#st edmunds hall

[magicaloxford]

The library of St Edmund Hall in Oxford is located in the medieval St Peter-in-the-East Church. To see the twelfth-century crypt that lies below, look under the cut ★

The mysterious crypt of Oxford's St Peter-in-the-East ★

[bethanydelleman]

So I read Jane Eyre after I watched a confusing adaptation (2011, I literally never figured out who Adele was), and hearing a lot about it from friends. I expected to hate Rochester. I also expected to hate the final ship.

and I DID hate Rochester! He was such a jerk! The chapter where he proposes was awful. Why is he making her believe he’s going to marry Blanche if he’s in love with Jane? What is wrong with this man?!?

But then I met St. John Rivers and I was so extremely and totally creeped out that I honestly thought: 

BRING ME BACK THE BIGAMIST

Cheered when she went back to find Rochester and then married him. Did not hate the final ship at all.

So I guess my assessment of men is mediated by the goodness of other men within book? Maybe I like Henry Crawford of Mansfield Park because the Bertrams suck so much? Maybe I like Gilbert Markham because the other men in Tenant are the bottom of the barrel? Like the scum under the bottom of the barrel or the bugs hiding under the barrel...

I don’t know. I try to be objective. But then I think the point of Mansfield Park is that you start to root for Henry and Fanny, or at least for Henry to be better. If I believe Gilbert is as bad as Arthur, than the ending of Tenant is just so freaking depressing. I guess I’m accepting the world the author built, she tells me Gilbert is essentially a good guy who messed up but is capable of growth, I’m in.

But I guess who is really objective anyway? As much as I true to use quotes and sources, are we not all half running on vibes?

[rainintheevening]

Part I - Part II ... Part XVIII - Part XIX

It hurts to see Peter hurting.

More than the state of their city (still theirs), more than the shattered buildings (he imagines the inferno of Christmas with a little shiver), even more than the dark smudges under their mother's eyes (he and Susan make all the meals during the holidays), it's Peter who wrenches at his heart, ache welling behind Ed's sternum.

He sees how Peter yearns for a sword, an enemy, a way to make all the brokenness around them right. More than sees, though, Edmund knows.

Knows the hunger that eats at the back of the throat, the way a single page in the newspaper swamps security like a tidal wave, the helplessness that weighs shoulders and hands till falling to fury or despair seem the only choices available. Hunger and helplessness had been his old play-fellows, back Before, and now he finds their heads reared again, but he also finds himself too taken up with watching over his brother to pay much attention to them. He forgets himself in his concern for Peter.

Peter does not cry again, not that Edmund sees or hears at least. He sleeps little, laughs less.

The girls too are shaken by the alterations to what had once been their world, but Lucy laughs more than she cries, and Susan steps easily into the motherly role.

Peter does all the shopping. In the span of their three weeks holidays, he also fixes all the bicycles in the garden shed, digs up the whole bed of the Victory garden, mends two broken chairs and a chest of drawers, takes a broken clock to pieces (Ed is the one who finds the problem), and fights four different boys, two of them more than once.

Many of the children who had stayed through the whole of the bombing are quick to sneer at those who did not.

“As if we chose to go!” Edmund complains.

“Cowards,” hisses Daisy Moore as she passes them in the churchyard, and her brother laughs.

“Got scared by a few rockets, and left your poor mother all alone in her shelter, listening to us all burn?”

Ed does not relax his grip on Peter's arm until Daisy and Danny have disappeared, until the tremble of taught muscles under his hand has melted away, until the growl has died in Peter's throat.

“Look,” Ed says with forced lightness, guiding Peter toward the street where Lucy leans against a small tree, singing to herself. “I know it was terrible, but there's no call for talking like that. It might make you feel better for a moment, but it makes someone else feel horrid for awhile, so it's definitely a sum-total loss.”

Peter does not answer.

The next day he and Susan come home from a walk, and his sleeve is torn and there is blood on his knuckles.

“They insulted Susan,” is all he says to Edmund in the mirror, bent over, washing wounded hands.

Edmund is glad when they go back to school.

At St. Maurice’s, Peter's responsibilities are clear, he's respected, he has the wide open sky and the wild moors to ride over.

They step off the train at the village station, and Ed sees him breathing deep, smiling at Colin's enthusiastic greeting, leaping to catch a stolen cap and prolong a wild chase along the platform.

Ed joins Peter very early for a ride the next morning, slapped awake by the cold wet May air, but he sees the light in Peter's eyes, the way he greets each horse in turn, and Ed strokes Rose's neck, tickles under her chin as he smiles himself.

“Perhaps he'll be alright.”

But then this term Wollers is gone, graduated, good, steady old boy off to the war, and the new Head Boy ticks Peter off twice in the first week for ‘interfering’, slaps Alexander Morrow in Ed's form with a hundred lines (in French!) for cheeking him in the hall, and generally does his best to let everyone know he's in charge, while also making everyone hate him for it.

Ed hates it, especially for Peter's sake, when Peter's only a year younger and also named head of the Sixth Form. A few weeks in, Peter joins Ed on the way in to lunch, and his brow is drawn low over still-smouldering eyes, jaw set in a hard line.

“Beaumont”, he says, without preamble. “Trying to tell me what to do about Gilly when it's a Sixth Form matter. Now who’s interfering?”

“Not you,” Ed says mildly, watches Peter's shoulders drop, watches him exhale. “Just don't give him the satisfaction of marking you up for anything,” he adds.

“I know, I know,” Peter sighs. “Jolly well wish I could box him, but I can't unless he starts it. I don't know why they chose him.”

At least Pete has rugger to shine at, Ed thinks. Peter had sat his Junior Cert at the end of last term (and passed with Credit or Distinction in all subjects, which Ed is very proud of him for) so he's more relaxed with his own studies, making time for more tutoring of the young ones, and making the rugby team.

Edmund tries out for the Junior team, gets named a spare. He knows he's not strong, but he is fast, and slippery.

A letter from Dad comes, forwarded from Mum, and it is cheerful, telling them things they already know about the successes in North Africa, expounding on his work learning Arabic, giving a brief written sketch of the desert sunset that strikes up vividly at them like heat from the sand till Edmund can see it as clearly as the view west from Tashbaan.

Peter is quiet though, broody for days after. Ed watches, wonders, worries.

Three months and Peter will be 17, a year off of signing up. Sometimes Edmund is certain Peter would have already gone, fudged his age and signed his name; he doesn't doubt they would take a strapping youth like Peter with very few questions. But he'd promised Mum, and Peter Pevensie is not a promise-breaker.

He's also not the only one hurting, not the only one missing Dad, missing Narnia, but Ed doesn't like to worry his brother, doesn't want to add to the concerns Peter carries.

There are questions sitting somewhere in his stomach, and he tries to ignore them, but they've grown heavier over the days, weeks, months. Time ticking by, another spring, and something about the sunrises, the green flush racing across the quad, rising in the victory garden, the apple trees by the stables bursting into bloom, it makes the longing flare bright in him.

As always the memories stay hazy, sometimes fearfully so, only brought back in sharp relief, a cleared streak in fogged up glass, in odd moments. Ed thinks there's a pattern in it—when a lie hovers on the tip of his tongue, he hears Oreius's voice; when Peter turns with an angry word, he remembers tense council rooms; when an apology fails to melt Edmund's own shame, he sees Tumnus's face. But there are smaller, less specific flashes too, and one day, hard at work with the violin in one of the practice rooms, he gets lost in the music, notes dancing under his fingers, spinning, swooping, diving, soaring, and he plays and plays and plays until he coasts to a halt, stands breathless and a little dizzy, feeling exactly as he had after his first real flight on the back of a gryphon, and his hand on the bow grips involuntarily tighter, as if feathers and fur are slipping through his fingers.

“Oh, don't stop.”

A hoarse whisper making Ed spin round, but it is only Peter leaning in the doorway, yearning writ large across his face, until their eyes meet and it twists into sorrow.

Only then does Edmund realise his cheeks are wet, and he pivots quickly back, lays the violin down gentle, deliberate.

Peter says nothing, but he comes across the room, stands close behind, close enough that Ed decides he doesn't care, and turns, falls into Peter's chest.

Arms wrap strong around him, smile bunches the cheek that presses against his head, but still Peter says nothing, and Edmund is glad. Just for a minute he hides his face in his big brother's shoulder, and lets himself cry. Peter holds him, safe and tight, and he stays, sniffling into Peter’s vest, until Peter says, “It sounded like Narnia. What was it?”

Ed sighs, pulls away to scrub a sleeve across his nose. “I don't know. It just sort of… came over me. Or out of me. Or to me– I don't know.”

Slow grinning pride breaks across Peter's face. “So you're a composer now too!”

And Ed must needs shove him away, rolling his eyes. “I didn't exactly write it down, so I'll probably never be able to play it again.”

“That doesn't change how beautiful it was,” Peter says, hopeful and true like Edmund needs him to be.

He fingers the violin strings, plucking them gently, tick tock tick tock tick, and he says it quiet.

“It's been about ten years. In Narnia. Without us. If the time difference between the professor's visit and ours is consistent.”

“Corin will be a man,” Peter murmurs in the surprised tone of grown-ups talking about nieces or nephews they haven't seen in ages. “And what would you bet Aravis and Cor are married?”

“Peridan and Anna must have several children by now.” Ed’s voice catches in his throat at the thought of his friend, who had sworn he would make Edmund godfather of all his sons, as well as letting him teach them all how to fight. And oh, Ed had stood up at his wedding as best man, hadn't he? While Peter had given Anna away, in lieu of long-lost father or brothers.

“Erah and Pearl–” Peter starts, but can't finish.

“We weren't trying to leave,” Edmund says. “I wish they knew that.”

“We were only following Lucy into another adventure.” Peter has a little half-smile on his lips, and then his arm around Ed’s shoulders is warm.

“The professor said it wouldn't all be easy.” Edmund rests his head on Peter's shoulder.

“Do you ever wish-?” Peter starts, but cuts himself off with a decided “No, I don't.”

Edmund knows, he's wondered himself, once or twice on difficult days, but he always answers the same as Peter. He'll always be grateful they had been brought to Narnia.

But there's one question he does hesitate over, as the seasons change, and the clock ticks on, and he voices it now, barely above a whisper: “Are you so sure we'll go back?”

“Of course,” Peter says at once. “Aslan said we would always be kings and queens of Narnia. We'll get back somehow.”

“You're sure?” Edmund pulls away enough to look hard up into Peter's eyes, searching for a hint of doubt.

“Quite. We have to.” Peter swallows hard, looks away out the window where the rain falls steady in the quad. “We have to,” softer now.

Ed sees the longing in his brother's eyes, and he wishes suddenly that just being here with Edmund and the music and the rain was enough for Peter. But he loves his brother anyway.

“Alright, your majesty,” he says lightly. “Now come on, the supper bell will ring any minute.”

He snaps the clasps on the violin case closed, leads the way out of the room, humming the whisper of wings in a blue sky.

Behind him, Peter is silent.

Next

[aimeedaisies]

Court Circular | 1st October 2024

St James’s Palace

The Princess Royal, Court Member, the Fishmongers’ Company, this afternoon visited a Food Technology Class at Bingley Grammar School, Keighley Road, Bingley, and was received by His Majesty’s Lord-Lieutenant of West Yorkshire (Mr Edmund Anderson).

Her Royal Highness, President, UK Fashion and Textile Association, later visited SIL Group’s Fibre Processing Mill at Ladywell Mills, Hall Lane, Broomfields, Bradford, West Yorkshire.

The Princess Royal subsequently visited Viking Arms Limited, New York Mill, New York Industrial Estate, Summerbridge, Harrogate, and was received by His Majesty’s Lord-Lieutenant of North Yorkshire (Mrs Joanna Ropner).

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Katherine Stewart at TNR (08.10.2023):

Earlier this year, nearly 1,000 supporters of “National Conservatism” gathered at the semicircular auditorium of the Emmanuel Centre, an elegant London meeting hall a couple of blocks south of Westminster Abbey, to hear from a range of scholars, commentators, politicians, and public servants. NatCon conferences, as they are often called, have been held in Italy, Belgium, and Florida and are broadly associated with what is increasingly called the “New Right.” In London, speakers denounced “woke politics,” blamed immigration for the rising cost of housing, and said modern ills could be solved with more religion and more (nonimmigrant) babies. The break room was lined with booths from organizations such as the Viktor Orbán–affiliated Danube Institute, the U.K.-based conservative think tank the Bow Group, the Heritage Foundation, and the legal powerhouse Alliance Defending Freedom, which is headquartered in Arizona but has expanded to include offices in nearly a half-dozen European cities. When I attended NatCon London in May, I heard a number of American accents in the crowd, and I was not surprised to see Michael Anton, a former national security official in the Trump administration and a senior fellow at the Claremont Institute, a right-wing think tank, on the lineup. These days, Anton and other key representatives of the Claremont Institute seem to be everywhere: onstage at the Conservative Political Action Conference (CPAC); at the epicenter of Ron DeSantis’s “war on woke”; and on speed-dial with GOP allies including Josh Hawley, J.D. Vance, and Donald Trump.

Most of us are familiar with the theocrats of the religious right and the anti-government extremists, groups that overlap a bit but remain distinct. The Claremont Institute folks aren’t quite either of those things, and yet they’re both and more. In embodying a kind of nihilistic yearning to destroy modernity, they have become an indispensable part of right-wing America’s evolution toward authoritarianism. Extremism of the right-wing variety has always figured on the sidelines of American culture, and it has enjoyed a renaissance with the rise of social media. But Claremont represents something new in modern American politics: a group of people, not internet conspiracy freaks but credentialed and influential leaders, who are openly contemptuous of democracy. And they stand a reasonable chance of being seated at the highest levels of government—at the right hand of a President Trump or a President DeSantis, for example.

[...]

Founded in 1979 in the city of Claremont, California (but not associated in an official way with any of the five colleges there), the Claremont Institute provided enthusiastic support for Donald Trump in 2016. Individuals associated with Claremont now fund and help run the National Conservativism gatherings; Claremont Institute chairman and funder Thomas D. Klingenstein also funds the Edmund Burke Foundation, which has held those National Conservatism conferences across the globe. Claremont is deeply involved in DeSantis’s effort to remake Florida’s state universities in the model of Hillsdale College—a private, right-wing, conservative Christian academy in Michigan whose president, Larry Arnn, happens to be one of the institute’s founders and former presidents. Claremont honored DeSantis at an annual gala with its 2021 “Statesmanship Award,” and the governor returned the favor by organizing a discussion with a “brain trust” that included figures associated with the Claremont Institute. If either Trump or DeSantis becomes president in 2024, Claremont and its associates are likely to be integral to the “brain trust” of the new administration. Indeed, some of them are certain to become appointees in the administrative state that they wish (or so they say) to destroy.

The Claremont Institute in the Trump era has become a clearinghouse for far-right and fascistic ideas.  

[theuniversitychallengereview]

Dopamining

Yesterday I listened to a podcast about dopamine and the other 'feel-good' brain hormones oxytocin, seratonin and endorphins. It feels kind of like cheating to include endorphins as a single thing when there are actually a bunch of different endorphins, but it means you get to use the cool acronym DOSE so I can't begrudge the neuroscientists too much for it. Or should it be the neuropsychologists? The brain people.

We all know that we are on our phones far too much, and yet we continue to be on our phones far too much.

The little dopmaine hit you get from reading a tweet or scrolling TikTok or watching a hundred Instagram reels is a lot easier to get than the satisfaction you get from reading a book or practicing guitar, and it staves off the boredom that arises if you just sit there with, god forbid, nothing to do but think.

But you are never satisfied when you stop watching the Instagram reels, or when you finish a session of playing 5-minute blitz chess matches while waiting for the bus. You always want more. If you've played five matches you want to play five more. If you've watched thirty reels you want to watch thirty more.

This feeling then carries over into the moments when we are not on our phones too, because we have crashed our supply of dopamine meaning that it is harder to achieve the non-phone-based things we want to do, like cooking dinner or building a spreadsheet. So we go back on our phone and order something from Deliveroo then play a few more games of chess while we're waiting for the food to arrive.

We started the day with the intention of planning a holiday and assembling a bookshelf, but after we woke up and spent twenty minutes on YouTube shorts there was no motivation left for anything else.

Why, then, am I telling you this when I have posted this article on Twitter with the intention of hijacking your attention for the brief fix of a University Challenge review?

Because I am part of the problem too.

I am trying to steal your dopamine for my own selfish social media ambitions, to steal your motivation and get you hooked on these reviews just like Facebook is. The only difference is that I haven't used your data to become a billionaire.

So if you've come to me from Twitter then get off here now - leave your phone and your headphones behind and go find the nearest tree. Stare at it, touch it if you like, then come back and tell me how you feel.

Ah, I forgot one step - subscribe to the blog so that you don't need to rely on Twitter's increasingly spiteful algorithm to find me. Instead I will arrive fully formed in your email inbox and you can read me at your leisure.

Sign up for The University Challenge Review

Next week we can deal with oxytocin, but for now, let's get on with the episode.

Darwin College, Cambridge vs Birkbeck.

This is Darwin's third appearance on the Challenge, losing a tight semi-final to St Edmund Hall on their debut in 2019. Birkbeck won the trophy in 2003, but didn't appear again until 2020, and they have made two quarter-finals since then

Here's your first starter for ten

Darwin captain Whitaker takes the opening points with Where Angels Fear To Tread, setting the tone for the rest of the match. His team is made up of three women, and the Birkbeck team also has two women, meaning that the men are numerically outnumbered, which is quite a rare occurrence.

The picture starter also goes to Whitaker. That's three for him - it's going to get more difficult to keep trackas the show goes on.

Van Onzenoort bounces back for Birkbeck with elasticity, and they mixed up their answers on glass-making processes, giving super-cooling twice rather than tempering and annealing. A second for Van Onzenoort wins Birkbeck a bonus set on Sicilian foods, including one on cakes which Skidmore isn't much help on because he's 'not that into cakes'.

Hamilton gives Whitaker his fourth starter of the night, and Max Factor (who was apparently a real person, after whom the makeup brand is named) continues his streak.

Evans takes the music starter with Frank Sinatra, but they can't maintain the momentum and Whitaker returns with David Hume.

Van Onzenoort keeps Birkbeck in it with Bayes, and Evans grabs the second picture starter to close the gap even further. When Moorthy takes her first points with All Quiet on the Western Front they are only 25-points behind.

Whitakeover

But it is at this stage that Whitaker takes complete control of the match for Darwin, with four starters back to back on a wide variety of subjects (Venus, Albanian refugees in Italy, Salisbury Cathedral and the 800s).

Have you been counting? I might have missed one out so I'll just tell you - he finished with eleven (11!) starters, which is the highest of the series so far.

He was also the only person on his team to get a starter, which might be a record of some sort. Look out for him in the next round!

Darwin 205 - 110 Birkbeck

I hadn't realised quite how impressive Whitaker was until I saw all of his plaudits on social media, but eleven starters is a stonking performance, and Birkbeck couldn't keep up with him at all.

In fact, his points from starters alone would have tied Birkbeck's total.

See you next week (by which time you'll all have subscribed so you don't have to crash your dopamine supplies on Twitter) for Durham vs Oriel, a rematch of the 2000 Grand Final.

[ginandoldlace]

St Edmund Hall, University of Oxford

St Edmund Hall, a medieval gem off the High Street, is open to the public FREE OF CHARGE until 4pm this summer, unless there is an event - more details on the college website. A peek into the chapel in the last photo

[ao3feed-kathony]

The Legacy Of Aubrey Hall

read it on AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/51189133 by WaterlilyRose Kate Sharma is the new custodian and caretaker of Aubrey Hall. The once fine house has been abandoned for years and no-one ventures near it - there are rumours that it is haunted. Not easily scared, Kate moves in. And finds the house is indeed haunted by a ghost from the regency era. Who himself is haunted by the ghosts of past mistakes. Words: 19195, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Bridgerton (TV), Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Categories: F/M Characters: Anthony Bridgerton, Kate Sheffield | Kate Sharma, Edwina Sheffield | Edwina Sharma, Mary Sheffield | Mary Sharma, Benedict Bridgerton, Colin Bridgerton, Violet Bridgerton, Edmund Bridgerton, Daphne Bridgerton, Sophie Beckett, Gregory Bridgerton, Hyacinth Bridgerton, Francesca Bridgerton, Gareth St. Clair, Penelope Featherington, Agatha Danbury, Charlotte zu Mecklenburg-Strelitz | Charlotte Queen of the United Kingdom, George III of the United Kingdom Relationships: Anthony Bridgerton/Kate Sheffield | Kate Sharma, Sophie Beckett/Benedict Bridgerton, Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington, Simon Basset/Daphne Bridgerton Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Halloween, Anthony Bridgerton Pines Over Kate Sheffield | Kate Sharma, Bittersweet Ending, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Baggage, Haunted Houses, Anthony Bridgerton Loves Kate Sheffield | Kate Sharma, Past Character Death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Implied Sexual Content, Dirty Talk, Isolation, References to Depression, Sexual Repression, Self-Esteem Issues, Declarations Of Love, Song: Jenny of Oldstones (A Song of Ice and Fire) read it on AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/51189133

[captaintoomanybattles]

Prompt from @pooslie :

King Bucky with metal hand and his lover, Steve Rogers who is minor  gentry but gets rapidly promoted that the king re-creates an entire  dukedom for him.

based on King  James (of "King James Bible" fame) was so notoriously involved with his  male lover (George Villiers, the nickname Steenie after St. Stephen)  that to get the church off his back, he commissioned the translation of  the bible into English. Götz von Berlichingen, a knight who had a metal hand that was functional enough he used it to write poetry.

Photo information:

Letter between King James I/VI and his lover, George Villiers, picture from this post

Crown of Scotland, worn by King James I/VI, source

Secret passageway between the bedrooms of King James and George Villiers at Apethorpe Hall; picture from this post

Hands exchanging rings from the TV show Roswell, New Mexico

Apethorpe Hall, source

The Accolade by Edmund Leighton, c. 1900

[rainintheevening]

West, Part I

Maps stretched out

The day after Peter ships out, the maps start appearing on the wall of the Fifth form common room at St. Maurice’s. Europe as a whole at first, then Italy, the Mediterranean, Greece, Germany, France...

He takes them home with him at the end of the term, Edmund Pevensie does, scatters them over his (and Peter's) room, mixed up with newspapers and letters in Peter's dashing handwriting.

Too many miles to count

He tries to find closer maps, more detail, tracing his finger across mountain ranges and down coastlines. He spans the entire Allied line with his thumb. He'd never felt the world to be so big before, never felt so small. Narnia had been such a small country. How long would it take to sail around the Cape of Gibraltar? How long would it take to fly to Sicily?

Sometimes he does the math. Sometimes he doesn't.

Let's just say we're inches apart

Remember watching the stars with Oreius? How you'd sketch them with your finger so carefully? How we'd lie out in the grass with Era and Philip, in silence sometimes, for hours? There were so many stars out there in the country. Some nights I'm lucky to see stars here. But when I do I imagine you seeing the same ones, mapping your way the way to well, your way to me. Sometimes I swear I can feel you beside me in the dark, little brother.

He lies in Peter's bed, letter in his hand, falls asleep with paper between his fingers.

And even closer at heart

For we are saved by hope: but hope that is seen is not hope: for what a man seeth, why doth he yet hope for? But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it. Likewise the Spirit also helpeth our infirmities: for we know not what we should pray for as we ought: but the Spirit itself maketh intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered.

Even as his pen moves over the paper, he finds his lips moving too, a begging murmur, mixing with the summer rain heavy on the roof.

And we'll be just fine

He laughs as Lucy places the crown of daisies on his head, and kisses her cheek. He rubs Susan's aching feet as she sits on the couch and reads aloud to them. He fingers his little silver lion against his collarbone, and smiles through the steam rising off his coffee.

Another pin pushed in

The maps on the wall grow a forest of colored heads and tiny flags, and anyone who wants war news or any better understanding of the progression of the European theatre goes to the Fifth's common room.

To remind us where we've been

He takes a map down to the stables sometimes, unrolls it on the table in the harness room, sits patiently as Master Gringham pores over it, searching for the boy who rode his horses like no one else, all of them trying to coordinate themselves.

The horses miss you, he writes to Peter. Have you had a chance to ride recently?

And evey mile adds up

He lies alone in their room, catching the faint murmurs of his parents downstairs, and he can't remember the last time he cried on Christmas, but he's doing it now, hot salt water on Peter's pillow, as Bing Crosby croons on the wireless in the girls' room down the hall.

Please, God, please let him come home safe, please let him be happy, please.

Leaving its mark on us

I was grieved to hear of your wounding, brother, but truly grateful it was not more serious. I wish I could be there, to make sure you were getting proper care and treatment. Be careful, please. But don't be a coward. I'd rather a dead brother, than a coward. But don't die. You're not allowed to die without me.

He means it, every word, that's why he doesn't cross any of it out.

And sometimes our compass breaks

Twelve of them dead, and I alive, and I don't know why, Ed, but I don't know if I can do this, I can't. Not alone. I'd forgotten how much this hurts. I only knew half their names, and I know Badger had four little kids back home, and I don't understand.

I don't understand.

And our steady true north fades

Snow lies thick on the moor, and Ed struggles to open his eyes in the morning. His feet are heavy, his mind moves slow, and he can't get warm. He sits as close to the fire in the common room as he can without setting his clothes aflame. Some mornings he sits with his hand on the black leather cover, but he doesn’t open the book.

We'll be just fine

There's a black and white photograph folded in with the thin paper, and there he is smiling up at them all, officer's cap set at a jaunty angle, shirtless with a bandage on one forearm. Peter hugs a scruffy looking mongrel dog close, hand rubbing the pointed ears, and Ed smiles back at the living shadow of his brother.

We'll be just fine

Warm spring sunshine splashes over Ed's face, and he leans on his spade, brushes mud off his hands, and surveys the dark turned earth of the school's Victory Garden, listens to the first formers laughing as they fling dirt clods at each other.

We'll be just fine

Come, behold the works of the Lord, what desolations he hath made in the earth.

He maketh wars to cease unto the end of the earth; he breaketh the bow, and cutteth the spear in sunder; he burneth the chariot in the fire... Peter writes.

We'll be just fine

Be still, and know that I am God: I will be exalted among the heathen, I will be exalted in the earth.

The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge, Edmund answers.

I know that we will

"I miss him so much," Lucy says, and Edmund wraps his arm around her shoulders as they walk, remembering how he closed his last letter with those three words.

I just know that we will

He kneels by Peter's bed, his bed now, and the maps hang all round on the walls, he is surrounded by everywhere his brother is and was and could be, as he bows his head and the evening prayer comes weary and steady from his lips.

They used to say it together.

[norabrice1701]

The Duke & The Witch - Ch. 5

Charles Brandon x Fem!OC, A The Tudors Slight-AU fic

Series Main List

Ch. 5 Warnings: Discussion of witchcraft; period-typical attitudes towards everything (women, religion, witchcraft, etc.); fantastical squinty science/alchemy

It doesn’t take much longer for his strength to return. His legs shake as a newborn calf when he finally rolls up to a sitting position, breathing heavily from the effort. A hazy numbness still fogs his brain, and he hopes it won’t last much longer. 

True to her word, the cottage is modest in its appointments. The fire embers mostly burned out by the time he finds his feet, and the surrounding furnishings - the large, rough-wood table that she had occupied; a couple of crude chairs; a bed with animal furs in the back corner next to a rough cabinet completed the scene. Except for another table - a taller table to accommodate standing - occupied the opposite wall, next to a wooden lattice and another rough-wood cabinet. None of it bore any obvious signs of witchcraft - no cauldron, no black cat, no pentagrams. Not even a broom that he could see. 

As he leaves the cottage behind, her parting words stick with him. Her assumption that he would indeed search through her belongings to find evidence against her still stings. Does she really think so little of him? That he would resort to something so underhanded to ensure her downfall?

Unless divination counted among her skills, she didn’t know about his role in the downfall of Cardinal Wolsey. But if he hadn’t needed to resort to underhanded measures to bring Wolsey down, then he didn’t need to stoop low to see Avian brought to account. And highly doubted that Avian’s crimes are even half as heinous as Wolsey’s. Embezzling the king’s funds. Placing France’s interests above England’s. Plotting with the Emperor and the Pope to see himself restored to power. The man had well and truly deserved everything that befell him. 

Mercifully, the rain has stopped as he undertakes the journey back to St. Edmunds. His clothing already bears soiled stains beyond redemption and a thorough soaking would make the ride back to Westhorpe even more unpleasant.

His mind spins the whole way back. He recalls watching her toy with the knife at the table - had she considered using it against him? After all, he does pose a credible threat, and he would have been powerless to stop her if she had chosen to attack. Or if not with the knife, she could have blasted him with lightning - like the unfortunate raven. But curiously enough, she had done neither - in fact, it still stuns that she actually answered a few of his questions. 

As much as that feels like a victory, it feels like a trap. Is she just trying to lure him into a false sense of security? Does she present her skills as alchemy to hide the true nature of their origin? God help him, but he wants to learn more. Her bright green eyes held such a vast sea of carefully-guarded truth, and wants to discover all of it. 

If he returned tomorrow, would she welcome him? 

The thick clouds obscure the afternoon sun when he returns his horse to the Westhorpe stable. Taking the stairs up to the main door, there’s little else that he wants to do other than request Joseph prepare a bath.

“God be praised, Your Grace!” Relief bursts on Joseph's face as he enters the main hall. “We have prayed for your safe return since you left us.”

“That was kind of you, but unnecessary.” Charles says, offering a reassuring smile. “I have not fallen victim to witchcraft.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. More prayers will be offered in gratitude for your safe return.”

“Safe, but soiled.” He tears at the buttons of his tunic. “Have water heated and a bath prepared. It’s been a long trail of dungeons and dirt.”

Joseph’s eyes widen with curious concern, but ever the dutiful servant, he only offers a short bow before moving off to enact the order. Working the tie of his shirt open, Charles moves for the dining room, breathing freer in his relaxed clothing. The pitcher of wine rests where it always does and he quickly pours a goblet-full. It slides with welcome relief down his throat as he glances at the pile of scrolls and missives that have arrived in his absence, reaching to take them under his arm.

The duties of his office never cease. 

When the heat of the water has seeped soothingly into his muscles, he leans back against the edge of the wood and canvas tub and reaches for the top missive from the accompanying table. At first, he had found it unusual to just linger in the water without going through the bathing motions, but Catherine had opened his eyes. Showed him how the heat helped soothe aches, clear the mind, and restore the spirit. Of course, her nimble hands had vastly improved the experience. But that’s why, even now, he doesn’t rush his baths.

With a sip of wine, he continues to read. The price of wheat has increased since the last trade. Town elders in Great Yarmouth raise concerns about the fishing industry growth out of Lowestoft and the depletion of herring fishing grounds. Haverhill flour mills have stepped up admirably to aide St. Edmunds in the wake of their mill explosion without charging an exorbitant price.

He reaches again for his wine, taking a slow drink before opening the last letter. He recognizes the King’s office seal instantly. In Cromwell’s hand, the official summons scrawls across the page. The official summons to return to court and take the Oath. He wonders if Henry has ordered Cromwell to write it, or if Cromwell has taken his own initiative. Had Cromwell read something in Charles’ face that day on the archery range that convinced him it would take more than an unofficial visit to prompt Charles’ return to court?

It matters little either way. Cromwell’s shrewd observation skills are hardly a secret, and Charles can’t delay his return to court forever. Even if that bitch of a woman does occupy the throne. Even if his return is only to swear his allegiance to her offspring and forsake all that had come before.

A pang of guilt tears through him at the memory of the forgotten queen. The poor woman, God bless her. She had borne all the humiliation and disgrace with such dignity and courage. All of it was wrong, and he knew it, but he’d still been unable to stop himself that day when he asked for her forgiveness. He had no right to ask it of her, but she had granted it anyway.

Publicly, he acknowledges Henry’s reasons for the divorce, but casting Catherine of Aragon aside for someone like Anne Boleyn was beyond him. He can only hope it wouldn’t be a decision that Henry comes to regret. After all, the man has broken the country away from the Catholic Church to do it. 

But if such a day never comes, then Charles supposes he’s destined to watch Henry and Anne dance about so happily in love. Maybe he’s just bitter, but being a widower twice over has sliced Charles with more wounded guilt and jealousy than he wants to admit.

Once upon a time in his youth, he’d loved every willing woman as freely as he pleased without a care to how others received it. And it had killed Margaret. Yes, the physicians said consumption – but he knew that he was the cause of it. The cause of her perpetual dissatisfaction in life.

With Catherine, he promised himself it would be different and it was. A marriage of true souls, he’d told Henry. And then came the most glorious news that he was going to be a father. She had looked so radiantly beautiful when her belly swelled with his child. For the first time in as many years as he could remember, he had felt peace and contentment with his life.

Until God ripped it all away in one fateful night of cries and screams that still echo in his memory. Catherine had labored for hours, ultimately in vain. But from the moment he had been forced from their bed when she awoke with pains, he had paced the length of the dining room countless times and waited with baited breath. Until suddenly the screaming stopped and no wail of a newborn babe sounded. The solemn face of the physician had been little more than a blur as he tore up the stairs to take in the scene.

Catherine had looked at him with weak eyes, pale – so very pale – but hadn’t been able to manage any words. She could barely turn her head towards him when he dropped to sit by her side. He didn’t even remember what he said now. Empty, babbling words that hadn’t done a damn thing to stop the light draining from her eyes, the last breath leaving her body.

At the time, he’d thought that to be the worst night. But the worst nights were yet to come. Alone. In their empty bed. In their empty house, when instead it should be filled with the sounds of their babe crying out for his mother.

He sighs heavily, dropping the king’s official summons back to the table and reaching for his wine. He drains the goblet in several long gulps to banish the heartbreaking memories. 

Lingering on the past that he couldn’t change never ends well. Maybe, instead, the answer lies in looking to the future.

To his upcoming trip to court, no matter the reason. To seeing his good friend and king in what is sure to be a glorious mood. To his subsequent return home. To continuing his pursuit of Avian. To learning what other secrets she holds dear.

***

“Charles! Welcome back to court!” Henry smiles, warm and excited as he gestures Charles over to the long table. “You have been sorely missed.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Charles tips a polite bow before walking further into the king’s chamber. “You are gracious as ever.”

Henry chuckles as he motions to the chair on his left. “Come. Sit. You, groom – pour wine for His Grace.”

“Very gracious, indeed.” Charles moves to the offered chair while the groom pours a steady stream of wine into a pristine goblet.

“So, tell me,” Henry leans back in his chair with a relaxed ease that Charles hasn't seen in years. “How is my countryside?”

Charles pauses to measure his words. Especially in regards to attitudes towards the current queen. “Rather content, Your Majesty,” he says with an easy smile. “Wheat is fetching a higher price than usual. There are minor concerns with herring supply on the east coast, largely due to the success of the market rather than any official policy, though.”

Henry shakes his head, eyes warm with mirth. “Never thought I’d see the day when you’d have a responsible head for business and policy, Your Grace. But look at you now.”

Charles sighs, resisting a roll of his eyes. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I’m well aware that I’m on my way to being one of those boring, middle-aged men that I used to complain about.”

“Come, come! So much time alone in your widowhood has made you dour, my friend. You should have stayed at court where life and love abound.”

Charles smiles and tips his head in acknowledgement. “Your Majesty is quite right. Your continued happiness is a joy to behold. All congratulations are due unto you.”

“Yes, quite so. I expect that the queen will soon be with child again, and our son can finally be born. All the more reason for the Act of Succession to come to swift fruition. I will not have such worries upsetting the queen during her term.”

“Of course not.” Charles’ jaw tenses on instinct and he forces himself to relax. “I’m told Parliament should have the act drawn up for signatures and oaths just after Christmastide.”

Henry huffs a disgusted breath. “That’s not nearly soon enough. These politicians – they talk, they drag their feet. I tell you, if they had their way, I’d still be unwed.”

“I remember how tirelessly Your Majesty toiled in wait and discontent until your conscience could be set to right.”

“It was the sweetest victory, Charles.” Mischief twinkles in Henry’s eye as he raises his cup. “Though not as sweet a victory as my wedding night.”

Obligingly, Charles raises his cup, toasting to Henry with a smile and soft chuckle to match his king’s.

Henry drinks quickly, licking his lips. “I would have you stay around court until then, Charles. There is much to be done, and few who I trust to see it done to my satisfaction.”

Charles nods without hesitation. “Of course, I am at Your Majesty’s command.”

He tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach as Henry presses forward with matters of the kingdom. Dammit, he hasn’t planned on staying around Court for so long. The queen’s insufferable presence would hang over everything, and Henry’s congeniality only extended now because he needs Charles to serve. How long would it be until the she-devil convinces Henry to banish him from court again?

He also needs to write to Joseph upon returning to his chambers. That’s all it will take to have Westhorpe shuttered and prepared for his extended absence.

His thoughts should absolutely not turn to Avian. To her bright green eyes, wild curls, and lightning fingers.

But, dammit, they do.

***

For all his talk, she still has yet to see any trace of the Duke of Suffolk. 

Maybe his absence is just to lull her into a false sense of security. Maybe he raises an army to root her out once and for all. Or perhaps, it’s something as mundane as the King’s business that keeps him away. The man does have his duchy to govern and affairs of state to manage, after all. Despite his words, does he really have time to personally track her down and see to the prosecution of a suspected witch?

Yet another day of peaceful silence comes and goes. Another day of tending to tasks – gathering fungi, cutting chamomile, mending the patch in the roof.

Her most recent trip to the village has blessedly been quiet. Nothing reached her ears of anyone in need of assistance. No mill explosions. No fears that keep the villagers awake. Truthfully, that’s how she prefers it. 

And so the witch went quiet as she sometimes does. Her stores have started to run low and the quiet time gives her good time to restock. To gather the required ingredients and prepare them accordingly.

It takes time and until the duke returns, she has plenty of it. Just as she always has. 

And when a rash of robberies hits the road north of St. Edmunds, the sheriff swears it can only be witchcraft that leaves the trail of melted shoes leading to the thieves’ den.

***

Spring blooms around Charles as he rides back to Westhorpe. The budding trees offer bright spots of color and the young green grass shoots stand out against the winter browns. But if Charles is being honest, it would be a pleasant ride back to the countryside no matter the scenery. 

After four months in court, his weary soul needs a break. Everything about daily life there proves taxing. Or maybe he’s just getting too old? The endless days proved a constant test of his patience which has more than worn thin. Henry’s Acts of Supremacy had finally come around just after Christmastide and devolved into a messy business of witnessing oaths and capturing signatures. 

Of course, Charles had sworn and signed his name. The weight of it still hangs as a stain upon his soul. A complete betrayal to the dowager princess and her daughter. But what choice does Charles have? He honestly doesn’t count his soul to be worth much anymore these days, so why not value his head instead?

He can only hope that Henry won’t follow through on his desire to press Sir Thomas More into the oath. Charles knows well of the man’s true inclinations, and he has held true to his word of a quiet retirement from public life. Not that Charles has ever doubted him. The pure, steadfast goodness of Sir Thomas More has always been something that Charles admires from afar.

But now that he surrounds himself in the familiar quiet of Westhorpe, it’s time to set aside the courtly troubles. They will surely be awaiting him whenever he returns, but for now he fully intends to make the most of his respite.

Well, at least he will when he finishes with the duchy secretary. The man, William Matthews, has done an admirable job of keeping Charles apprised of matters that required his attention, yet the work still never stops. Whether he has a focused mind or not. 

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Matthews says, retrieving the paper from the table with ink still wet from Charles’ signature. “I’ll see this delivered right away and funds allocated to start work.”

Charles nods absently. “Yes, I think the additional roadway will be a great boon to regional commerce. An increase to the inland supply of goods, at least.”

“Indeed, Your Grace. And there is one last matter for your attention.” Matthews brandishes a crude letter, the writing barely more than a legible scrawl. “The elders of Lowestoft say their people are threatening riots. Threatening to take up arms against Great Yarmouth over the herring water rights.”

Charles tilts his head to glare up at Matthews. “I thought those disputes were long settled. Why have they been allowed to escalate?”

“Your office has, of course, worked to dissuade them of such a course. But they remain insistent. I sent a representative to the region earlier this year, and he remarked that tensions had somewhat cooled then but were likely to ignite with the coming of warmer weather.”

“Why wasn’t I forewarned?”

Matthews swallows with visible unease as doubt creeps to his face. “I… I didn’t want to trouble Your Grace with such unsubstantiated rumors until we had firmer knowledge.”

“And now I have written threats of riots to contend with.” Charles sighs in frustration as he tries to think of what direction to give and leans back against his chair. He really doesn’t have a mind for this today. “Tell them that to riot and take up arms against each other is to riot and take up arms against their king. And such an act will be responded to in kind. It’s a vast ocean – surely, there must be enough herring for everyone.”

Matthews tips his head in acknowledgement, trying and failing to hold back an amused smirk. “Very good, Your Grace. I’ll draft and send the letter post-haste. And I will keep you immediately informed of any other news from the region as soon as it crosses my desk.”

“I expect nothing less.” He nods both in agreement and dismissal, watching Matthews bend in a half-bow before turning to go. Charles looks towards the window, the spring green grass catching his eye. “Matthews – have there been any recent tales of the witch in the woods?”

Matthews’ footsteps halt and Charles can feel the weight of the man’s confused gaze. “The witch, Your Grace? Out of the woods near St. Edmunds?”

Charles arches a wry brow, looking back at his secretary. “Is there more than one witch in my duchy?”

“No, not at all. I just – Your Grace has caught me by surprise. I always counted you above such peasant rumors and superstitions.”

“I didn’t say I lend them credence, I merely asked if there had been any recent reports of her doings.”

Matthews licks his lips, still uncertain. “No, Your Grace. Not to my knowledge, at least. It’s possible the commons gabble about her – she brings nothing but heartache and woe.”

“That is interesting. Conversely, I’ve only heard that she helps people.”

“Do not let Your Grace be deceived. While the tales have her appear as an angel of mercy, the price on one’s soul is too high to pay.”

Charles’ lips lift, intrigued. “So you do know about her.”

Matthews nods slowly, as though admitting such knowledge was already an unforgivable sin. “Yes, Your Grace. I have heard of her, but nothing in the last year. Some speculate that she has moved on. Or simply returned to hell from whence she came.”

Charles hums thoughtfully, again turning back to the window. His stomach sours at the prospect of Avian’s departure. Is he just too late?

Matthews draws a tentative breath. “Will that be all, Your Grace?”

[silvestromedia]

SAINTS OF THE DAY FOR MAY 28

Bl. Thomas Ford, 1582 A.D. Martyr of England. He was born in Devon and educated at Oxford. There he converted and set out for Douai, France. Ordained a priest in 1573, he was sent back to England three years later. Thomas labored in Oxfordshire and Berckshire until his arrest. He was martyred on May 28 at Tyburn by being hanged, drawn, and quartered. He was a companion of St. Edmund Campion, and he died with Blesseds Robert Johnson and John Shert. Thomas was beatified in 1882.

Bl. Robert Johnson, 1582 A.D. English martyr. Born in Shropshire, England, he was a servant before he went to study at Rome and Douai, France, receiving ordination in 1576. Returning to the English mission, he served in the area of London for four years, until his arrest. Robert was hanged, drawn, and quartered at Tyburn with Blesseds Thomas Ford and John Short. Robert was beatified in 1886.

Bl. John Shert, 1582 A.D. English martyr. He was born at Shert Hall, near Macclesfield, Cheshire, and educated at Oxford. Converting to the Church, John studied at Douai and Rome. Ordained in 1576, he went to England three years later, working only two years before his arrest. John was martyred at Tyburn with Blessed Thomas Ford and Blessed Robert Johnstone by being hinged, drawn, and quartered. Pope Leo XIII beatified him in 1886.

Bl. Margaret Pole, Martyr of England. She was born Margaret Plantagenet, the niece of Edward IV and Rich-ard III. She married Sir Reginald Pole about 1491 and bore five sons, including Reginald Cardinal Pole. Margaret was widowed, named countess of Salisbury, and appointed governess to Princess Mary, daughter of Henry VIII and Queen Catherine of Aragon, Spain. She opposed Henry’s mar-riage to Anne Boleyn, and the king exiled her from court, although he called her “the holiest woman in England.” When her son, Cardinal Pole, denied Henry’s Act of Supremacy, the king imprisoned Margaret in the Tower of London for two years and then beheaded her on May 28. In 1538, her other two sons were executed. She was never given a legal trial. She was seventy when she was martyred. Margaret was beatified in 1886.

ST. GERMAIN, BISHOP OF PARIS

[thquldnunc]

the unyielding, the wandering eye, the underbelly of the snake , thomas walsingham

penned by velvet. for bloodydayshq

BULLETPOINTS: 

NAME: thomas walsingham AGE / D.O.B.: forty-seven / 10th april 1512 STATUS / RANK: secretary of state / spymaster COUNTRY OF ORIGIN: england PLACE OF BIRTH: scadbury manor, kent BIRTH ORDER: oldest of four MOTHER & FATHER: eleanor writtle of essex & edmund walsingham (lieutenant of the tower) SIBLINGS: mary walsingham (m. sir barnardiston, widow), alice walsingham (m. sir saunders, d 1558), eleanor walsingham (m. richard finch, sheriff of kent) SEXUALITY: bisexual & biromantic HOROSCOPE: aries VIRTUES: discreet, courageous, aspiring VICES: erratic, scheming, narcissistic MARITAL STATUS: married to utp walsingham ISSUE: tbd RELIGION: protestant ALLIES: william iii, privy council, anne boleyn, himself ADVERSARIES: cromwells, seymour loyalists,

TIMELINE:

1512 Born Scadbury Manor, Kent to Edmund Walsingham (member of Parliament/Lieutenant of the Tower) and Eleanora Whittle 1520 Is at the reception, if briefly, to celebrate the arrival of the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, at Dover & Canterbury 1521 Present at the execution of Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham 1524 Sent to St Pauls School, London 1526 First portrait sketched by a new artist, Hans Holbein the Younger 1528 Contracts the sweating sickness mildly whilst in London, is recalled to the countryside for rehabilitation 1529 Sent to Trinity Hall, Cambridge 1531 Gets a place under Thomas Cromwell after graduating with a Bachelor in Canon & Civil Law 1533 Attends the coronation of Anne Boleyn & then Prince William’s christening, Cromwell becomes Secretary of State 1534 Aids in the torture and execution of Elizabeth Barton “the Nun of Kent”, attends Princess Elizabeth’s christening 1536 Sent to Catherine of Aragon as a spy, then attends her burial at Peterborough Abbey 1537 Sent to Mary Tudor, whilst helps with the plans to bring her back to court under the hand of Cromwell, also attends the execution of Edward, Thomas & Jane Seymour 1538 Escorts Mary back to court, and continues on as a spy for Cromwell 1545 After many arguments, Thomas abandons the Cromwell faction during the warrant of arrest for Anne Boleyn, in retaliation he puts together Boleyn’s defense and works furiously against Cromwell 1546 Knighted for his work and given Ingatestone Hall as a near-London residence 1550 is made Secretary of State to King Henry VIII, Edmund Walsingham dies 1557 Henry VIII dies, begins work for William III and helps arrange the coronation/safe-guarding 1559 Attends the execution of Hugh Courtenay

BIOGRAPHY:

WIP

WANTED CONNECTIONS: (if any)

now he is easier since he's more of a OC, u feel? this is it - lovers, enemies, hatred, frenemies, plots & schemes, people from his past, kent homebodies, anything and everything pls & thank x

[theuniversitychallengereview]

Intermezzo

SOAS vs Teddy Hall

Leaving tomorrow for a hike to a hostel through the mountains. Need therefore to write this review rather than the day after on the day of. For some reason in the style of Sally Rooney’s latest he’s decided to do this. In an order so strange as to be unintelligible these sentences, like hers, sometimes.

Watched Cloud Atlas at the weekend. Struggled to see the point of the structure, the connections other than the superficial between them. Remembered years ago the book, reading and thinking the same thing. Easier to see these connections in the film. Actors playing multiple characters. Souls transmuted across the stars.

What then, is the point of this inverted sentence structure, this stream-of-consciousness that Rooney writes. Suppose it is to reflect the mental state of the characters. The cluttered minds, overlapping thoughts, perhaps. In that sense, then, it works. Why, though, should I be writing this in that style, too?

Several attempts, in the past, to do similar things. Blogs in the style of Tenet, or Ducks, Newburyport. But the format without any inherent meaning, other than bland parody. Lacking something, meaning, maybe.

Retaining that thought, then…

Here is your first starter for ten.

Returning for a sixth appearance six years after their last, SOAS went as far as the semi finals in 2015. Going one better, St Edmund Hall reached the final in 2019, losing to Edinburgh. Robbie Campbell Hewson’s famous last minute buzz of 54. A question, on the number which is made from the first three letters of the word Liverpool in Roman numerals, which would have been a lot easier after the advent of LIV golf.

Helmet the first answer, goes to Liu of Teddy Hall. Bonuses on the Bantu language family, two out of three. Cupid the second starter, to SOAS this time, and Dorn. Recognised a K-Pop song in the clue. Their bonuses on dance and choreography, more difficult, only one taken.

Another for Liu, Cantor, then the picture starter, flag of Latvia, won by SOAS skipper Hasler. Answer of St Kittis and Nevis ludicrously ruled out by Rajan. So close to St Kitts. Demonstration of knowledge well above the required bar, but no luck for SOAS.

The University Challenge Review Subscribe for weekly reviews of University Challenge, an irreverant take on Britain's quirkiest quiz showwww.quizposting.com

Continuing an excellent performance, a third starter for Liu. They too harshly punished, giving reise rather than reisen. On this occasion at least the question asked for six letter words. Bursey with Brasilia keeps Teddy Hall rolling, their lead forty points.

Combining for three in a row, Hasler and Dorn eliminate this lead and take it for their own, but last long this doesn’t, and Liu it is who for Teddy Hall hits back. Helping out, Elkington for the Oxonians takes another and the lead once more is theirs.

On the starters back and forth the teams go. Lambert, Elkington, Hasler. Tight the game, high the tensions, running out the time. Second picture round, Liu again, above the minimum points to be high scoring losers Teddy Hall. Regardless of the result returning. With Sinn Fein, over the threshold SOAS too. Both back, no matter the victor.

Going early, guessing nectar not pollen, Hasler. What is carried on a bees legs? Pollen. Kicks himself, no doubt, but what’s done is done. Sealed their fate with that answer, Hasler. Still, back again for the repechage, SOAS.

Score unreflective of the closeness of the match, gong sounds.

SOAS 155–195 Teddy Hall

Not sure, still, about the effectiveness of the stylistic conceit, a damp squib he fears. At best a damp squib. Still, the review has been written, and some fun has been had, by the writer at least.

Tomorrow sees the first of the play-offs, between UCL and St Andrews.

SOAS take on Durham a week later.

I’ll try and come up with a better premise for those reviews.

Also — I’m on Bluesky @quizposting.com if you want to join. I have 6 followers

[lboogie1906]

Dr. Myron L. Rolle (October 30, 1986) is a Bahamian-American neurosurgeon and former football safety. He played college football at Florida State and was drafted by the Tennessee Titans in the sixth round of the 2010 NFL Draft.

He was awarded a Rhodes Scholarship and studied at St. Edmund Hall, Oxford University to earn an MSc in Medical Anthropology. He was chosen as the second-smartest athlete in sports by the Sporting News. Abiomed, a member of the S&P 500, announced him as a member of its board of directors.

He was born in Houston. His family is from The Bahamas. He was raised in Galloway Township, New Jersey, where in 2009, December 10 was decreed “Myron Rolle Day”. He attended the Peddie School, where he played the saxophone in the school band, sang in a school play, and was the sports editor of the school newspaper as well as playing football, basketball, and track. He transferred to the Hun School of Princeton and played high school football and basketball. He maintained a 4.0 GPA. He was an All-American and made 112 tackles including 14 for loss. ESPN’s recruiting services ranked him as the #1 high school prospect in the country. Rivals.com rated him the 12th-best player and the top athlete overall, as well as the best player from New Jersey in the 2006 recruiting class. He won the Franklin D. Watkins Memorial Trophy. He is an alumnus of the Army All-American Bowl.

He announced his intent to leave the NFL to attend medical school. He enrolled at Florida State University College of Medicine and graduated. He was matched to a neurosurgery residency at Massachusetts General Hospital and Harvard Medical School. He is a Global Neurosurgery Fellow at Harvard Medical School.

He is the son of Whitney and Beverly Rolle. He is the youngest of five. He is the cousin of former safety Antrel Rolle, linebacker Brian Rolle, and former cornerback Samari Rolle. He married pediatric dentist, Dr. Latoya Legrand-Rolle (2017). The couple have two sets of twins. He is a Christian.

He was honored with membership into Omicron Delta Kappa at FSU. #africanhistory365 #africanexcellence #kappaalphapsi

[poealexholloway]

Books

A collection of book covers seen in the moyses hall in bury St edmunds. I'm going to write about them, what they convey and my own personal opinions on them, starting with one of my favourite books: The Hobbit

This is not the cover that I am most familiar with, I believe I have an older copy of the book, but this still conveys a similar feeling. To start, smaugs features appear exaggerated in the neck and face size, with the nose being particularly thin. The treasure in the majority suggests large amounts of coins but does not actually show all of them, and the defined items in the bottom right lack any finer details beyond its outline. These details all give the cover some fantasy feel as it feels like an image you would get from a tale being told to you by a bard at a tavern, or an old traveller entertaining curious kids. Omitting details in favour of a large picture, and exaggerating features to increase the presence in the story. The font used has the style of a quill and has additional curved flairs, which adds to the fantasy feel as the font is likely to appear in the universe. The borders at the bottom and top of gold with black dwarven runes also hints at some of the characters featured in the book. The whole cover also screams the main theme of the book: gold and treasure.

Brambly hedge. Books about mice, the covers reflect the name of the series, pictures of scenes from the book bordered by quite dense branches. As each of the books are based around a different season, it makes sense that what is growing on the branches is reflective of this, spring has leaves with flower buds, summer has the flowers blooming, autumn has more berries and less leaves as they drop in autumn and winter has the most amount of thorns growing, least number of leaves which have now gone red, and everything is frozen. The covers actually remind me of either tiles or coasters that have been hand painted very carefully. They also make me think of the 1980s and 90s, which makes sense as that's when they were made. You could also describe the covers as giving the feeling of looking into a smaller world because of the hedge border.

The dark portal has two versions of the cover shown, the older one on the left and the newer one on the right, both giving demonic feelings but differently. The one on the left has a wall with a window into darkness, bordered by candles and peering out are two glowing red eyes, highlighting the brow of the creature within. The face in this reminds me of the enclave power armour helmet seen in fallout 1 or 2 and the x 01 seen in fallout 4. The newer cover is instead bathed in orange light by an orb of fire encasing two eyes, held aloft by a giant rat creature, surrounded by the misty forms of the skulls of the dead.

I had fun writing that. The older cover gives the idea of a hidden cult, as its hidden in a wall and appears to be underground, and the candles have become linked with rituals at some point, likely due to the creation of electrical lights. The newer one, on the other hand, looks like it is showing what is one the other side of the portal, and is revealing some of the more supernatural elements of the book, and still giving a creepy feeling with the fog skulls. I prefer the older one to the newer one because of the hidden cult feeling behind it

The Deptford mice almanac. The cover feels like an old magical book with metal clasps. The golden hinges in the shape of paws and similar golden corners with large green gemstones makes the book feel important and the leather pattern makes it feel like an old journal or magic book. There is not much for me to say here, I feel like have seen this cover a few times, though I know I have only seen this once, the positioning of the mice in the centre looking over a book with light coming from it feels like it's been done for ages, so I'm not really interested.

Disney book covers. They feel like screen shots from the animation and I don't really like them. They may work well for kids books, the style is the same as what would probably be seen in the animation so would provide the sense of familiarity and they are easy to look at, and all the covers have the main characters in and can be described by their titles, they are really simple, and it bores me slightly, and epbecause it looks like they have just used sections from the animations it does feel slightly lazy. The only cover that looks interesting is the little mermaid, but unfortunately, the resolution is not good enough to have a proper look.

Narnia, the book cover looks fun. The border of the centre picture is stylised on a thick hedge, bush or tree. The trees on the side also look twisted and warped and move in ways that they possibly shouldn't. Given the setting of the book starts in world war 2 and focuses on refugees, it makes sense that they would want to escape to a hidden world behind a series of hedges to escape the house they were sent to as refugees to somewhere more fun and filled with adventure. The shape of the trees also suggests that this may not necessarily be real and could infact be just a dream or imagination