Okay, brain trust:

I've got a D.Phil to do and no office to call my own in which to do it. Can you help?

I'm not looking for a hotdesk or a library; there are plenty of those, and I can't leave all my stuff there or take a nap in the corner. My department's been of no help whatsoever, bless 'em.

I require a space within Oxford's ring road where I can bash out this thesis, reliably and steadily, for a minimum three-month period. I'm willing to entertain

    • Cohabitations with others
    • Garden sheds
    • Plantsitting for fieldworking fellows
    • Paying rent, in money or otherwise
    • Hidden parts of your department you can give me a key to

    I'm not willing to entertain

    • Cohabitation with a smoker
    • Rooms without windows

    If you know of an opportunity, a space, or a friend who's going away for a while and willing to let me take their spot, I'd be grateful for the tip. If you're in the same situation and you want to try joining forces, let me know, too.

    Big hugs to all of you.

    In gratitude,



    (A poem for reading me all the way through:

    And when at last grief has dried you out, nearly
    weightless, like a little bone, one day,
    no reason in particular, the world decides to tug:
    twinge under the breastbone, the sudden thought
    you might stand up, walk to the door and
    keep on going… And in the seconds following,
    like the silence following the boom under the river ice, it all
    seems possible, the egg-smooth clarity of the new-awakened,
    rising, to stand, and walk… But already
    at the edges of the crack, sorrow
    starts to ooze, the brown stain spreading
    and you think: there is no end to it.

    But in the breaking, something else is given—not
    that glittering jumble, shrieking and churning in the blind
                                                       centre of the afternoon,
    but something else—a scent,
    like a door flung open, a sudden downpour
    through which you can still see the sun, derelict
    in the neighbour’s field, the wren’s bright eye in the thicket.
    As though on that day in August, or even July,
    when you were first thinking of autumn, you remembered also
    the last day of spring, which had passed
    without your noticing. Something that easy, let go
    without a thought, untroubled by oblivion,
    a bird, a smile.
    - Jan Zwicky - )