A new major exhibition just opened at the Ashmolean Museum, titled In Bloom: How Plants Changed Our World. I’d not read much about it before visiting, but I think I had been expecting that it would focus upon the ways in which plant biology influences ecologies—a kind of inversion, perhaps, of our predisposition toward thinking of fauna as more impactful than flora. Instead, I found stories about the early days of international horticulture and the ways in which the trade in plants (tea being but one example) impacted all of the people and cultures involved. 

Plant circulation is inseparable from the circulation of capital and authority. 
— Anahita Norouzi

There’s also a section in one of the gallery spaces (explicated by a fairly good, arguably necessary audioguide) focussed on the manner in which latinate taxonomical schemas have disenfranchised botanists across several continents. 

It’s not all power imbalances and geopolitics though; I also learned that the pattern on custard creams is inspired by the curling of young ferns! 

On reflection, the exhibition is aptly titled, its focus being not on plants’ impact on the world, but specifically on our human world. That’s a very different lens than I had anticipated, and I’m feeling the need to make a return trip at some point to meet the exhibition on its own terms. I’ll also want to revisit several of its exquisite illustrations and paintings of plants and flowers. 

This month I read one of the buzziest books of the year so far: Madeline Cash’s Lost Lambs (2026). I didn’t know quite what to expect going in, but this proved to be one of the most genuinely funny novels I’ve read in quite some time. The writing is whip smart, and each of the novel’s characters is a pleasure to spend time with as you move from one to the next across chapters. My personal favourite was Harper, precocious youngest daughter of the central Flynn family, fun because she’s consistently two steps ahead of pretty much everyone else in the book. 

Too often I pick up a novel with a reputation similar to this, and it tips too far into sardonic detachment. Cash actually likes here characters, and it shows. If you enjoyed Ottessa Moshfegh’s My Year of Rest and Relaxation (2018), Megan Nolan’s Acts of Desperation (2021) or Lauren Oyler’s Fake Accounts (2021) this one’s for you. 

I’ve now moved on to another recent release: Flat Earth (2026) by Anika Jade Levy. If you can tell me the link between this one and Lost Lambs, I will award you 100 points. 

With thanks to my friend JG, I was fortunate enough to be offered the chance to attend a show at the Royal Albert Hall last night. It was part of a series of gigs curated by Robert Smith, in aid of Teenage Cancer Trust; this particular evening featuring sets by two bands I’ve been into since the ‘90s: Placebo and Garbage. It was, all told, a pretty great time. 

Placebo’s set had been advertised as ‘stripped down’, so I’d been expecting something akin to an acoustic affair, perhaps just Brian Molko and Stefan Olsdal. Instead the whole band ran through a set list comprising all sorts of surprises. They opened with a cover of Sinéad O’Connor’s ‘Jackie’, and closed with ‘Centrefolds’, which some sources suggest they haven’t played live in more than two decades. Given the option ahead of time, I would have chosen a setlist heavier on the first two records: Placebo (1996) and Without You I’m Nothing (1998), the latter of which in particular I still consider one of the best rock albums of the late ‘90s. Instead we were treated to something unique. 

Garbage also understood the assignment. The RAH is a weird venue—large, but also multi-tiered, mostly seating—and it must also be strange taking the stage directly after a fifteen minute showcase of the (wonderful) work of Teenage Cancer Trust. But this band has been doing their thing for more than 30 years, and (even at a median age of 68.5) they still know how to command a stage and work a crowd. Highlights, of a set heavy on the self-titled debut (1995) and Version 2.0 (1998), included the colossal-sounding ‘I Think I’m Paranoid’ and a rousing rendition of ‘Wolves’ dedicated to the (in attendance) family member for whom it was written. Just like the last time I saw them 28 years ago however, stone cold classic (and here, final song) ‘I’m Only Happy When It Rains’ was the defining moment. Being one of nearly 6,000 people singing every word of that chorus was something special that I’ll probably remember for another three decades. 

Back once again with another offering from Routes, because the east Oxford lot know what they’re doing. I think the Ethiopian that I had from them last year still tops my personal chart, but this is also delicate and nice. 

Last week I attended a guided mindfulness session at which the guy leading the class started by admitting that he once left his home before realising he was wearing watches on both wrists. It was an excellent ice-breaker and a masterful bit of expectation setting for what proved to be a really great experience. In between grounding exercises, the teacher led us through small techniques designed to showcase how quickly the mind makes (often incorrect) assumptions as a result of sub-conscious, evolutionary traits we’ve all inherited. 

It has rained a lot in the south of England recently, and tomorrow is forecast to bring another 12mm of precipitation, including snow. Today though, we’re enjoying a brief spell of sunshine. It’s still only 5ºC, but folks on my lane are sat out in their back gardens. The neighbour a few doors down is playing the new Puma Blue record—a perfect-seeming soundtrack as it drifts out in the cold, bright air.

Oxford University can be a strange place to work. This morning I attended the Academic Registrar’s Briefing, then walked to St Anne’s College for a symposium on AI in Education, and then across the road to Kellogg College, where a friend had organised a visit from some alpacas (and a llama) for wellbeing week. 

Last night we went to see Zadie Smith at the Sheldonian. Some readers may recall that a couple of years ago I saw Ali Smith receive the Bodley Medal at the same venue, so I enjoyed the symmetry of taking my seat to see Z Smith this time around.

Only when she walked out did I realise that, despite having read her for some time and listened to her on podcasts, I’d not updated my idea of Zadie Smith much in the last 25 years. She appeared impossibly cool behind dark-tinted glasses, and spoke with effortless thoughtfulness, answering her interlocutor’s questions in an entirely unguarded way. She is no longer the wise-beyond-her-years 20-something that I first encountered in issue 81 of Granta back in 2003. Then she was a member of a loose set of young British writers who were reinvigorating the novel: see also Monica Ali, Rachel Cusk, Hari Kunzru, David Mitchell and Adam Thirlwell. A few of those have lasted for me over the decades, but Smith now seems to occupy a particular echelon of (not just) British literature. Alongside half a dozen novels and more than a decade as a tenured professor at NYU, she’s kept up an impressive cadence of non-fiction, such that one gets the sense she can now write on whatever she’d like.

Ostensibly, Smith was there to talk about her new non-fiction book, Dead and Alive (2025), but the conversation was wide-ranging, as befits a collection of essays on topics as diverse as the art of Kara Walker, Joan Didion, the movie Tár (2022) and a love letter to her native NW6. She read this last piece, ‘Kilburn, My Love’, for us, and must have been gratified to have a couple hundred people rapt, laughing in all the right places.

Proof positive: no sooner do I shout out the work of Luke Bird (in the latest newsletter issue) than I find he designed this great, bold cover for the novel I just finished. 

I don’t intend to do this every month, but as we close out January, let me share the 2026-released albums I’ve listened to so far this year. In case it’s of interest, I’m keeping a running list over here of the ones that are really working for me. 

Likewise, here are all of the films that I’ve watched so far this year. (Heart icons represent those I liked most.) If you’d like to keep up with progress throughout the year, you can find me over on Letterboxd. 

This weekend we took a trip into London to visit the Design Museum for Wes Anderson: The Archives. If you had asked me to draw up a shortlist of directors whose works I’d like to have the chance to step into, Anderson would be right towards the top. It was a delightful—if occasionally surreal—experience to come face-to-face with so many of the building blocks of his meticulously-designed worlds. 

Upon entering the exhibition—through a door marked ‘NO CRYING’—you’re greeted with a display case in which Anderson’s hand-written spiral bound notebooks are piled below a gallery of candid Polaroids taken on set throughout his career. It’s a fitting introduction to Anderson the archivist, as well as the filmmaker. 

The exhibition proceeds (mostly) chronologically through Anderson’s oeuvre, starting with Bottle Rocket (1996), through to 2025’s The Phoenician Scheme. Centrepiece to each room are the costumes used during filming. It brings home just how many iconic looks have featured in Anderson’s movies: from Jason Schwartzman’s beret in Rushmore (1998), to Ben Stiller’s tracksuit and Gwyneth Paltrow’s fur coat in The Royal Tenenbaums (2001) and of course the blue and red ensemble worn by the crew of the Belafonte in 2004’s The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. 

There are also a huge number of props and pieces of set dressing from each film: as small as a compass or pocket knife (Moonrise Kingdom (2012)) and as large as a scale model of multiple train cars (Asteroid City (2023)). Even the entire façade of the titular building in The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014), and the rooftop signage from The French Dispatch (2021) are viewable up-close. 

One of my favourite rooms of the exhibition was the one that breaks the chronology, but for good reason: bringing together sets and maquettes from Anderson’s two stop-motion animated films to date. The chance to see the level of detail in the models for The Fantastic Mr Fox (2009) and Isle of Dogs (2018) was truly special. 

• • •

Also in several of the rooms were screens playing scenes from the film in question. The idea was to showcase the costumes as they were worn, and the props as they were used. However, I couldn’t help but notice that the screens always had people gathered at them with smiles on their faces, won over anew by the charm of Anderson’s film-making. I certainly came away from our visit with the intention to revisit each of these movies again soon. 

In some personal news, my electric toothbrush has become haunted. For about 20 minutes today I thought my neighbours were drilling, but it turned out to be my toothbrush vibrating in the ceramic cup it lives in. I’ve had no choice but to swaddle the brush in soft fabric whilst waiting for its rechargeable battery to die. I will then dispose of it responsibly, attaching a label that reads ‘Caution: possessed by a restless spirit’.  

• • •

Writing about this makes me recall reading once someone’s 21st century lament, that all they wanted to do was read their book and smoke a cigarette, but they couldn’t do either because both their book and cigarette required charging first. 

Back at it again with a new one from local roasters Routes, and this time it’s something… unusual! I’ve not had ‘coconut fermented’ coffee before, and right upon opening the bag it became very obvious that this was going to be a different experience. The beans smelled strongly of coconut, and whilst the aroma deepened upon grinding, the cup still had a distinctly coconut-y scent. As for taste: it’s a strong, sweet and unusual coffee as a filter. I’m intrigued to find out what happens when I throw it in the AeroPress later in the week. 

I’ve sung the praises of Zach Gage and Orta Therox’s daily puzzle site Puzzmo here before. I still play pretty much every day, and recently a new game got added that I’ve really been enjoying: Ribbit. 

It’s simple enough to play: just find all of the words of four characters or more in length. The paths between, and borders around, each letter denote the connections you should be looking at. 

As you find words, those connections disappear as they’re no longer required, making for a puzzle that actually gets easier the more progress you make. This conceit, along with the visual design of the puzzle, was the subject of a recent newsletter by Zach Gage, from which I found this detail really interesting: 

On my wife's recommendation, I kept the walls, but I switched the visual focus from walls to paths. Instead of light paths and solid walls, the final version […] has solid paths and light walls. This minor visual trick worked perfectly.

The most delightful part, however, comes when you’ve found all of the words that use a given letter. The letter then disappears, revealing a little frog in its place. 

Not to boast, but at the time of writing I’ve got a pretty decent Ribbit streak going. You should think about joining me, and if you do, let’s be friends.

One thing I’ve missed since we moved out of (more) central Oxford, to the eastern village-like part where we’ve now lived for two years, has been easy access to coffee spots. We were a little spoiled where we were previously: two streets away from one local roastery and—on the other side of the road—a vegan café owned by another. Where we are now, the closest place is a 30 minute walk or 10 minute cycle away. Not a huge effort by any means, but an hour’s round-trip is a different proposition to nipping out for a quick croissant, and I’ve found we do it infrequently. 

That changed a bit this week, with the arrival of this cute little horse box coffee place just about 10 minutes’ walk away. Hours are limited, at least to start with, but the coffee was good, and the vegan blueberry muffin was a treat.