Tomorrow is May the first. Eight years ago it was the dawn of a new political age. Since Marx (is this true?) it has been the day to fete the workers of the world. And, since god knows when, here in Oxford town it has been the day when pubescent choirboys (and latterly girls too) sing in the summer at 6am from the top of Magdalen College.
If you live here, it's the weirdest day of the year -- a cross between all that is posh and all that is populist. Workers of the world are united, and you are eating kedgeree in a ballgown.
Well in fairness I've never done the ballgown bit, but thousands have. And the most important thing is that the pubs are open from 6.30-8.30 am, which is just too fabulous to miss if it falls on a Sunday. Which, lo and behold, tomorrow it does.
I've got to say, right now meeting about 10 people at 5.45 isn't feeling like my favourite thing to do. But sometimes, you just gotta.
joella
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