mad dogs and englishmen

The weather today has been almost unbearable. I had heat-stress hallucinations in the supermarket this afternoon. Rows of products kept melting and swirling. Trippy. And the heat is giving me another bout of insomnia, so I'm sleep-deprived again, which means I had one of those embarassing tuts where I kept launching into a bright, interesting insight about Chretien de Troyes, only to have my brain freeze and reboot through the usual existential questions - what point was I trying to make? what was I talking about, anyway? who are all these bored teenagers? who am I? I have this down to a fine art now - the wheels spin busily and existence slots into place around me in a cycle compressed neatly into the space of a three-second thousand-yard stare while I apparently grope for the mot juste. Teaching is mostly about conviction. If you say anything with enough confidence, they'll all obediently write it in their notes, blissfully oblivious to the fact that it's a load of bollocks.

Delayed gratification has its place. Saw Finding Neverland with starmadeshadow on Tuesday. Lovely movie, wistful and dreamy, and with period special effects - painted people and wire-work, beautifully appropriate. Somewhat cheesy in terms of sweet, clear-cut feelings, tragic or not, but visually very, very stylish. Part of which, of course, is Johnny Depp, who could lend style to sackcloth, ashes and bad hair (and manages to make a not-quite-Scottish accent hopelessly sexy), but it doesn't help that I'm a total sucker for the Victorians. Came home fired with the determination to re-read the biography of JM Barrie I have stashed somewhere, only to discover, after a 45-minute search, that it's actually a biography of Arthur Conan Doyle. Bother. Oh, and a faintly surreal moment at the departmental tea today (chocolate doughnuts, filter coffee and cake), when a colleague chose to hold forth about his new plan for a film studies course which focuses entirely on the films of Johnny Depp, on the grounds that (a) it's diverse body of work which covers every possible aspect of film criticism, and (b) "everyone likes Johnny, girls and guys". I devoutly hope he was joking.

My Evil Landlord has put up new bookshelves in my study, which makes me Very Happy. Unfortunately the only space for them is above the current shelves, which means I now have two shelves I can reach only by standing on a chair, and one shelf, just below the ceiling, which I can only reach by growing a long neck like Elastigirl and snagging them with my teeth. I currently exist in a state of partially-migrated bookshelves, herds of volumes drifting peacably across the floor, raising clouds of dust. Atishoo.

Have new Buffy CD. Compilation of mostly alternative rock tracks from the first three seasons, mostly unsigned West Coast bands, although a few famous names (Garbage, Hepburn, etc.) V. cool, although I don't think I'm enjoying it as much as the second compilation, Radio Sunnydale. This one doesn't have a Dandy Warhols track.

Right, off to bed. My eyes are all scratchy. There's exciting lightning over Table Bay, but do you think we'll get rain? Not bloody likely.