About me and this site

Hello, and welcome to my blog! (scroll down for latest posts). Here’s a bit about me, if you’re interested:

By day, teaching Romantic literature at Cardiff University and writing my first monograph, Romantic Onomastics: Naming and Identity in Britain 1770-1814. See here for my research page.

By night, crafting fiction and culinary treats. I wrote a novel a few years ago. It looks like this. Philip Pullman liked it. since then, I’ve been writing the second one – a twisted tale of treason, spies and guilty secrets, set in 1790s London. It’s nearly finished.  I’m repped by Euan Thorneycroft at A.M.Heath.

I was a BBC/AHRC New Generation Thinker 2014-2015, and I’m pretty interested in public engagement. So there’s stuff up here about that too.

This site contains my archive of blog posts on; eighteenth-century literature and culture; being an Early Career Researcher in the UK; arts funding; the odd modern novel; and food. I don’t manage to blog as much as I’d like, so please forgive the odd lengthy hiatus.

Say hello on Twitter, and feel free to follow me if you don’t mind pictures of my cat.https://twitter.com/SMCoulombeau

Suboptimal: A Little, Common Story


This will be a long post, but it’s a little story. Little, and very common.

Last year, I had a miscarriage.

For a full thirty-two years of my life, I didn’t think I’d ever write those words. Why would I need to? Miscarriages were things that happened to other people. Not to me.

Last year, when I was thirty-three, I still didn’t think I’d ever write those words – albeit, for a different reason. By then, the statement was excruciatingly true. But I couldn’t bear the pain of admitting it in public. And I thought I never would.

I’m now thirty-four years old. I’ve had time to understand my little, common story. How it happened. What it meant, if anything.

In the summer of 2017, my partner Rich and I decided that we were “not not trying” for a baby. I’d vaguely heard somewhere that it took about a year for a woman in her early thirties to conceive, so I assumed that I wouldn’t need to think about it much for a while.

Well, almost immediately, I missed a period. That had never happened before – and I’d been off the pill for almost a year, so I knew it wasn’t my body adjusting to the hormonal change. So I took a pregnancy test. Negative. Right-o, I thought, just a false alarm.

A few weeks later, when I missed another period, I took another pregnancy test. Negative, again. Okay, I thought – something strange is going on here. But I had a lot going on in my life, and I’d been conditioned to think of pregnancy tests as gospel truth. I ignored the contradiction, and assumed I wasn’t pregnant. Life carried on.

By the time I missed a third period (still getting negative pregnancy tests), I was baffled enough to go to my GP. He gave me a form for a blood test. It was difficult for me to get to the hospital at that stage (I lived in York but worked in Cardiff, and I was in the car for 12-14 hours every week, on top of the hours demanded by my job as a lecturer and researcher). So, incredible though it sounds, it took me another couple of weeks to get the test done.

Before the results could come back, I started to feel a strange ‘hot stretching’, as I put it to myself, in my stomach. A sort of pulsating, or thrumming. A note of enlivenment. This worried me enough to take yet another shop-bought pregnancy test, while I waited for the bloods – probably the fifth or sixth I’d taken since August. This time, it was positive. Pregnant, it said. 1-2 weeks. The blood test results, when they came back, confirmed the result.

Well. There it was, then.

We felt what I imagine most people feel when they see that symbol. Joy, shock, terror, giddiness. But we felt something else, too. Confusion.

If I’d last had my period over three months ago, but the pregnancy test said I was only a week or two pregnant – what was going on? I had no symptoms yet, aside from those gentle ructions in my stomach. No sickness, no breast tenderness, no needing to pee. How could I be both 1-2 weeks pregnant and 13-14?

My GP shared my concerns. He fast-tracked me for a scan at our local hospital, which we were able to attend a week later.

In that intervening week, I did my usual drive down to Cardiff, and had a busy time teaching. I managed to catch a vicious cold, and on the drive back to York I started to feel very, very ill. But I smiled through it. We were having the scan when I got back. I’d know, at least, how far I was along. I’d be able to start making plans.

Here’s the thing. In that just-over-a-week of knowing that I was pregnant, our capacity for parenthood had grown like the beanstalk from the magic beans. We’d started to text each other possible baby names, and discuss the coin toss that would determine whether my surname or Rich’s got handed down to posterity. We’d started to talk about nurseries and schools, and laugh at our breakneck acceleration into middle age. There’s a picture of me from that week, taken by Rich, where I am smiling so broadly that my face looks as if it’s coming apart, like some sort of split bean.

We’d been tipped over a brink. We’d gone from thinking of ourselves as kids to thinking of ourselves as kid-havers. It happened with such speed, and such smoothness, and such a feeling of giddy delight.

That’s what made what happened next all the more devastating.

When we went for the scan, it was immediately obvious that something was wrong. The sonographer, consulting with his colleague, said, as if we weren’t there, “If it’s there, it’s very small.” “That could be something,” his colleague replied uncertainly, pointing to the screen – which I couldn’t see, because they hadn’t displayed the image on the visible monitor. I didn’t realize, at the time, how significant that was.

They asked me to go and have blood tests to track what was happening with my hCG levels. Off we went.

We waited, and the nurse took my blood. We waited, and the doctor said my hCG levels were not rising as fast as they should.

A word floated in the air. The word was suboptimal.

I did it all, that long Friday afternoon, with a smile clapped to my face, wiping my streaming nose, suppressing coughs, explaining to anyone who would listen that it was a bit of a funny situation, I could be 3 or 14 weeks, nobody could say. How funny!

Finally, when we were summoned back from the waiting room for what felt like the millionth time, the doctor pronounced that word. My pregnancy, it seemed, was suboptimal. It could be ectopic – the embryo implanted in the fallopian tube. Or could be that the chromosones had just mushed the wrong way. Or it could be other things, or none of them. Nobody could tell me. All I could do, the doctor said, with an apologetic air, was go home and wait it out, and come back for another blood test the following week.

Rich held my hand as we walked out of the hospital, towards the car. “It could be fine,” he said. “It could be fine!” I agreed.

But when we got in the car, and I was safely strapped in the passenger seat, I put my head in my hands and bawled.

A few days later, I started bleeding. My first emotion was overwhelming relief.

Relief? Yes, relief.  The word suboptimal had been haunting me since the moment it was pronounced. The pregnancy was less than best, yet still I carried it. Since the sonographer’s first words, I had known, on a level I can’t explain, that there was only death there inside me, acting like life. I was just waiting for it to leave.

And so, when it did, I was pleased.

I rang the early pregnancy unit, and asked if they wanted me to come in. No, a receptionist told me – not unless I was in unusual pain. There was nothing they could do, and anyway, I was due back for a follow-up next week.

When I got off the phone, Rich said quietly, “You’ve been moved to another list, haven’t you?” He didn’t seem relieved.

My wonderful GP said “I’m sorry. It’s a terrible thing.” He asked me a few questions, and then – perhaps because he was familiar with my thirteen-year history of depression – signed me off work for three weeks. I’d never taken sick leave before, and I felt okay, and three weeks seemed like a lot to me. But he was adamant – and thank god he was – that I’d need it.

The first week was sort of okay. I bled, and cramped, and didn’t feel great. But I was stoic, and smug about my own stoicism. I could see it for what it was: an unfortunate medical condition, nothing more.

Pro-choice since adolescence, I had never, for one moment, believed the clump of cells in me to be a person. Life, as far as I was concerned, went on.

The second week, I fell to pieces.

The thing that dissolved me into little bits was the realization that nobody would ever be able to tell me why it happened. Not the GP, not the sonographer, not the specialist we saw when we went for the scan to confirm that I had miscarried. Nobody would ever explain to me why I missed three periods without my hormone levels rising. Why, when they did rise, they didn’t rise quickly enough. Whether I had some form of life-to-be, or life-that-was, inside me for two weeks or four months.

I had been moved to another list. The case was closed. Kind and sympathetic though all those people might be as individuals, when I looked for answers I got one big institutional shrug. And the words, “It’s very common.” More about those later.

When I say I fell to pieces, I mean that it felt as if my brain had come apart. Whatever held it together had dissolved, and now bits of Sophie were floating around like dust mites. There was a bit here, that felt annoyed, and guilty, that I couldn’t work. A bit there, that didn’t realise I wasn’t still pregnant, and was deciding my favourite name for a girl. There was a bit that was worried that this had damaged us, Rich and I, somehow. There was a bit that hated my body, the traitor, that had for years tricked me into thinking that it was a perfectly good body. There were a million other pieces of me, past and present, living alongside each other. But these pieces wouldn’t work together, like a good brain should.

I lay in bed, or sat on the sofa, or went for long walks across the meadows near our house. That was the most I could do.

Everywhere the bits of me went, they saw toddlers. If you’d asked, before all this, how often I saw a toddler, I’d have said, Oh, maybe once a week? Now, I swear, it was twenty a day. I couldn’t leave the house without them assailing what-used-to-be-me. Like zombies in a B-movie, they clustered around the windows.

Rich said, “I hate the word miscarriage.” One part of me knew what he meant, and was grateful for it. Another part thought it was a fair word. An accurate term. After all, I’d done it wrong. I’d carried mis.

I had nightmares. About Rich leaving me, because now I was worse than useless. About a particularly nasty ex telling me, Your tits looked better when you were pregnant. About people I loved being butchered and dismembered, into small pink bloodless parcels. If I managed to hold it together during the day, I paid for it at night.

Gradually, a couple of weeks later, the pieces of my brain started to come back together. But they re-joined in an ugly, unwieldy way. You could see the sutures.

I was angry about everything. I was angry at myself, for being such a stupid emotional woman. I was angry at the happy people with babies. I was angry at the oblivious people, who wouldn’t ever know what this was like. I was angry at the medical professionals who had shrugged their shoulders and told me it was very common.

All my life, I’d been a workaholic – but suddenly I didn’t care, at all, any more, about my work. It was pointless, stupid, and vain. Next to what had happened to me, it meant nothing. And yet, if anyone had said to me, Yes, having a baby is a more meaningful experience than your work, I’d have punched them in the face.

In this condition, my sick leave expired, I went back to work in Cardiff. On the drive down, I stopped at my parents’ overnight to break up the journey. My mum insisted on loading me up with packed lunches for the week: sandwiches, slices of quiche, bits of fruit. She wrapped every item in about eighteen layers of cling film. As if by over-wrapping them, she could over-wrap me. Keep me safe from knocks.

Being back at work, being away from Rich, being expected to perform like a normal person – it was all hard. I’d told only a few necessary people in order to get my sick leave signed off, but it quickly became apparent that other people knew, even though I hadn’t told them.

Some people were kind. They clearly wanted to support me, even if they didn’t quite know how. Others were thoughtless. They didn’t scruple to let me know how inconvenient my absence had been. One person, I’m sorry to say, was actively cruel. She seemed to delight in making my life as hard as possible. She drew attention, whenever possible, to my sick leave and the circumstances behind it. Usually, I’d have resisted her, fired back, made a real fuss. I couldn’t. I just took it, like a punch bag leaking its stuffing.

My memories of those weeks back at work are blurred. I hardly slept at all. If I try to picture myself then, I’m walking through the corridors as quickly as possible, shoulders hunched, looking at my phone, trying not to speak to anyone.

Finally, the semester came to an end and we broke up for Christmas. It was a great relief in one way. In another, it made things harder. My milestone had passed. I was still here, with my anger, and a new year was coming. What now?

Over the Christmas break, I started to think about the words, It’s very common. I had always vaguely known, on some level, that one in three pregnancies end in miscarriage. One in four women, roughly, experience one. I’d known this but I’d never really known it, if you see what I mean. Only one friend had ever told me of her own miscarriage. Where were the others?

I started to really think about it. One in four. One quarter. Four of your female-bodied friends, sitting in a pub? One of them has had something like this happen to them. Or they will. Maybe it’s happening right now.

Without really knowing why, I started to tell my friends what had happened to me. And immediately, my world changed a little.

Me too. Us too. We had the same thing happen. One by one, the stories came.

They’d never said. I’d never known. All along, there had been this great seam of suffering, underlying what I thought of as normal life.

I wrote in my diary at that time, The last few weeks have been the greatest lesson in empathy I’ve ever known.

I started googling accounts of miscarriage, on the Miscarriage Association website and elsewhere. The seam grew deeper, and wider.

Most of the confessional pieces online were more dramatic than mine. They were second-trimester or third-trimester foetuses – real almost-babies, not my stupid little Schroedinger’s embryo. Or there were two or three or four losses, all compounding one another in a messy palimpsest of grief. Or it happened after a costly and gruelling course of IVF. They’ve got it worse than me, I thought.

But there was the odd account that I thought of as a little, common story like my own, and was more precious to me for that littleness and that commonness. I was pregnant, for a little while. Then I wasn’t. I don’t know what happened.

I hadn’t even been ‘trying’ / I didn’t even want it / I don’t even believe it was a person.

 So why have I fallen apart?

 Why did I fall apart?

I wrote this to a kind friend, who had sent me a care package from the USA:

I’ve gone from the person I was comfortable being, to a mum-to-be, to a woman who has a serious problem and might or might not have a viable pregnancy, to a woman who had miscarried, back to the person I was at the beginning – but different somehow. All in just a few weeks. It makes my head spin.

 I don’t believe that what I had inside me was a person. But I’m still grieving, and I can’t quite figure out what for. It sounds strange, but I think it might be for the former Mes. The Me who had never been pregnant, and the Me who was pregnant for the first time. Because I can never be those Mes again.

More succinctly, I wrote to another friend:

I will always be a bit sadder, and a bit shitter.

These aren’t inspirational words, I know. They’re harsh, ugly words. And yet, writing them helped. It was writing things like this, and hearing or reading the accounts of others, that eventually helped me to get better.

Not to recover, mind. I will never again be the person I was. That person’s gone. There’s no point in trying to recover her.

But I’m better than I was.

I’m different. My plates have shifted.

In this post, I don’t intend to cover What Happened Next. I’m only really comfortable with talking about the inside of my uterus with the buffer of a little time and space.

There are many other things I could say, about the year 2018. About the process of “trying”. About what it was like to see the words ‘Pregnant: 1-2 weeks” again. About seeing the cursed, cruel blood on toilet paper. About despair. About relief. About learning to hope like a grown-up. About all the rest of it.

But that’s for another time. If at all.

I’m better than I was.

I am not glad I had a miscarriage. I wish, with all my heart, that it had never happened. But even the worst things can, in certain lights, look positive. And you might as well try to glimpse them in those lights as frequently as you can.

So, let’s give it a go.

I’m healthier than I was. I no longer think I’m invincible – that my body is a machine that can move indefinitely and omnipotently, powered by my force of will. I will never know why my pregnancy was suboptimal. I will certainly try not to blame myself. But I will be kinder to my body than I was. Just on the offchance that doing so might help me avoid being suboptimal in the future.

I love Rich more, and better, than I used to. There are always bits of your partner that you’ve not yet had the opportunity to see, aren’t there? And in many ways, it would be better never to see them – who wouldn’t want to live a life together free of suffering? But if you have to see those bits, then there’s a consolation prize. Afterwards, you can love that person more. You can love them better.

Perhaps I’m not the best judge of this, but I think I’m a nicer person than I used to be. I certainly understand suffering better. If I can’t comprehend why somebody is so miserable or prickly about a circumstance I don’t relate to, I no longer assume that the problem is with them rather than my own ability to relate.

I understand that life has many dimensions. I’ve stepped off the treadmill that I’d been on for many years – one that measured my happiness almost solely in terms of professional success. Yes, I still care about that stuff. But less than I used to. The idea of happiness has re-formed itself, like the beads in a kaleidoscope. Sometimes, things need to come apart in order to find their best shape.

I understand the power of stories. I always thought I did. But not like this.

This was a long post, but it’s a little story. Little, and very common.

I’m not sharing it to try to start any sort of a #movement, or change behaviours, or anything like that. I’m sharing it for just two reasons.

The first is that, for me, it’s a sort of healing.

The second is that the internet’s the archive of that seam of suffering that I discovered when I started to talk to my friends. I want my story to be here, in case someone needs it.

If this has happened for you – if you’ve heard the word suboptimal – if you’re in pieces, and that’s more than just a metaphor – know that you’re very far from alone.

We may be suboptimal. Our pregnancies may be less-than-best.

But best is a big ask.

For now, let’s aim for better.

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On the improper Application, and the ludicrous Effects of certain Names

The top 100 baby names in England and Wales are out. Apparently we’re all smitten with Olivers, Jacks and Harrys, and Amelias, Islas and Olivias. The top 100 for boys and girls is here, with the big news (according to The Guardian) that national adoration for Prince George has resulted in a rash of Georges (up three places from number 10 last year).

Comments on the Guardian’s article, and tweets addressing the subject, are predictable enough. One commenter fumed (perhaps with tongue in cheek, but you never know below the line) ” The absence of the girls names like Doris, Ethel, Evadne, Diedre, Winifred and boys names like Cyril, Walter, Cecil, Arnold and Earnest is shocking. It shows a breakdown in the moral fabric of society and the Government should do something about it immediately!” Another made a similar point, more urbanely: “Most popular baby names of 2015: ‘On Fleek’, ‘Turnt’, ‘‘, ‘Bae’, ‘Swipe Left’, ‘Retweet’, ‘Heart eye emoji'”. Yet another person tweeted, “all of these names are so yummy mummy hampstead white it made my jaw hurt reading the list”.

Whenever a list of baby names is published (and as a researcher interested in the relationship between naming and identity I’ve been scrutinising them diligently for years), anxieties about class cast long shadows over the associated commentary. Certain given names, it seems, inspire certain connotations. Parents naming their children are often influenced, consciously or otherwise, by a desire to connote a certain lifestyle with their child’s name; to summon, like an apparition, a set of cultural mores. Some object to this in principle (see the ‘yummy mummy hampstead’ remark); others think there’s nothing wrong with it.

The problem, no matter what your approach, is that nobody knows quite how stable the connotations of any name will be. A name might lose ‘currency’ or connotation when a million other parents have the same moment of inspiration as yourself: you might be unfortunate enough that an unpopular public figure emerges with the name given to your precious offspring, thus necessitating a hasty nickname. It’s a minefield.

At least these problems are nothing new. The commentary around today’s list inspired me to dig up a few articles from eighteenth-century periodicals that addressed exactly this sort of issue. This was before the ONS published an official list of course: but that didn’t stop numerous essayists thundering or hand-wringing about the degeneration of ‘proper’ baby-naming throughout the century.

One of my favourites is the anonymous ‘On the improper Application, and the ludicrous Effects of certain Names’, published in Walker’s Hibernian Magazine, or Compendium of entertaining knowledge in August 1792. Here are a few choice snippets (forgive the heavy annotation).

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“Battles innumerable await a youth of spirit labouring under a singular name.” Sure. Nobody wants their kids to get bullied. Calling your son “Daniel” or “Peter”, for example, is tantamount to child cruelty.

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(Wonder what he’d have made of the Beckhams’ “Romeo”? No pressure, kid.)

But what does this guy object to in particular? Once he’s got past his preamble, it turns out to be “a rage for fine names”. Middle and lower tradesmen have stopped calling their daughters good lowly names like “Joan” and “Sarah”, and have the audacity to prefer “Anna Marias” and “Charlotte-Matildas”, along with other “romantic and royal appellations”.

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This makes things mortifying, apparently, for the master or mistress who must direct Clarissas and Catherine-Ann-Marias to “perform the ordinary household drudgery”.

It’s one article among dozens that I found when I was working on my PhD: commentators are obsessed with the idea that by calling their children the wrong sorts of names, the poor are transgressing an onomastic boundary, aspiring in a way they find offensive. (They object to ‘foreign’ names, ‘sentimental’ names and ‘vulgar’ nicknames as well, but the class-based critique is the most common).

What are we to make of this? It is possible to view these ‘mischiefs’ within the context of a broad discourse of anxiety about the transgression of social categories, which is related to a commercial boom in the eighteenth century which, by the third quarter of the century, had reached revolutionary proportions. The historian Neil McKendrick has pointed out how the “closely stratified nature of English society, the striving for vertical social mobility, the emulative spending bred by social emulation, the compulsive power of fashion begot by social competition,” which “offered exciting opportunities for the entrepreneur,” were also productive of anxiety about social emulation. “Dress,” McKendrick asserts, “was the most public manifestation of the blurring of class divisions which was so much commented on.”(Neil McKendrick, ‘The Consumer Revolution of Eighteenth-Century England’, The Birth of a Consumer Society, eds. McKendrick, Brewer and Plumb, p. 11, 20, 53)

These essays can be viewed as an expression of this anxiety. The association between names and dress was a common trope over the eighteenth century. But unlike dress, names are, as the French social historian Jacques Dupaquier has pointed out, “a free commodity, the consumption of which is obligatory” which display “in a pure form the function of identification and of distinction proper to the consumption of fashionable commodities.”(‘Naming-practices, Godparenthood and Kinship in the Vexin, 1540-1900,’ Journal of Family History, 6 (1981), 135-155, p. 135.) Another social historian, Scott Smith-Bannister, has located the “purity” of naming in the fact that choices around naming were “not constrained by the limits of an individual’s wealth, as was the expression of social differentiation by other means, such as clothing, education, and so forth.”(Naming Patterns in England, 1538-1700. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1997, p. 186.) In short, you may not be ble to afford designer clothes but you can always afford designer names. When essays like the one above express anxiety about a lack of proper correspondence between name and social class, they can be seen to worry about the possibilities for social mobility that were raised by the eighteenth-century consumer boom.

So: what does it mean that today some still sneer at or joke about popular names (across all England and Wales) for being “hampstead yummy mummy”, or for refusing to conform to ‘traditional’ (English? working-class?) names like “Doris” and “Arnold”? If you ask me, it says something – not necessarily something awful, but something interesting – about the person doing the sneering and/or joking, rather than the person who chooses the name for their baby. It says that deep down, we’d still like the name to act as a kind of transparent signifier of class, nationality, religion or culture. We’d like people to stick to their proper labels. So we know how to place them. As ‘class’ becomes harder to demarcate by occupation, income, manners, accent or even voting intentions, there are some levels on which some of us would like names to remain stable, to provide an easy signpost. Trouble is, names have a disconcerting habit of thwarting us in this respect; not only do fashions and connotations of given names shift over time, but more of us than ever are using social media and even deed polls to ‘rebrand’ ourselves later in life.

But that’s another story…

Surviving the Viva: Tips and Reflections


Is this the only way? (HT the excellent XKCD http://xkcd.com/1403)


So, you’ve done it. Years of painstaking research. One thesis, a huge bouncing brain-baby, has been written, re-drafted, footnoted, formatted, and submitted. Only one thing stands between you and the sweet, sweet title ‘Dr.”

The Viva.

It’s hard to describe to somebody outside the academy the kind of symbolic power the Viva has over doctoral students. It’s a legendary rite of passage, the final hurdle, the moment when it could all get snatched away, all go unrewarded. It’s also the moment when the rules seem to change drastically: when the spoken word becomes more important than the printed one as the medium through which you must communicate your message. For a long time, we doctoral students have been trained to do not very much except sit and read and write. Sure, we present the odd conference paper, and sure, we might get asked one or two questions (which there’s always the option to parry with “Thank you for that interesting thought. I’d love to look into that more and I can certainly keep you posted.”) But to sit, possibly for hours, with two people who know everything there is to know within your field, and defend your ideas in exhaustive detail, verbally, knowing that they have the power to fail you? It can seem pretty terrifying. (See this blog post for a traditionally scaremongery approach: all ‘bullying’ and undertrained examiners. http://www.timeshighereducation.co.uk/features/are-phd-vivas-still-fit-for-purpose/2003341.fullarticle )

The point of this blog post is to make the opposite argument. Don’t worry, the viva will probably be fine. It can even be fun.

It should go without saying, I’m not trying to set myself up as an expert in taking vivas. I have only ever done, and only ever intend to do, precisely one. I guess that’s pretty much the case with anyone, meaning that the viva is fundamentally different from a job interview (unless you’re in the habit of racking up PhDs in different subjects.) A real viva expert would be somebody who’s examined for hundreds, and I’d love any suggestions of frank pieces written from the examiner’s perspective. BUT, that’s just one perspective, and it’s not that of the students who are preparing to sit the viva. So, before the memory of my own viva fades completely away I thought it might be useful to share the things I wish I’d known in advance. Most of them will hopefully put pre-viva doctoral students at their ease and allow them to prepare a little better, and approach the whole experience in a more relaxed frame of mind, than I did.

(This blog post was originally delivered as a talk to PG students in Cardiff University’s School of English, Communication and Philosophy. It can be read in conjunction with my two recent posts ‘Writing up the PhD Thesis’ and ‘Applying for Academic Jobs’. I was doing all three around the same time, so there’s a fair amount of cross-referencing between the three of them! Normal caveats apply, in that this post is aimed at UK-based humanities PhDs, and represents only my own personal experience. I am sorry that it can’t address the issues of how to deal with getting major corrections or failing outright (or about passing with no corrections!) I don’t have the experience or authority to address these eventualities.)


(1) Choose your examiners well.

It’s possible that you won’t get a say in who your internal and external examiner are. In that case, don’t worry; trust your supervisor to make a good choice; skip this section. But if your supervisor involves you in the decision-making process, then I’d urge you to take advantage of the opportunity to choose well. Pick people, both within your department and without, whose work you admire and whom you know will be able to speak knowledgeably about the subject on which you have written. Sorry to say this, but you should probably have read most, if not all, of what they have written.

In addition, it will not seem top of your list at the time, but you should try to think strategically about your examiners, as they will be the people giving you employment references (unless you have a job already) – so you want a person with a very good reputation in their field. Finally, it might not hurt to pick somebody whom you have met, even if only briefly, and you think seems like a nice person. That’s actually not the most important thing, by a long stretch. But it can’t hurt.


(2) Familiarise yourself with the timescale – practicalities matter!

When picking your examiners and scheduling your viva, there will be some practicalities about who is actually available, where and when, and at what expense. At York, the viva generally took place about two months after submission. It was generally agreed that it was ideal for both examiners to be in the same room as the candidate, but familiarity with Skype was now meaning that, as long as both examiners were happy, one could be skyped in. I was told, however, that it was vastly preferable for the external examiner to be in the same room as the candidate, since they generally led the questioning. Though this does differ – a good friend of mine was in the room with her internal examiner and had her external skype in from Australia, and that all went marvellously.

I was always keen to have a particular person as my internal examiner, so that was an easy choice. My own experience of identifying an external examiner was relatively simple, but still required a bit of to-ing and fro-ing. My top choice for external examiner was located in California, so it was originally felt that we could not ask her. We turned to discuss a UK-based potential external, who would have been amazing and was keen to examine, but was not available til about six months after my submission date. That was too long for me. Then suddenly I got notice that I had been successful in my application for a two-month fellowship in California immediately after my thesis submission date, meaning that I could travel to my top choice external’s institution and conduct the viva there at the end of my fellowship. We were able to ask her, and she said yes. My preferred internal examiner confirmed that he was also happy to do it and was happy to Skype from York. Sorted.

As I said above, this was relatively simple. I have many friends for whom by far the most stressful part of the viva was finding the right external examiner and getting them in the right place at the right time. Illness, diary schedules, last-minute objections to bureaucratic requirements… all often conspired to mean that the weeks before the viva were spent chopping and changing, and stressing over who would actually be asking the questions come the fateful day. I guess all I can recommend here is to anticipate these issues, develop a shortlist of your ideal external examiners early on, and speak to your supervisor about it very early, constantly reminding them if you think it’s slipped their mind.

You’ve submitted – you’ve got the examiners in place – what now?


3) Read your thesis again in advance of the viva. Maybe twice. But be prepared for it to be painful.

Advice differs about when, or whether, to re-read your thesis before the viva. I have a friend who said he just skimmed his Introduction and Conclusion the night before. On the other end of the scale, I read a blog post by a student who went into her viva with a lengthy printed list of minor corrections that she had identified herself, to show to her examiners. To me the first option seems very brave (and I mean that in a Sir Humphrey way) and the latter seems excessive (and also might be shooting yourself in the foot, because the examiners may only flag up a few corrections, in which case it looks like you’re telling them they haven’t done their job properly…)

I speed-read my thesis a week after handing it in, because I wanted to put my mind at rest that there weren’t any pages missing or huge clangers. Once I’d had a few days of good sleep and could bear to pick it up again, I skimmed it, peeping through my fingers horror-film-style. I highlighted the typos and what I felt were the weak sections. Then, with a huge feeling of relief (the viva still seemed so far away…) I put it back on the shelf and got on with other stuff.

When the viva was about two weeks away, I visited it again. I went through it more slowly and decided the typos were (relatively) unimportant. I then pulled out about ten substantial sections that I thought were the weakest points of my argument, and that I’d get challenged on, and I thought about these in detail. Why were they weak? What would I have done differently if I had my time again? How could I improve them? I practiced acknowledging the thesis’s faults, articulating its strengths and defending its contentious assertions.


4) Think about the afterlife of the thesis.

By this point I was getting some good advice from fellow readers at the library where I was researching in the weeks before the viva, many of whom had done the same thing not too long ago. One oft-repeated piece of advice was that, all being well, the examiners would actually focus far more closely on my future plans for the monograph than on its detailed content. So I drew up a one-page plan for how I thought I might turn it into a monograph (although others may favour a series of articles). How would I need to change the structure, the title and the scope? What further research would I need to do? Which publishers would I approach? (This was made a lot easier by the fact I’d been making a similar kind of presentation in recent job interviews!)


5) Consider a mock viva… but don’t feel you have to do one.

I was worried that I might need a mock viva, and that as I was away from York I wouldn’t be near the academics I’d usually approach to ask for one (chiefly, of course, my supervisor.) I asked Academic Twitter how much of a disaster it would be not to have a mock viva, and was quite surprised by the results. It was a fairly even 50-50 split between those who thought a mock viva a good idea and those who thought it was actually a bad one. The former thought it might give me good practice in framing my arguments succinctly and convincingly. The latter thought that mock vivas misled candidates into feeling they now knew what to expect, but that examiners’ techniques differed so radically that they might be totally thrown by a different approach in the real thing.

Armed with these opinions, and with my dilemma weighted by the fact I was thousands of miles away from my supervisor and other academics in my department, I decided not to ask for a mock viva. As I noted earlier, I felt that job applications and interviews were giving me plenty of practice in describing my research succinctly (though for those who are doing their viva before going on the job market, you’d obviously find yourselves in a different situation). I asked my supervisor a few key questions in an email about what she thought I might expect and, along with my own notes, depended on that.

At this point I’d like to say to any readers who are in the early stages of a PhD: take every opportunity you are offered to speak about your research. Present at conferences and PG forums and research seminars. Chat with your friends. Hector your supervisor. Just get used to speaking about your arguments. I promise you, it is an investment you won’t regret when you get to the viva.


6) Arrive prepared.

I don’t mean intellectually, I mean physically. Try to get a good night’s sleep (okay, easier said than done!) Have a good hearty breakfast – eggs on toast and a banana, or whatever else floats your boat. Drink a substantial but not ludicrous amount of coffee, if you’re a caffeine person.

I’m not sure it matters what you wear as long as it’s reasonably smart. I wore a dress and sandals (California weather, y’all….) My external examiner wore a pant suit and my internal examiner, in the Skype screen, was wearing a shirt. There you go. Make of that what you will!

Bring water. Bring paper and a pen. And bring – for goodness’ sake, bring – a printed copy of your thesis. Printed exactly as your examiners have it.

And turn your phone off.


7) Don’t be thrown.

So you’re sitting in a room with your two examiners (one of them perhaps peering from the Skype box on a computer screen), who are both holding copies of your thesis. The external examiner opens her mouth to begin.

She may or may not tell you that you’ve passed straight away. Whichever of these things happens, do not let it throw you off your stride.

My external told me straight away that they thought it was a good piece of work and were happy to endorse it, which I took to mean that I had passed. My first feeling was immense relief, but my second – less welcome – was absolute numbing exhaustion. I had come into the room all geared up to defend, to convince, to be passionate about my work, and now I knew straight away that I had passed and by god, I just wanted a beer and a cigarette and fourteen hours’ sleep.

But of course – quite rightly – they still wanted to talk.

It’s a first-world problem, I admit. But look, my point is, you should be prepared for either eventuality. If they tell you that you’ve passed straight away, be prepared for that wave of exhaustion and to nonetheless remain bright-eyed and alert. If they launch straight into questioning without telling you that you’ve passed, don’t start trembling with fear. Be aware that either of these things could happen and it doesn’t necessarily mean much – it’s just the examiner’s preferred method.

Once we had cleared that, and I had pulled myself together, we spent about an hour talking. Both my examiners were very pleasant and very learned and very insightful. They asked me to describe briefly what the argument of my thesis was, and what contribution it made to my field. They asked me how I felt about it now that I had had some time to reflect, and what my future plans were for it. They then proceeded to go through the chapters in order, each examiner asking one question about each chapter. Usually these were very broad questions about the place of a particular author or observation in my argument, often hedged with helpful reading suggestions or ideas for a direction that I could take that point in the future. They seemed mainly to be interested in drawing my ideas outwards, in making them more ambitious and expansive, and getting me to draw new connections between various parts of my work.

Of course, that is not to say they didn’t have criticisms. For example, they both agreed that in my Conclusion and my Appendix I used an inappropriately colloquial tone for a thesis. Completely fair point. I found the following formulation very useful when faced with a constructive criticism: “I can absolutely see what you mean, and I think if I had my time again I’d do x x and x differently. Moving forward with a monograph, I think I’ll try to x.”


8) Listen carefully to what your examiners say – and write their points down!

You know what’s really easy to do? Listen to an examiner ask a long, complex, interesting question, and sit there nodding. And then when they look at you expectantly for an answer, to realise you’ve forgotten the lot. Jot a few notes down. Read them back over. Think about how to get to the heart of the question they’re asking. And then answer.


9) Use your examiners. Ask them questions.

You know what? I reckon it’s relatively rare that you get to sit in a room with two world experts who have read a long piece of your work, and ask them questions about it. I also reckon it’s pretty valuable. So, ask them questions. About why they were unconvinced by something. About how they’d suggest improving it. About how they would go about developing and placing and publishing this project. Ask them which scholars you still need to find out about, what new work you might have missed.

You might even enjoy this bit. I did.


10) Make sure you know what happen next.

Once an examiner looks at her watch and says, “Well, I guess that’s pretty much….” you may want to weep/scream/run out of the room. But wait. You need to be totally crystal clear on whether you’ve passed and with what. I think my exact words were “Please can I just confirm for the record that I have passed with minor corrections?” After that was confirmed, I spoke to my internal examiner for a couple of minutes about what I had to do next in the way of implementing and submitting those minor corrections. This will be the last thing you want to do at that moment, but it’s worth getting straight in your head.


11) Treat yourself.

One or both examiners might invite you for a coffee, or lunch, or a drink. Or they might be busy and send you, newly doctored, out to meet your friends. You might want to pop the bubbly, you might want to catch up on sleep, you might want to chill out with loved ones. Either way, enjoy it. This is Doctor Day!


I think the note I’d like to finish on is this: a successful viva can be just an amazing chat. I will not go as far as to say that it is just a chat, because different examiners do things differently, and some vivas might be far more formal, or intense, or critical, than mine was. But many people I know have had a similar experience to me, and we all agreed that we got far too worked up about it in advance. With that in mind: good luck. And try to enjoy it!





Applying for academic jobs

Yesterday I had a chat with postgraduate students in my new department at Cardiff University, about the process of applying for academic jobs after the PhD. It was felt by organisers of the Thesis Group (the forum in which I was speaking, along with one of the professors who recently hired me!) that as I was hired only a few weeks ago it would be useful for us both to share our observations on the recent recruitment process with PG students who will soon be venturing out into the academic job market themselves. In the spirit of academic collegiality, this post is my attempt to share the skeleton outline of my talk more widely.

Lots of these observations are not new or original, and many can be found in other academics’ blog posts (see in particular Josephine Crawley Quinn’s blog, here and here, which were recommended to me on Twitter yesterday, and which comprehensively cover the paper application and interview stages.) As ever, these insights are only meant to represent my own personal experiences and thoughts: they are aimed at humanities students completing a PhD (or hoping to do so in the next year or two) within the UK higher education system and, for the most part, they focus on applying for jobs in UK universities too. Like my previous post on writing up the PhD thesis, I found it useful to frame my insights as a series of choices that have to be made, rather than a series of prescriptive tips.

Feedback welcome as ever!


Applying for academic jobs: Seven choices to make

1) Whether to apply for jobs in the last year of your PhD, or to leave it until you’ve handed in?

This is something I touched on briefly in my ‘Writing up the thesis’ post. There are pros and cons to both choices here. The main pro is that you might actually get one of the jobs you’re apply for (!) and be able to segue into employment straight after the PhD. But even if this doesn’t happen, the application process will help you to refine your ideas, both about your thesis and your next project/future career. The cons are that the job application process is incredibly time-consuming (thus taking precious time away from thesis work), and that it can be disheartening. It is universally agreed (in my admittedly anecdotal experience) that a candidate who doesn’t have a doctorate in hand, or at the very least a viva date, is less likely to get called for interview than one of equivalent merit who does. So, in a way, you’re stacking the odds against yourself from the start.

I chose to apply for jobs from the beginning of my fourth year. I applied for fourteen jobs in between October 2013 and May 2014. Of those, I received eleven rejections, one request for written work (followed by a rejection), one invitation to interview (followed by rejection) and one invitation to interview followed by an offer of employment. I always asked for feedback to my application, but my request was only responded to after the unsuccessful interview. I also always asked how many people had applied for the post. The numbers given ranged from thirty-five (for one post) to six hundred (for four posts).

I’m not sorry I decided to apply before I had my doctorate in hand. The first reason why I don’t regret it, unsurprisingly, is that the gamble paid off (though it is worth noting that my two invites to interview were issued late in my final year, when I was able to include my submission date in my application.) The second reason is that, while the job app process was often a royal pain, it really helped me to get my ideas in order for my thesis. By  the time I was called for interview, I knew my stuff off by heart.

I can’t personally speak for the benefits and disadvantages of waiting until you’re properly doctored up to apply for jobs. But I imagine that the main disadvantage is that it’s hard to juggle paying the bills with keeping a foot in the door of academia and getting those job apps in. On the bright side, you’d be more likely to make it through to the interview stage once your PhD is in hand, which might mean success in a shorter space of time. Do feel free to share experiences below!


2) Who should be your referees?

Once you have decided you want to apply for jobs, you should identify prospective referees and ask them if they are happy to write for you. Most jobs I applied for required two references, which was fairly unproblematic – my doctoral supervisor provided one, and my secondary doctoral advisor provided the second. They had both seen good chunks of my work and knew me personally, which are (in my opinion) the main requirements in a referee. But some jobs specified that there must be a third referee, from an external institution. This can be rather tricky, especially if you haven’t done your viva yet (if you have, your external examiner is the obvious port of call.) I ended up emailing the Director of a research centre where I had done a one-month fellowship, and asking if he’d mind reading some of my work and writing the third reference when it was required. He was willing to do so, luckily, and has my eternal gratitude. I think this is well worth flagging up early to PhD students. If I hadn’t done that fellowship, I honestly don’t know who I would have asked, because I hadn’t been moving through my PhD trying to identify and ingratiate myself with external mentors. The lesson is this: to do so, if you want to apply for jobs in the final year of your doctorate, is really not a bad idea.


3) What kind of jobs to apply for?

So, your referees have agreed to write for you. Next thing:  Sign up to jobs.ac.uk. Get a tailored email service letting you know when jobs in your field come up, or else make sure you check the website every day. Jobs.ac.uk was the only jobs website I ever needed, but I also found Twitter very useful: the odd opportunity would appear there but not on jobs websites, especially postdocs based in the USA and Canada.

Broadly speaking, I found that there were four types of opportunity on offer in the UK academic job market for English Literature, at the time that I applied. There were research-based postdocs, attached to a project, which usually lasted 1-5 years, were very specific about responsibilities and outputs, and generally paid about £17-25k p.a. There were research-based postdocs not attached to a project, usually fellowships at Oxbridge colleges: these allowed a far greater degree of freedom around research, were usually for a two or three year period, and paid about £15-21k p.a. There were temporary teaching posts for 1-3 years, paying £13-30k p.a. (the upper end of the scale is much more typical, but some Oxbridge colleges seem to think a ten-hour teaching load exclusive of marking, prep and admin is worth less than minimum wage.) And then there were permanent posts or  lectureships, that require both teaching and research and that are, well, permanent (subject to a probation period) and generally pay £25-33k p.a. All in all, I’d say that on average a job I was eligible for came up about once every two weeks, with October and May particularly busy months.

On the one hand: I’d recommend thinking very hard about what you want to do. Would you prefer teaching or research? Is it more important to you to get your first monograph out or to develop your teaching portfolio?

On the other: I’d recommend applying for all the jobs you’re eligible for anyway. Unless the thought of doing it makes you completely miserable, you need to be very flexible and receptive at this point. And every application is good practice. So, cast the net wide. When you see a good opportunity, note the deadline in your diary or calendar and set yourself frequent reminders to avoid a last-minute panic. Email your referees and send them the link to the job ad, stressing the deadline. Then get to work on the application itself.


4) How to present yourself on paper?

The first stage of every single one of these jobs will be to send a certain selection of documents to an administrator. Unfortunately, that is where the certainty ends. Each job you apply for will require a different permutation of the following: cv, research proposal, teaching statement or portfolio, cover letter, sample work, references. They will all want different word counts. And they will all want to see slightly different things. This is where the UK academic job market differs fundamentally from the North American one. As I understand it, in the USA and Canada references are standardised and job application materials are far more similar between different jobs. Not so here, I’m afraid. You can’t get away with anything other than rewriting your job application for every single post. If you cut and paste chunks, be very careful. I nearly sent an application to a Cambridge college once enthusing about how much I needed to use the incomparable archives in Oxford.

The person specification is your bible: this is usually a list of eight to fifteen bullet points listing the things you will have or be able to do in order to be qualified for the job. The things that person specifications wanted to see most, in my experience, were: a strong publication record in a particular area; teaching experience in a particular area; clear and well-defined plans for future research; evidence of attracting external and internal funding; evidence of working collaboratively; evidence of public engagement and understanding of impact. Often they would also ask for evidence that you could demonstrate leadership, administrative expertise, evidence of valuing diversity, etc: the slightly less specific things that you might (rightly) find in most person specifications outside academia as well as inside.

Your cover letter should say very briefly who you are (stage of career, institution, subject) then summarise your main strengths, in line with the person specification, and (briefly) why you want the job: feel free to add ‘see cv for full details’.  Re-draft your cv to fit the page count and highlight the most important things that you think the panel wants to see. If it’s a research-based postdoc, put your research up front. If it’s a teaching post, major on your training and the courses you’ve taught. If there is information that you are planning on elaborating in your ‘research statement’ or ‘teaching statement’, you can trim duplicated information from your cv. The challenge is to present the fullest picture possible, across several documents, in the smallest number of words.

Save. Re-read. Re-draft. Proof. Repeat. Repeat again. Then send it. It can take anything from a week to forever, to receive a response. Forget it and move on. Get started on the next one. But before you do this: SAVE THE JOB ADVERTISEMENT! It will be taken offline after the deadline passes, meaning that if you are invited to interview you will need to consult it again.


5) How to respond to rejection?

The most likely outcome is, your application will be rejected. It is bruising and disheartening and really rather horrible. But, most of the time, it is not personal. Chalk it up to experience, don’t get bitter, move on. Ask for feedback. They will almost never give it before interview, but ask.


6) What written work to send?

If you receive an email asking for for written work: congratulations, you have made it through the first round. Ask for guidance if it’s not clear exactly what they want to see. Most often, they will ask for a published article. This is worth flagging up because it demonstrates the importance of publishing at least one article during your doctorate. They will also specify a word count that may well be different from your published article. Don’t quibble. Edit it up or down, and make sure to specify ‘This is an edited version of an article published/forthcoming in x.” If you don’t have a published article, that can’t be helped. But make sure to ask what they want from you: a self-contained essay, or a section of your thesis.

Whatever the piece of work is, make sure it is meticulously proofed, and send it in PDF form. Then, sit back and wait again. If rejection follows, the same advice applies as above. Chalk it up to experience, don’t get bitter, move on. Ask for feedback. They will almost never give it before interview, but ask.


7) How to prepare for interview? and What to expect at interview?

You’ve got invited to interview: hooray! Give yourself a big pat on the back, and have a celebration (just not the night before the interview itself.) My own experience gets a lot more sparse here, because I only had two interviews – at Cambridge for 1-year teaching post, and Cardiff for a permanent job. They were about as different as could be, though, so I can give a decent overview of the various scenarios that might take place. Hopefully from reading these stories you will get a good idea, too, of what I think is the best way to prepare. I’m not going to cover things like “Dress smartly,” “Make eye contact” and “Get a good night’s sleep” – you can take those as read!

The first of my interviews was for a one-year teaching post at a Cambridge college. I was told there would be a half-hour interview with a panel of several members of staff, and that I should prepare a five-minute presentation about my research. I was pretty worried about being able to summarise my research in five minutes, and came to the conclusion that all I could do was give a broad outline of the argument of my thesis. I researched the interests of the Fellows in English at the college (though none of them worked in my area) and tried to anticipate a few questions. Come the day, I toddled down to Cambridge and turned up at the (very pleasant) college. After waiting for fifteen minutes, I was called into the interview room where there was a panel of six people. There were all the College Fellows in English, the College Principal, and an expert in my period of research brought in from a neighbouring college. So far, so fair enough. They asked me to give my presentation, and nodded sagely while I did so. Then they asked me a couple of questions each. Could I talk a little bit more about this or that aspect of my research? How would I convey the exciting aspects of eighteenth-century literature to students through my teaching? Which two long-eighteenth-century texts would I put down for compulsory reading? (That one threw me a bit: I went for Locke’s Essay Concerning Human Understanding and Burney’s Cecilia.) What could I contribute to college life? It was a very pleasant chat, and I left the College buzzing. Less than two hours later, I received an email saying that unfortunately they could not offer me the post but they wished me all the best in my career. I asked for feedback and was told that, compared to the successful candidate, my five-minute presentation was not as imaginative as it could have been and I did not answer questions as directly as I could have done. I was a bit crushed, to say the least. Rejection felt worse when I had gone a long way (without being reimbursed for my travelling expenses) and put in substantial preparation. I wondered who the other candidates had been, why one of them had beaten me. I asked myself the dread ‘Was it an internal candidate?’ question. I concluded that no, it was probably me. My confidence crashed through the floor. But as time passed, I resolved to learn from the experience, to think of a more imaginative way to present my research next time. I got on with the thesis. And just as I was hurtling towards my submission deadline, I got another invitation to interview.

This time, it was for a permanent early career lectureship in Romantic Literature at Cardiff University. Frankly, I didn’t have my hopes up very high when I applied, because I knew that permanent posts generally went to people with postdocs and rafts of teaching experience, who had already published at least one monograph. I did, however, spot that the person specification indicated that a supplementary specialism in creative writing (which I had)  would be an advantage, so I thought it was worth a shot. I received the invitation to interview just before I handed in my thesis, so I could hardly even think about it until I was all handed in and caught up on sleep. Then I replied to say I’d be delighted to attend, and got preparing.

The Cardiff interview was far more formalised than the Cambridge one, and far more similar to the standard interview procedure (as I understand it) in North American universities. It took place over two days, and consisted of two informal interviews, one formal interview, and the fabled ‘job talk’, a twenty-minute presentation about ‘My next research project’, delivered to staff and students from the Department, followed by ten minutes of questions. Perhaps this more formal structure motivated me to prepare more thoroughly; or perhaps my rejection at Cambridge had shaken me up a bit and made me wonder if I prepared adequately. In either case, I prepared obsessively for the Cardiff interview. I researched the interests of every member of staff in the Department with areas of study related even tangentially to my own, and read all of their publications I could get my hands on. I read the University’s and the Department’s strategy documents, and the handbooks and module guides for all years of the undergraduate degree and the taught Masters. I trawled the library holdings at Cardiff to see which collections might be of use in my future research. I emailed friends who had studied at Cardiff to ask what it was like, and emailed fairly new lecturers among my friends and acquaintances to ask about their own ‘job talks’ and how they prepared. I re-drafted my ‘job talk’ probably about ten times, and practised it with a stopwatch. Bearing in mind the feedback from my Cambridge interview, I tried to think of ways to make my presentation engaging: talking the audience through a brief extract of primary text, for example, to show my teaching in action while also pulling out the main ideas that characterised my research.  I got used to pitching myself in brief, succinct paragraphs. My past work. The argument of my thesis. My future plans. My experience of public engagement. My teaching strategy. I devised a sample module that I could talk about with ease, to convince them that I could hit the ground running. Then I flew halfway across the world to attend interview (I was based in California on the interview date – it is to Cardiff’s immense credit that they were willing to cover my travel expenses).

Again, it was a very pleasant experience in the end. The two informal interviews on the first day, with the Heads of Department and the Director of Studies respectively, provided me with a huge amount of helpful information about the School, much of which I managed to work into my presentation that evening. It also gave me a greater desire to work there: I could think in a more informed way about the challenges and opportunities that this particular position presented, and about how I might be able to put up a decent case for myself as the best candidate to address them. That evening, I had a rotten night’s sleep thanks to my jetlag, but fuelled up on a Welsh fry-up the next day and got myself along to my ‘job talk’. I had practised enough that it came reasonably naturally, and my three questions (asking me to clarify an aspect of my project; to talk about the project I’d pursue after my next project; and about my creative work) were addressed in a friendly and interested way. My formal interview (with three members of the School faculty and one external member from the Music department) was a little more nerve-wracking as I was really starting to feel the jetlag by that point. But, like my Cambridge interview, everybody was very pleasant and the questions didn’t seem designed to catch me out. Why did I want the job? Why should they hire me? What new directions lay ahead for Romanticism? What was the place of literary form in my work? Could I talk about my understanding of impact and my experience of public engagement? And finally, would I take the job if they offered it to me? (Apparently some people answer this question with a hesitation or “Hmmmm.” Baffling.) I left feeling pretty good, but chastened by my Cambridge experience. “I have no idea whether I got it,” I said to my partner when we met for a beer afterwards. “But I think I acquitted myself okay.”

Again, I heard very quickly: probably not two hours later, I received an email asking me to call the Head of School around seven o’clock. He told me that they wanted to offer me the position – or rather, a position, since they had decided, in light of a very strong field of candidates, to make two appointments. The job offer was, however, conditional upon me passing my viva. I attempted to stay very calm and cool on the phone, assured him I would pass the viva, confirmed my provisional acceptance of the job, and told the HoS I was really looking forward to working with him. Then I put the phone down, screamed, drank some bubbly, and fell asleep. It wouldn’t be until the next day that it occurred to me that the viva now lay ahead. Which will be the subject of my next post…




I think the key points I’d like to finish up with, aimed at current PhD students, are these. First, I am acutely aware that I was very, very lucky. A job came up at the right time; moreover, it was a job that was right for me. Many people, far more talented than me, do not have that luck, and I would never wish to dismiss or undermine their experiences and entirely valid critiques of the system within which we are forced to work.

But second, the prospect is not necessarily as dreary out there as you imagine. Certainly it may well not be as dreary as that twenty-fifth despondent blog post you read last week, about why the dispirited author left academia, seems to suggest. I know several other recent humanities PhDs who went straight into jobs after submission, and numerous ones who were employed within a year. It is harder to talk about successes than failures online, though. Nobody wants to be that smug git. I know I don’t. But I also get sad when I see friends convinced they shouldn’t even try for academic jobs because it’s such a tough market; when I see them literally losing sleep and making themselves ill because they’re convinced they’ve committed to a dead-end career. I guess the note I’d like to leave it on is: give it a go. Give it lots of goes. You never know. You might be surprised.

Writing up the PhD thesis

I thought it might be useful – for myself and hopefully for readers currently doing a PhD – to jot down a few thoughts about writing up the thesis, while they’re still fresh in my mind. I haven’t personally come across many blogs or thinkpieces that describe the process in any detail, and this in itself strikes me as interesting. (There was this recently, http://www.theguardian.com/science/sifting-the-evidence/2014/jun/11/writing-up-the-home-straight-of-a-phd but despite the title it didn’t really talk about the writing-up process itself – not surprising, considering the author was still 3 months away from submission.) On the grapevine, you hear isolated anecdotes of tears and breakdowns and bizarre eating patterns and sleepless editing marathons. Before getting there myself, I saw several friends and acquaintances fade away from the social scene for a few months and then return, relieved to have Writing Up out of the way but mysteriously muted about how it actually worked. I’m guessing this silence is due to the fact that generally, once you’re out of it, you don’t really want to go back there – and people are too polite to ask you to. 

Nonetheless I think, as with most aspects of academia, we can make a hard thing easier by talking about it. There are a few things I wish I’d known before I started the whole process. So with that in mind, and also with the more selfish motivation that I think it’s useful to reflect upon and learn from your experiences, here are a few observations about Writing Up drawn from my own experience. These are absolutely personal and are not meant to speak for everyone’s experiences – in particular, the way this works will vary hugely between disciplines. I’m an English Literature PhD studying at York, so I guess this should be seen as roughly applicable to the way Writing Up works for UK doctoral students in the humanities. But even then, your experience might be completely different from mine.

1) It took about three drafts, and about six months. 
What I mean by this is that in January 2014 I had five big rambling pieces of work on different authors that each addressed some aspect of naming in eighteenth-century literature, and that I swaggeringly called ‘chapters’. They weren’t chapters. They were overgrown conference papers, or three conference papers linked together, or hybrid lumps of literature review and close reading. I also had thousands of pages of notes and ramblings. I still didn’t know exactly what my argument was; how these things might all link up and form a cogent argument that could actually contribute to current scholarship. I realised this in January, and I panicked a bit. So what happened between January and June?

2) There shouldn’t be one big deadline. There should be several small ones.
Around January, I started to really use my supervisor. That is, I said, ‘I want to send you a draft of my thesis by x. Please hold me to it.’ I tried to make it so that I’d make myself look pretty stupid if I didn’t make the deadline. Then I got to work. And oh god, that first draft. It was awful. I was trying to link these pieces of work together, pulling new arguments out of thin air, jettisoning lovingly crafted ones that I’d worked on for the best part of year but just didn’t fit any more. It made me wonder what the hell I had been doing all my PhD. It made me think, ‘I can’t do this, I should just give up.’ But in the end I got a first draft, in all its awfulness, and sent it off to my supervisor. That first draft took about three months.

Once I got feedback from my supervisor, a funny thing had happened. I kind of knew a lot of what she’d say in advance. Working on the thesis as if it was a large, unitary piece of work – even though I was riddled with self-loathing as I did it – made me aware of many of the weaknesses of my argument, and also – a sadly smaller number – the strengths that I needed to research more, and make more central to the structure. Once I had my supervisor’s thoughts to confirm what I already knew and embellish it with insights that only she could give, I was away on a second draft, which took me from April to May. I passed it on to her again, with a tight turnaround for feedback, and then I wrote the final draft in the last two weeks before hand-in. 

3) Expect to be working right up until the last minute
The last draft in the last two weeks? Sounds a bit… close to the bone? Well, yes. I don’t know if everyone thinks they’ll be done and dusted a few weeks before the submission date, and just be leisurely proofreading, honing their acknowledgments, maybe doing a fun wordcloud. I did. But it didn’t work like that. Over those six months, I became more passionately invested in my subject than I had ever been invested in anything before. I wanted this thesis to be great. I wanted it to say everything. I read and read and read, sometimes scanning seven or eight books a day, following endless paper trails to find that critical source that I knew would bolster my argument, to revisit that text which I didn’t think I’d quite grasped yet. I re-shaped my chapters endlessly, splitting them into two, moving sections around, chasing after the Platonic Thesis, the ur-thesis, the thesis that would say EXACTLY what I wanted to say. This continued until the final week.

Maybe it shouldn’t have done. Maybe I should have eased off at the second draft, polished what I’d got, checked my formatting and sent it in. Or maybe I should have extended my deadline, because…

4) You can set yourself a hard and fast deadline and stick to it, or be more flexible.
At York, you have to file your Intention to Submit two months in advance. So around 6 April, I filled in a form to say I’d hand in on 6 June, and the talks about arranging examiners began. But here’s the thing: if your intention to submit is before the end of your registration period (that is, if you’re planning on finishing before your 4 years has expired) then it’s flexible. You don’t need to stick to the deadline.

But this wouldn’t work for me, for reasons I’ll explain in a moment. So, I set myself a deadline that I HAD to stick to for handing in my thesis. My motivation for doing so was that I had accepted a short term fellowship at the Huntington Library in California, and booked my flights and accommodation for 8 June. So I had to hand in by June 6th or I’d lose my money and perhaps my fellowship too. 

I suspect my supervisor thought I was mad. No flexibility for emergencies, no time off to recover. But there was method in my madness. I have always found, personally, that I am most productive when I’m working to a deadline that CANNOT be shifted. There’s something about fear that induces a wonderful clarity of purpose. If I had been able to put the deadline back, and back, and back, then I think I’d still be there, labouring after Draft 2. 

Maybe that would have produced a better thesis. I’ll never know. But one thing I’m pretty sure of is that I don’t think my health would have taken it. Because…

5) This might be the most physically difficult thing you’ll ever do.
I was prepared for Writing Up to be a mental strain. I was prepared for feelings of inadequacy, frustration, and nerves. What I was’t prepared for was how physically tough it was. It all stemmed from lack of sleep, I think. I found it very hard to get a good night’s sleep where I wasn’t dreaming about tracking changes, and eventually I found myself, near my three deadlines, sleeping and working in shifts – six hours’ work, two hours’ nap, repeat ad nauseam. What this means is that I stopped doing any exercise at all, because I was always too tired. And near my deadlines I ate whatever was in the fridge or takeaways, which made me feel even worse. Smoking didn’t help either. 
By the time of my third deadline, the sleep deprivation got to a point where I was actually hurting myself quite badly. I fell over in the street because my balance was constantly off – hilarious pratfall, but I was in pain for days. My face was always aching because I was grinding my teeth when I did sleep. I had a constant agonising crick in my neck. My stomach was a mess. My immune system was buggered, and I picked up a hideous cold in the final weeks. 

This is one thing I really think I could have managed better. If I’d controlled my diet better (maybe by getting a job lot of fruit and veg once a week) and tried to make sure I jogged just 20 minutes every few days, I think it would have paid dividends further along the line.  The time spent at the supermarket or in the park feels like a big sacrifice at the time, but trust me, you don’t want to end up as physically knackered as I was.

6) Deciding to apply for jobs at the same time as writing up is a big decision.
There were a few key moments over the last year of my PhD when, without even really being aware of it, I made some quite important choices about how the very crucial last few months would be organised. The first of these choices was: Should I apply for jobs during my final year, at the same time as I’m trying to write up? I chose yes, back in late summer 2013, because some goodlooking postdocs were starting to crop up on jobs.ac.uk and I would technically be eligible for them because I would be handed in (hopefully) by their start date of autumn 2014. But I could have chosen no, and that would have meant a less stressful year, but a vastly reduced chance of segueing smoothly into a job – instead, most likely, I would have planned on having a year out working in a cafe or bar and picking up teaching where I could, while starting the applications a year later.

It’s impossible to speculate accurately about the road less not taken, but I can tell you about the one I took. Applying for academic jobs is an exhausting process (and it will be the subject of a post for another day). Doing it while trying to write up is pretty hideous in a way, because the moment you feel like you’re finally getting into a work groove, another job comes up and you have to drop everything to write another self-praising spiel. It keeps throwing your rhythm off. Also, unless you are very lucky, you get rejections. And a slew of rejections, while you’re trying your best to keep your morale up, can feel pretty devastating.

But there are also benefits to it. When you get good news, when you get shortlisted or invited to interview or basically open any email saying “We are pleased to tell you…”, Writing Up feels, for a moment, feather-light. Added to that, I think that applying for jobs really helps you hone your ideas towards the thesis. When you’re constantly having to explain succinctly what your thesis is about, when you’re constantly having to send in sample work of different lengths, it’s like a series of min-deadlines that helps you towards your ultimate goal. It’s an irritation in the short term, but genuinely helpful in the long run.

7) You will, finally, feel that you know what you’re talking about. And that will feel amazing.
I don’t want this to be a misery memoir. I’ve saved this point for last, because it is so important. In one very bizarre way, the last six months was one of the best times of my life. I was almost exclusively focused on one thing, one project, one goal. To be working towards it, with few other distractions, was a buzz: I could lose track of time while writing and realise at the end that I had finally made that breakthrough; managed to express that tricky paradox or link up those two awkward thoughts. Finally, at the end of four years of study, I felt that I knew my field very well indeed, and knew where my argument fitted into it. I felt confident that I could defend my thoughts and inform those of my colleagues, and that I was making a genuinely original contribution to knowledge. That is a precious, exquisite feeling. That’s why we do this.

So, if you’re in the home strait (or approaching it) – bon courage. You can do it. Try to stay healthy, and try to enjoy it along the way. This is why we do this. Keep swimming.

(PS Let me know if you found this helpful – I’m considering doing similar posts on the viva and job applications, if they’d be of use to anyone.)

Top 5 healthy recipes from someone very unlikely to do a blog post about top 5 healthy recipes

Bit of an unusual post for me, this one. I’m certainly not a healthy eating or (god forbid) dieting evangelist – I love my food and am very far from averse to a curry or cheeseboard, so you won’t usually catch me detoxing, counting calories, singing the praises of quinoa or lauding half-fat yoghurt. But after the Christmas binge this year, I felt really grotty and decided to have a few weeks of (mainly) eating healthily. I found it quite hard to get a good collection of recipes in one place that were heavy on the good stuff but also (a) filling (b) delicious (c) suited to the batch cooking necessitated by a student budget and hectic schedule. Eventually I assembled this crop of glories, and thought it might be nice to share. They’re mainly savoury dishes as I don’t have a massive sweet tooth, so you might need to get your low-fat blueberry muffins somewhere else, soz. And many of them are quite spicy.

As with any recipe I ever post, all the ingredients here are available in a big Sainsburys. You shouldn’t need any fancy kitchen stuff except a food mixer. If you don’t have a food mixer, I don’t know what to say to you except get one.

Without further ado, Coulombeau’s top 5 healthy delights:

5) Warm quinoa salad with grilled halloumi.

This one came my way courtesy of my best buddy and quinoa fiend Rosa. It is very good. I add a lot more peppers than they specify here, and use low fat halloumi (which is practically indistinguishable from full fat imho. Unlike low fat cream cheese, which tastes of bleach and sadness.) Make a batch, sort yourself out for four or five lunches.


4) Spicy red lentil curried soup


Ignore the fact it looks like vomit. This soup is unbelievably delicious and pretty much everything in it is good for you. Low fat coconut milk is absolutely fine – again, can’t taste the difference really.

3) Rump steak with sauteed fennel and green bean salad, pearl barley and low fat blue cheese dressing

I’ve lost the recipe for this one, which is annoying. So I’ll recreate it. It’s a bit posher than the others and includes cheese (maaaaaan, I love cheese) but it’s probably still alright for you, on balance. You will need (for two):

2 rump steaks

Pack of raw green beans

Pack of baby fennel

Pack of pearl barley






Put the pearl barley in a pan of simmering water – it will need to cook for about an hour. After forty minutes, trim the ends off the beans and put them on to boil in a separate pan. Take a third pan (pref a griddle one) and heat it up with a small amount of butter. Slice your fennel and sautee it for a few minutes each side. Remove. Get your steak, trim fat off and season both sides well, then fry in the fennel-juicy griddle pan for as long as you like. While you’re doing that, knock together this insanely good blue cheese dressing  http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/food-network-kitchens/light-blue-cheese-recipe/index.html

Drain the cooked pearl barley and green beans and mix well with lemon juice, salt, pepper and parsley. Put on plate and top with the steak and fennel. Drizzle with dressing. Scoff.

2) Crispy black bean burritos with avocado yoghurt dip.

Mmmmmm. And again, mmmmmmm. Make a big pot of this burrito mix (I add lean chicken), grab some wholemeal wraps and have delicious burritos for days. The avocado dip is fantastic too. Eat with hot sauce, if you’re me.



1. Malaysian spiced noodles with tofu

This is my go-to when I have the veggies over for tea, and I think it’s the only thing I make that honestly isn’t any better with meat. Don’t be put off by the list of ingredients – the initial paste only takes five minutes to make with a mixer, and the smell and taste you get from using it as a base is incredible. If you want to be even healthier, leave the deep-fried tofu out (that’s also the faffiest bit) and go in heavy on the mangetout and sugar snap peas (I use both.)

Enjoy! And now (ok, in an hour or two) I’m going to order a meat feast pizza. Because, sometimes, pizza. And that’s something for which no healthy version exists.

2013’s cultural highlights – and what I can’t wait for in 2014.

It’s the last day of the year – the crushed-up crumbs in the cereal box of 2013. As Twitter seems rather reflective, I thought I’d join in with a quick round-up of my cultural highlights of 2013… and a quick look ahead to the new year and the things I can’t wait for.

2013 has, on a personal level, been the year that I had my nose deep in a book – my own. I’ve spent the majority of the year grafting away on my obese behemoth of a historical novel, Point No Point. And when I haven’t been doing that, I’ve been working on my thesis and applying for postdocs. So in some respects it seems like I haven’t really had the time to get as fully stuck into the cultural smorgasbord as I would have liked. My theatre attendance has been particularly sorrowful. Still, for what it’s worth…


Mainly I’ve had my nose deep in academic books this year. I discovered E.P.Thompson’s ancient work on working-class crime and anonymity and it kind of blew my mind. William St. Clair, James Raven, Robert Hume and Peter Garside’s bibliographic overviews of the eighteenth-century book trade are a lot more exciting than they sound. On the recommendation of my friend James Baker I started poking around in Franco Moretti’s work on ‘distance reading’ and it got my brain whizzing and crackling like popping candy.

But I have had time for a few non-academic humdingers too. At the beginning of the year I loved Adrian Teal’s bawdy compilation of eighteenth-century smut The Gin Lane Gazette, and was mentally floored by Will Self’s Umbrella (that’s more complimentary than it sounds). While in Montreal for a few months I caught up on J.K.Rowling’s recent work – The Casual Vacancy was a brave, gritty departure from Harry Potter (marred by a few bizarre editorial decisions) and The Cuckoo’s Calling was a deeply enjoyable bit of crimey escapism. I love JK, and she’d probably be my novelist of 2014: I have undying admiration for the way she isn’t content to rest on her laurels and tries to reinvent herself with each new project. Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl was a cracking page-turner, even though I felt the near-perfection of the first half didn’t hold up in the second. Sophie Hannah’s The Carrier made me think much harder than a crime novel has any right to do. And Jenni Fagan’s The Panopticon managed to drag me into the gloomy world of a care system I’d rather not know existed, and also be effortlessly readable. No mean feat.

In 2014 I’m looking forward to reading a few academic books – most prominently Married Women and the Law: Coverture in England and the Common-Law World by Tim Stretton and K.J.Kesselring; Hannah Greig’s The Beau Monde: Fashionable Society in Georgian London; my supervisor Harriet Guest’s Unbounded Attachment: Sentiment and Politics in the Age of the French Revolution and Helen Small’s The Value of the Humanities. I’ve been trying to avoid fawning ‘Up-and-coming novels of 2014!’ articles, mainly from reasons of fiery jealousy since in my experience trying to write a novel while getting up to speed on the competition isn’t a great work strategy; but I do feel obliged to mention that Jessie Burton’s The Miniaturist looks absolutely fantastic and I’ll look forward to reading it once Point No Point is finished. I’d also like 2014 to be the year I read more poetry. After meeting Zafir Kunial at the Northern Writers’ Awards I looked up some of his work and thought it was stunning. (see here http://www.poetrysociety.org.uk/content/npc30/npc2011/kunial/ )It made me miss the clean, clipped brevity of poetry and I’d like to redress that. Reading suggestions welcome!

Films and TV

Tough one, this. I’m not the greatest film buff at the best of times (I have the attention span of a particularly flirtatious gnat when it comes to visual media) and I don’t go to the cinema that often. To add to that, I’ve mainly been trying to avoid engaging in watching anything too challenging on TV because my brain needs the fallow time after a long day’s writing. I’ve mainly been re-watching old favourites on Netflix like Buffy The Vampire Slayer – still the best show ever made to my mind, and I’ll fight anyone who says it ain’t so. Oh, and Downton Abbey. Comfort food for the weary brain. 2013 was also the year I watched the entire Leprechaun quintet and Sharknado. And The Room, a million times. Don’t hate.

In 2014, once I’ve handed my thesis in, I will be instantly chained to the sofa and forced to watch The Wire and Breaking Bad by my lad Rich, who routinely foams at the mouth with indignation that I’ve seen neither. I also really, really want to see Joss Whedon’s Much Ado About Nothing – as far as I’m concerned, the man is God. Oh, and Alan Partridge Alpha Papa.


I have hardly been to the theatre this year, and it makes me sad. Early in 2013 I saw a cracking show called Detroit at the National, and a bit later I saw a brilliant revival of Simon Stephens’ Port, but that’s about it. Stewart Lee’s latest show Much A-Stew About Nothing was predictably caustic, intelligent and uncomfortable. In the upcoming year, I will mainly be weeping and gnashing my teeth that I couldn’t afford tickets for the RSC production of Wolf Hall and Bring Up The Bodies in Stratford-upon-Avon. I am a rabid admirer of Hilary Mantel’s books, and I’m pretty sure seeing the shows would be the zenith of my earthly existence. But a trip to see the shows (kindly staggered so you have to stay at least 2 nights in Stratford) meant it would have cost hundreds of pounds. So, no go. Exciting possibilities closer to home include Alan Bennett’s Talking Heads at the West Yorkshire Playhouse in Leeds, and Simon Stephens’ Blindsided at Manchester’s Royal Exchange – my favourite theatre in the world.


I’m shamelessly indiscriminatory when it comes to music, so look away now if you’re a snob. This year I’ve been listening a lot to Deerhunter, Chvrches, Vampire Weekend, Allo Darling, and Cosmo Jarvis. And Meatloaf and Cher. I really enjoyed my first visit to the Proms, lying up in the nosebleeds after a few pints gave the music a beautiful dreamy quality. Literally; I think I might have dozed off. It was lovely. And all for a fiver.

In 2014, my best amiga Rosa is taking me to see McBusted in Birmingham for my 30th birthday. Scorn me publicly if it makes you feel better; you’re crying inside.

Art and museums

I’ve hardly been to see any special exhibitions this year – much like theatre, the prices are just too astronomical for this student. I have enjoyed exhibitions at York’s According to McGee – Richard Barnes’s psychedelic Yorkscapes are absolutely stunning. Whenever in London, I like to tip my hat to the Tate Modern and the National Portrait Gallery. And I’ve spent wonderful mornings in the Imperial War Museum in Leeds and the Museum of London. My own art (such as it is) has generally revolved around silly acrylic portraits of historical or present celebrities who make me smile. I’d like to experiment more with silhouettes in the New Year – Jan Pienkowski style.

Speaker events

Back in March I had a grand old time seeing Will Self talk at the York Literature Festival. The York Festival of Ideas also had some brilliant speakers, particularly the panel of Ross Raisin, Jenni Fagan and Kamila Shamsie. It’s been a conference-lite year but I was absolutely blown away by Robert Hume’s plenary at the British Society for Eighteenth Century Studies annual conference in January, and I also enjoyed going to my first Institute for Historical Research seminar in London. This year I’d like to make it to the Hay Festival (I’ve never been), and I’m looking forward once again to the York Literature Festival which features Germaine Greer and Roger McGough in 2014. I’m presenting a paper at BSECS again (panel entitled ‘The Fame Game’, paper entitled ‘O’ my life, I think he makes talk for the who;e county: Naming Caleb Williams’, but after that NO MORE CONFERENCES. Not until I am Doctor Coulombeau.

That’s pretty much it, though I’m sure I’ve left a lot out. Feel free to let me know your cultural highlights or what you’re looking forward to in 2014. And happy new year to one and all!


Amazing CFP – ‘Encounters, Affinities, Legacies: the 18th century in the Present Day’ – conf at York in June.

Here’s a CFP for what looks like it will be an incredible conference. I’m not involved with the organization & not trying to take credit for it by putting it on this blog, but it just seemed like the easiest way to share over Twitter etc since there isn’t (yet) a website.

CFP Encounters, Affinities, Legacies – the Eighteenth Century in the Present Day II


I’d quite like to submit an improved version of a paper I originally came up with for a ‘Celebrating Carter’ forum I ran with two friends in the Spring to mark the 20-year anniversary of Angela Carter’s death. It’s called (something along the lines of) ‘Celia’s Bits: Demystification of the Feminine in the writing of Angela Carter and Jonathan Swift’. Would quite like to do a panel. Any other Swiftians / Carterites/ scholars of the grotesque / female bodies / mythologies out there?

In London at the moment researching – super interesting stuff emerging about surname change. Each name change petition a little narrative. Blog update soon!

‘The Tinker’. Or, ‘Bumming, bumming, bumming.’

This is the most bizarre poem in existence by Wordsworth. 
Or by, you know, anyone. 

Unsurprisingly, it was never printed. 

The Tinker

 Who leads a happy life
 If it's not the merry Tinker?
 Not too old to have a Wife ;
 Not too much a thinker :
 Through the meadows, over stiles, 
Where there are no measured miles, 
Day by day he finds his way 
Among the lonely houses : 
Right before the Farmer's door
 Down he sits ; 
his brows he knits ; 
Then his hammer he rouzes ; 
Batter ! batter ! batter ! 
He begins to clatter ; 
And while the work is going on 
Right good ale he bowses ; 
And, when it is done, away he is gone ; 
And, in his scarlet coat, 
With a merry note, 
He sings the sun to bed ; 
And, without making a pother, 
Finds some place or other 
For his own careless head. 
When in the woods the little Fowls 
Begin their merry-making, 
Again the jolly Tinker bowls
 Forth with small leave-taking : 
Through the valley, up the hill ;
 He can't go wrong go where he will :
 Tricks he has twenty, 
And pastimes in plenty ; 
He's the terror of boys in the midst of their noise ; 
When the market Maiden, 
Bringing home her lading, 
Hath passed him in a nook, 
With his outlandish look, 
And visage grim and sooty, 
Bumming, bumming, bumming,
 What is that that's coming ? 
Silly Maid as ever was ! 
She thinks that she and all she has
 Will be the Tinker's booty ; 
At the pretty Maiden's dread 
The Tinker shakes his head, 
Laughing, laughing, laughing, 
As if he would laugh himself dead. 
And thus, with work or none, 
The Tinker lives in fun, 
With a light soul (sic) to cover him ; 
And sorrow and care blow over him, 
Whether he's up or a-bed.