As a part of my be-a-better-Phil yearly resolutions, I started taking pictures as a photographer for the Oxford Student or OxStu, one of two student newspapers at the University.

It’s too bad yesterday’s assignment was a photographer’s nightmare.

I was to cover the Oxford election count which, at first mention, didn’t sound half bad: Bustling townspeople, maybe a rousing speech here and there, well dressed politicians going apeshit — you know, it wasn’t the Super Bowl, but I still had hopes of something I could work with.

What a joke.

First, the technical difficulties: The town hall was a yellow, tungsten-ly mess. It started at 10:30 PM, so there wasn’t any natural light to soften the features and brighten things up. The (admittedly beautiful) cathedral-like ceiling made it difficult to bounce off light from a flash, and the glossy, coloured walls were an equal pain.

Future brides and grooms, here’s a tip when you’re looking to book a wedding venue. Want wonderful pictures you can cherish for years and years? I have one word for you: Light, light, light.

Light is what makes people beautiful and light is what makes beautiful people in photos beautiful.

The best photographers know how to use light effectively, whether this means capturing a sunset or using multiple flashes to light you up for a portrait.

Finally, let’s not even mention the fact that Press was confined to the balcony — about 20 feet above where all the action was.

This was the final nail in the coffin, you see, since my longest camera lens wasn’t quite sensitive enough for the lighting, while my other lens, the one sensitive enough to capture the light, wasn’t long enough to see all the way down. Yech.

Now when I said ‘action’, I was actually referring to three hours of the most boring proceedings known to man. I mean, let’s reiterate: they’re counting votes for Christ sake.

By the time they finished, the senile politicians were half comatose, and even the winners could hardly muster anything more than a squeak of acknowledgment.

During this time, I was running around trying desperately to find something — anything to photograph, all the while being harassed by security who were so bored they insisted on pestering me (Puleeeeze, what is this? The US presidential elections? Half the people in this town have no idea elections are even going on.)

Then at midnight, I gave up with trying to cover the politicians and instead turned my attention to some of the more interesting aspects of my surroundings — the equally bored, equally tired people who were, for some inexplicable reason, milling around on the balcony.

Good lord, I’m never covering politics again.

By the way, this may just be the ravings of a deluded mathematician on a lonely Friday night, but is that shot of the bare-shouldered girl like, the sexiest thing ever?

I was standing in line at the supermarket.

In one hand: two containers of ice cream (mint and chocolate, and cookies and cream). In the other: two bags of carrots (two for £1!)

I turned to the girl standing behind me and grinned.

“Carrots,” I said, holding up one hand, “And ice cream,” I said, holding up the other.

“Part of a complete meal,” I finished.

She stared at me — literally just stared. No laugh, no nervous chuckle. Not even a slight grin. Then she looked away and pretended to be intensely fascinated by her shoes (they were pink).

Carrots! Ice cream!

That’s gold, dude. That’s friggin’ gold.

I don’t understand. I just don’t understand. What is up with these Brits?.

NYCWD posted an answer to my “What’s up NYC?” question.

And indeed it’s glorious. Anyways, most of it is based on the idea that if I head to NYC, I’ll be sexed up with hordes of beautiful women — which is as good a reason as any. Oh, and also…

Did you know that, as far as I know, Oxford has a grand total of three (!) coffeeshops? There’s a Starbucks, a Costas, and a McDonalds (I had to include McD’s — ‘two’ was looking awfully pathetic).

Better still: Both Starbucks and Costas close at about 7:00 PM on a weekday. Earlier on a weekend.

Take that NYC!

Yes, it drives me completely berserk. Or it did.

I’ve given up on life, now, you know. So it’s not like it matters that I can’t find a late-night place to sip coffee.

Lately, as you can probably tell, I’ve been trying to revive some inter-blog discussion. Which is, as you’ve also probably guessed, another way of shoveling my own writing responsibilities onto other fellow bloggers.

This time around, we’re going to turn to NYCWD, our esteemed blogger from New York City.

First, the basics:

Postdoctoral Researcher (aka Postdoc)
A postdoc is, in simplest terms, a freshly minted doctor who, now having completed the last vestige of educational hand-holding, finds himself or herself completely bewildered by the frightening prospect of getting a ‘real’ job…you know…out there. So instead, he or she undertakes a few more years of educational hand-holding before being finally booted out — to sink or swim.

You know how some undergrads do a Master’s because they’re not sure what else to do? And some (clearly deluded) Master’s do a Ph.D. because they’re still not sure? Yeah. It’s the same with a Postdoc. It cushions the blow of landing a fully-fledged job in academia or (god forbid) industry.

It’s like academic procrastination, but with a fancy title and a shit salary.

But in a few years, this final stage of academic procrastination will be a reality for me. I’ll be an honest-to-god doctor (not the kind who helps people, mind you), and I’ll have to decide where to do my postdoc.

The three options are: (1) Stay here, (2) Return to the Motherland, or (3) Head to America.

Of course, the logic is, at least if I do (3) and not (1), I’ll avoid the dirty looks I get in England when I whip out my pseudo-American accent ( “It’s Canadian asshole.”)

Okay, so if it comes down to the States, there are a few possibilities. One of them is in New York.

Which, I’ll be honest, scares me.

Having grown up in a city of 850,000 which I can only describe as ‘perfect’, and now relocated to a city of 150,000 which I’ll describe as ‘crowded’, it blows my mind to even consider one day living (albeit temporarily) in a city that — properly equipped — can probably invade Canada. Christ.

It’s not like I’ve never been to New York. I have. A long time ago. I remember it as being dirty, humongous, and way, way too much for my little pee-brain to handle.

And let’s be honest, the portrayal of New York students on TV (e.g. Felicity) isn’t comforting. There, the characters are always pebbles of sand on an all-expansive beach, living in teensy dorms, and performing sexual favours in dark alleys just to keep up with the rent (I forget which episode that was).

So where does my future lie? Is there a place for me in America? In New York City?

Or will it be too much for me to handle?

That is the question I pass off to NYCWD and my dear readers.

To: Rhys
From: Phil
Date: This Morning
Subject: Me me me!

Dear Rhys,

You probably know that on my site, there is an About page.

And on this About page is a Contact form.

Now traditionally, what happens is that my readers (I like to think, cute lovestruck girls in their early 20s searching for life’s true love) visit this page, jot down their most intimate details (name, e-mail, website), and write me prose with such uninhibited flattery and devotion that if anybody in the same room were to simply read them, I’d be forced to make a hasty exit, mortified beyond words and with the tips of my ears burning.

Reading these comments, dear Rhys, have been a part of my daily regimen of confidence-building exercises. You know, like repeating slogans to yourself in the mirror every morning (“Baby, you’re BEAUTIFUL. You’re GORGEOUS. What a LAD.”), or submitting your best glamour shots to those Hot-or-Not search engines.

But lately, I haven’t gotten any.

You see, lately, it seems what’s happened is that a sizable number of YOUR readers, desperate and desolated at being ignored, have traipsed over to MY site, shooed MY customers away, and filled MY Contact forms with outrageous questions.

Questions like, “Phil, I’m a bit worried about Rhys. Can you let me know she’s alright?”, or “Phil, I heard Rhys was having a hard time. Have you spoken to her?”, or even, “Phil, I miss Rhys. When will she be back? You’re sort of cool too. Okay, not really.”

Okay, I made that last one up, but can you blame me? It’s all there, somewhere; between the lines. Rhys this and Rhys that.

This just won’t do, Rhys. This will simply NOT do.

So here’s the thing. Will you let us know what’s up and that you’re doing okay? Will you return to writing on a semi-regular basis? It’s not that I care, really, it’s more to do with the fact I need my regular dose of esteem-boosting shots. I’m not a man who can live up to the daily rigors of life without them, Rhys, and I can’t go on living with you stealing the spotlight. Bitch.

Yours in sincere(ish) concern,
Phil

P.S. What do YOU have that I don’t, anyways?
P.P.S. It’s the ‘boobs’, isn’t it? God, that’s always the reason.