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deelybobbers
Wednesday, 8 March 2006 01:39 pmA weird sort of day again, alternately hot/muggy/airless and cool/windy; I think it's the pressure changes that are giving me the sensation of floating about a foot back from anything I'm doing, with cotton-wool wrapped around my head.
Thank heavens, the semiotics lectures are over, and once again I have exercised sufficient self-restraint that no dismembered student bodies will actually be found stuffed under the podium, despite killer attack cellphones, random departures and an ongoing dull mutter while I lectured. I did lose my temper in the last lecture enough to tell the persistent chattterers to shut the fuck up, which was regrettable, really bad teaching practice, against my personal philosophy of interactions with students, and remarkably effective.
What's with it with students, though? About seven hundred first-years, and only three of them had any idea what deelybobbers were. Fortunately, this minor setback is mere grist to the mill of the alert semiotic critic: I spent ten minutes forcing them to deconstruct my choice of a clearly opaque and incomprehensible sign. Actually, I have to confess that I personally only really know what deelybobbers are as a result of a particularly drunken hen-party session of Macho Women with Guns, in which jo(ty)'s character not only carried deelybobbers in her handbag, but spent the whole session with a live chicken stuffed up her legwarmers*. Honestly, I sometimes think that the primary reason I've never done the mad hallucinogenic drug thing is that my life contains enough of the surreal that I hardly need them.
It's all mad whirl this week: jo's game this evening, and book club tomorrow night. Somewhere in all this I need to write five thousand words divided equally between animated fairy tale, and Disney's later films. Tally-ho!
* with which to feed her pet iguana, actually.
Thank heavens, the semiotics lectures are over, and once again I have exercised sufficient self-restraint that no dismembered student bodies will actually be found stuffed under the podium, despite killer attack cellphones, random departures and an ongoing dull mutter while I lectured. I did lose my temper in the last lecture enough to tell the persistent chattterers to shut the fuck up, which was regrettable, really bad teaching practice, against my personal philosophy of interactions with students, and remarkably effective.
What's with it with students, though? About seven hundred first-years, and only three of them had any idea what deelybobbers were. Fortunately, this minor setback is mere grist to the mill of the alert semiotic critic: I spent ten minutes forcing them to deconstruct my choice of a clearly opaque and incomprehensible sign. Actually, I have to confess that I personally only really know what deelybobbers are as a result of a particularly drunken hen-party session of Macho Women with Guns, in which jo(ty)'s character not only carried deelybobbers in her handbag, but spent the whole session with a live chicken stuffed up her legwarmers*. Honestly, I sometimes think that the primary reason I've never done the mad hallucinogenic drug thing is that my life contains enough of the surreal that I hardly need them.
It's all mad whirl this week: jo's game this evening, and book club tomorrow night. Somewhere in all this I need to write five thousand words divided equally between animated fairy tale, and Disney's later films. Tally-ho!
* with which to feed her pet iguana, actually.
