How to prompt a decision (London)

 

I was helping out Olivia, a fresh PhD graduate from mainland China, with her job applications.  A friend of hers, also from mainland China, turned up at the end of our session to speak to her about something.

    He turned out to be doing a PhD in syntax, a pet subject of mine, so I asked him some questions about his focus:  what it is; how he goes about testing out the theories he’s putting forth; how he picks his informants; how he can be sure that what they say is right; etc.

    Olivia texted me later saying he told her, after I left them, that I’d asked him some questions that were very professional, hitting the nail on the head.  My reply: “He should, therefore, be glad that I won’t be one of his examiners.”

    This reminds me of what happened with Jurek, a chap one year below me at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London) who had then gone on to do his PhD in some classical Chinese grammar topic.

    When it came to submitting, Jurek wasn’t sure if he should pick Professor Angus Graham as his external examiner, or to check his thesis.

    A bit of background here:  Prof. Graham had a fearsome reputation, to which I can testify, as I’d studied under him for three years.  He was so erudite that he found everyone else not quite worth spending his time with.

    We Chinese Section students used to go to the SOAS bar at opening time, as a default — no need to check if anyone else was going; just turn up and there’ll be at least one person there, or someone will come along in due course.  The teachers would put in an appearance as well.  The Japanese Section students used to complain that their peers were so boring, no one ever wanted to go for a drink, and asked if they could join us.

    Prof. Graham loved a tipple or two, but not only for the alcohol.  He’d like to have some kind of discussion about ancient Chinese poetry or philosophy, say, which we undergraduate students, even in our final year, were not quite up to in terms of providing enough cerebral challenge.  This is a constant theme in ancient Chinese literature:  poets and artists with a brush in one hand and a drink in the other.

    Graham would sit there at the table with us, reading some book, waiting for the conversation to become interesting.  After a couple of pints, he’d snap his book shut, get up and leave in silent disappointment.

    Mr. T’ung (Ping-cheng / 佟秉正 Tóng Bǐngzhèng) was once present, and said, “Graham 失陪了.”  失陪了 shī péi le / “lose accompany” is an expression used by the person taking leave early, apologising for not keeping the others company any longer.  So Mr. T’ung was saying, “Graham has just excused himself,” in his typical dry humour.

    That was Graham’s reputation:  he didn’t suffer fools gladly.

    Back to Jurek.  As Graham had by then retired, Jurek could have him as his external examiner, but then Graham couldn’t be invited to check his thesis.

    Jurek approached Dr. Paul Thompson, his supervisor, about this.  With his brilliant mind for analysing situations, Paul Thompson put it this way* to Jurek:

[*my words from memory but conveying the spirit of what Paul Thompson was saying to Jurek at the time]

    “With Graham and his fearsome reputation, do you want him to be on your side, checking your thesis for flaws and warts, from which you can make improvements to your thesis, or do you want him to be on the other side, tearing your thesis apart, which will affect the final result?”  

    Put that way, it took Jurek half a second to decide.

(London, late 1980s)

* See also https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2025/05/the-guardian-angels-in-ones-life-03-ex.html for how Paul Thompson also helped me decide whether to do an MA or not.

You don’t know who else might be applying (London)

 

(This is based on the situation then.  Details of deadlines might have changed since.)

Sebastian joined the Grade 1 (beginners) class late — in November when term had already started in late September or early October.

    Applications for scholarships to Taiwan, on offer by this particular establishment, came out soon after:  one month’s language study or a whole year’s.

    Seb was keen to go for it, but worried that:

(a) he was only beginner level (why should they give him a scholarship to learn from that low level?); 

(b) there must be other people who are of higher level, and therefore more competitive, more "worthy".

    My arguments to him, in the style of Paul Thompson’s mode of advice, were:

(i) What have you got to lose?  At the most is: you get rejected, which is the same as not applying at all.

(ii) You don’t know who else might be applying for the scholarship.  Maybe all the ones you think are more eligible than you are can’t get away during that time window.

(iii) Strategically, go for the one-year scholarship, as that would cut down the number of competitors, as not everyone can get away for that long a stretch.

    A bit later, I found myself unable to resist phoning him at home, rather than wait until I saw him in class the following week:  “Are you sitting comfortably?  I have news for you.”

    Olivia:  this blog is for you.

(London)

For Dr. Paul Mulligan Thompson’s mode of advice, read:  

https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2025/05/the-guardian-angels-in-ones-life-03-ex.html 

https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2025/05/the-guardian-angels-in-ones-life-04.html

The guardian angels in one's life: 04 (The university Personal Tutor)

There are two kinds of university tutors in the UK system:  

* Academic Tutor (who teaches) 

and 

* Personal Tutor (who looks after the non-studies-related side of the students’ experience, e.g., accommodation, getting settled in [especially if they’re from abroad or another city]).

    Dr. Paul Thompson was my Personal Tutor (as well as my Academic Tutor).

    He took me aside for a chat as soon as I was accepted on the course.

    “You are going straight into Year 2 because of your two years spent in Taiwan.

    “Year 2 is modern Chinese language and literature, but you won’t have to put in too much work on that front because of your time spent in Taiwan.  You will also start doing Classical Chinese but you will still have time on your hands to explore what you want to do for your Special Subject.

    “You had said at the interview that you already knew what your Special Subject would be — Japanese, which you won’t have to embark on until Year 3.  

    “I suggest that you join the Japanese Year 1 course now instead of next year, because the first five weeks are intensive, with three hours in the morning and three in the afternoon.  If you don’t join them from Day 1, you’ll have trouble catching up in Week 2 as they’ll be 30 hours ahead of you by then.

    “If, at the end of the five-week intensive course, you decide you don’t want to do Japanese after all, you can drop out and choose a different Special Subject for your Year 3, so you’re good and early on that.

    “If, after the five-week intensive comes to an end, you feel that you want to carry on for the rest of the year, then you’ll end up doing a whole year of Japanese.

    “At the end of that whole year in Japanese, if you decide you don’t want to do Japanese, you are still in good time to choose your Special Subject.

    “If you want to carry on, then you’ll end up doing three years of your Special Subject instead of the usual two.”

    One could absolutely not fault his arguments at all.  It’s what we’d call a win-win situation these days.  I’d say it was a win-win-win-win as he’d offered four different perspectives.  He had an amazing brain that covered every corner of the field.

    (See also how he’d helped me decide on whether to do an MA or not:  https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2025/05/the-guardian-angels-in-ones-life-03-ex.html.)

    Thank you, dearest Paul, for flagging up all the right pointers for the path in the life of this Libran drifter who cannot decide on anything for herself.  I am eternally grateful.

(London, 1978)

Unconscious pun (London)

My beloved tutor and supervisor at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies), Dr. Paul Mulligan Thompson*, told me this:

A props manager working on a play that featured cannibals in the story line had to find scalps to go on display.  

One of the publicity claims of the department store Harrods at the time was that you could find anything in their store, and if not, they’d source it for you.  So, the props manager rang them up.  

In those days, one had to go through the switchboard operator to get to the right department / person.  He explained to the switchboard operator what he wanted.

At the end of it, the operator said, without realising her unconscious pun (they have to handle so many calls each day that they don’t usually process more than the purely superficial), “OK, I’ll put you through to the Head Buyer.”

(London, 1970s)

*https://www.theguardian.com/news/2007/jun/27/guardianobituaries.obituaries

Faux pas in Chinese (Taiwan)

My beloved tutor and supervisor at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies), Dr. Paul Mulligan Thompson* (d. 2007), was in Taiwan in 1952, three years after the Nationalists’ retreat from mainland China to Taiwan.  The Americans, Taiwan’s ally at the time, had donated, among other things, powdered milk in tins with labels stating clearly: “A gift of the American people.  Not to be re-sold”, which was, of course, totally flouted. 

An American chap, who was in Taiwan at the same time as Paul Thompson and could speak some Chinese, went off one day to buy one of these tins of powdered milk.  His Taiwanese contacts had all told him not to forget to add the 牛 niú / “cow” bit when referring to drinking milk, because in Chinese, 奶 nǎi / “milk” used on its own tends to mean “breast milk” as 奶 nǎi is also used to refer to the breasts of a woman (e.g., 奶罩 nǎizhào / "breast mask" = brassiere).  So, for dairy milk, one has to say 牛奶 niú nǎi / “cow milk”.  Powdered milk is 奶粉 nǎi fěn / “milk powder”, with 粉 fěn / “powder” being in the third tone. 

When he got to the shop, he remembered the 牛 niú / “cow” bit and forgot the 奶 nǎi / “milk” bit.  Then, he mis-pronounced the third tone of “powder” as a fourth tone, one of the characters for which is 粪 fèn / “excrement”.  

So he ended up asking the shopkeeper for a tin of 牛粪 niú fèn / “cow dung”!

This same unfortunate gentleman went to a banquet where a young lady was assigned to look after the honourable guest.  In those days (1952), not that many people in Taiwan could speak English, and since the American could speak some Chinese, their conversation was conducted in Chinese.

The young lady offered him some tea, to which he said no.  She then offered him some beer, to which he said no as well.  She came up with more offers, to all of which he said no.  She then asked what he would like.  

Of all the times to get the verb wrong, this poor chap had to choose that moment to do it and on “milk” of all the nouns to boot.  He used 吃 chī / “to eat” instead of 喝 hē / “to drink”.  The one liquid one can indeed 吃 chī / “to eat” in Mandarin Chinese is milk, but only in a special usage: 吃奶 / “eat milk” = (said of a baby) to suck the breast.  

Second mistake: of all occasions, he had to go and add “your” on this one.  The man presumably only wanted to try the Taiwanese kind of milk, Americans being regular milk drinkers, so he added “your” to make it clear he wanted to try their kind of milk.

Third mistake: he used the singular “your” (你的 nǐ de) in Chinese, instead of the plural “your” (你们的 nǐmen de) (for referring to Taiwan).

So what he ended up saying to the young lady, when she asked him what he would like after all, was:  “我要吃你的奶。 wǒ yào chī nǐ de nǎi / “I want to eat your[singular] milk”)”

The young lady went bright red, rushed off, and never came back.  Lucky for the American he didn’t get a slap in the face.

(Taiwan 1952)

*https://www.theguardian.com/news/2007/jun/27/guardianobituaries.obituaries

The absent-minded professor (London)

The first story (which took place a few decades ago) was told by another professor at the memorial service of Professor Angus Charles Graham, SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies).  

It was Professor Graham’s turn to look after baby Dawn and he went to a local library, being the bookish person he was.  He then remembered that his sister-in-law lived nearby, so he dropped in on her to say hello.  After they’d got the salutations out of the way and were nicely settling down to their cuppa and cake, she asked what he was doing in the area.  He cried out, “Dawn!!  Oh, Dawn!!  I’ve forgotten about Dawn!” and rushed off back to the library, where Dawn was still in her pram, fast asleep and quite unaware of her temporary abandonment.  I wouldn’t be surprised if, had he not popped in to see his sister-in-law, he’d gone all the way home without Dawn and not even noticed until Mrs. Graham asked about the baby’s whereabouts.  

In 1979/80, Ben, a student a couple of years below me, reported turning up for an appointment with him, knocking on his office door repeatedly without any response.  Then, as he was about to turn away, Ben heard some rustling behind the door, so he knocked again, loudly this time, and heard a startled grunt from the other side.  When Ben opened the door, he was greeted with the sight of a room completely fogged up and Professor Graham a dim apparition in the midst of it.  The great man himself looked rather surprised by Ben’s presence and asked him what he wanted.  He’d completely forgotten about the appointment, and had been sitting there, working on some article on classical Chinese grammar or philosophy, or some translation of ancient Chinese poetry, happily puffing away at his pipe in total oblivion of time and the outside world.

(London, early 1980s)


Update 021211:  My beloved and inspirational tutor and supervisor at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies), Dr. Paul Mulligan Thompson (d. 2007), told me this anecdote about Professor Angus Charles Graham.  The elbows of his jumper had worn through, so his wife sewed two patches on.  When he next put on his jumper, he did remember that there were two holes in the elbows — but didn't notice the new elbow patches — and turned the jumper round, so that the patches were now on top.  And he wore two new holes in the elbows, leaving the patches quite intact.

(London, late 1970s)


Paul Thompson's obituary:  https://www.theguardian.com/news/2007/jun/27/guardianobituaries.obituaries

Spoonerism: Shandy the dog (London)

My beloved and inspirational tutor and supervisor at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies), Dr. Paul Mulligan Thompson*, had a Japanese academic come to stay for a few weeks.  One day he came home to find the visitor issuing the following command to the family dog Shandy:  “Sandy, shit!  Sandy, shit!”

(London, mid-1980s)

*https://www.theguardian.com/news/2007/jun/27/guardianobituaries.obituaries

Matter over mind (China/Japan)

My beloved and inspirational tutor and supervisor at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies), Dr. Paul Mulligan Thompson*, was born in China (of Irish missionary parents) and brought up there until the age of 16.  He spoke fluent Chinese and taught classical Chinese, just to name one of the long list of things he was able to do. 

    One day, he was in Beijing and asked a local chap, in Mandarin, how to get to Tian’anmen Square.  The chap took a quick look at him and turned his face away.  Paul Thompson repeated the question, and again the man wouldn’t respond.   

    After a third time of this, Paul Thompson thought, “Maybe the man can’t even understand Mandarin.  There are so many people in Beijing who are from other regions, after all.”  He decided to check with the man, in Mandarin: “Can you understand Mandarin?”  In answer, the man pointed in a particular direction without any hesitation and said, in Mandarin: “Tian’anmen Square is that way!” 

    So he did understand in the first place, but his eyes saw a Westerner, so his ears and brain couldn’t process the sounds he was hearing, even though it was his own language, until the last question made him register belatedly the fact that the Westerner had been speaking in Mandarin after all.

    I’d heard about a Japanese journalist, back in the late 70s or early 80s, who went out into the streets of Tokyo with a blond wig and blue contact lenses, and raised the bridge of his nose.  When he stopped people in the street and asked them questions in perfect Japanese, nobody understood him.

    Then about a BBC journalist who was fluent in Chinese and went to a village to interview some locals.  The old woman she approached in Chinese, asking if she could answer some questions, kept saying, “I don’t speak a foreign language.”  The BBC reporter said, still in Chinese, “But I’m speaking in Chinese.”  Old woman:  “No, no, no, I can’t speak a foreign language.”

* https://www.theguardian.com/news/2007/jun/27/guardianobituaries.obituaries 

The diary entry (London)

Dr. Paul Mulligan Thompson, my supervisor on the Chinese computer research projects[1] at SOAS, came into my office one day with an embarrassed look on his face.  “How do I tell people I have a new PhD student called Randy* and keep a straight face?”

As his calls were re-routed to me if he wasn’t in his office, I’d take messages and agree to tentative appointments on his behalf, then check them against his diary.  One day, we were doing this when he opened his diary, and there was an entry for Monday that said, in his handwriting, “Randy* at 10am.”

(London 1988)

*Those who don't understand the meaning of the British usage of the word "randy", please look up a dictionary, as I'm a bit embarrassed to gloss it.

---

[1] See my other entry Process aborted.