppy, unshaved chins, and if my trendy English nieces are any guide, they also notice very quickly when an old person is trying too hard to be young. Immediately, I decide that my safest bet is to adopt an air of studied nonchalance, perhaps with a suggestion of wisdom, while steering clear of being patronising, but above all, to appear genuine.

A Few Raised Eyebrows

The first week of university ends as it has begun - with total confusion, exclusively mine. It has been a massively enjoyable week, made inspirational by my first visit to the Library, but it has become clear that Universities, in common with every large organization in the world, are minute simulacrum of the world as a whole - overly complex organisms to which the streamlining power of computers has recently added another layer of complexity. The only difference between the University of Hull, and the malevolent Government Departments that I first encountered on being re-cast upon British shores, is that the University of Hull is not malevolent. Far from it in fact, it is a welcoming, friendly place. The casual racism, sexism and just bullshit macho rudeness that was my work environment in Leeds, is replaced by the Polar opposite - an atmosphere, at least in my Department, of good humour, open-ness and positivity. Quite frankly, the week has been brilliant.

The 'but' that you are quite correctly waiting for, is twofold. Firstly, I have always considered my self as somewhat of a dab hand with maps, and orientation in general. A strange effect of being a First Year Student in the first week of their first year, is that I, in common with every other First Year, have completely lost the ability to navigate, and in common with Christopher Columbus, have gained the ability to delude ourselves completely as to our exact location, even going as far as sitting in a lecture that is quite clearly about Particle Physics, for a full twenty minutes before meekly raising the hand and admitting the "I think I'm in the wrong place".

THe other 'but' is that necessarily, the first week lectures have been light on stone hard facts. Very little, if any, nitty-gritty has been gotten down to. Instead, the lectures have been gentle inductions into various matters - money, ethics, plagiarism - and I was getting a bit restless until I sat through the "What to do if you find yourself in a Particle Physics Lecture by mistake" segment of our Induction into Professional Behaviour, and discovered that apart from being slightly more prompt in admitting their error, the friend who found themselves in the wrong lecture had actually behaved correctly. I therefore awarded this friend 10/10 for their first week.

Next week, nitty and gritty are apparently going to coincide, so I'll have to buy some books and a pen.