I don't like Mondays

Have just spent the morning standing in a corner of my office with my hand pressed against my nice cold metal filing cabinet, on account of how, in the disfunctional fog of the pre-caffienated zone this morning, I cheerfully poured boiling water over said hand. It hurts. While not holding myself accountable for anything I do before my first cup of tea, I feel silly. I apparently look silly, judging by the sideways glances from a string of students wandering into my office to request essay extensions in defiance of the fact that they've just had a 10-day vac in which to write the bloody things. (Apart from Student 3, who looked enlightened and silently handed over a small tube of aloe vera gel, which is really helping. Apparently she burned her hand similarly last week. When the little buggers aren't driving me absolutely crazy, I really like students).

Fortunately it's not my marking hand, since an indefinitely-delayed-by-headache batch of 3rd-year exercises on Angela Carter is hanging over my head like a feminist battleaxe of Damocles. *exits to face her doom*

But first! Apparently opera fans take more magic mushrooms. (Courtesy of Cultural Snow.) Who knew?