The sun shines bright on the emerald lawns of an Oxford college. Through black iron gates' bars with golden spearhead tops, I see Jack Wills' toffs and the perfect future wives of Tory politicians play badminton with great white Trident smiles. It could have made a perfect postcard or a scene from a movie.

Sometimes, old Oxford town gives me that rotten homeless for Christmas feeling, that bankrupt window-shopping gut ache. Depressing like a woman that is too beautiful and too high to notice that you exist.

Brad Phillips