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curriculì, curriculà
Thursday, 8 February 2007 04:58 pmOn campus stupidly early yesterday, in time to witness one of the dawn surrealisms of registration week: to the beat of African drums, a squad of blue-shirted orientation assistants marched down the avenue in ranks, chanting inspirational verses in their best American marine manner, and stopping at intervals in order to alternately salute and toyi-toyi. I'm not entirely sure what the exercise was in aid of - team-building? conceptual fly-paper to attract potential Humanities students? - or what the bizarre political mix should be called. Freedom Fascism? People's Struggle Militarism? I may have witnessed the birth of a new academic buzzword.
It's been an extremely strenuous week, with about five hours a day spent in curriculum advice, registration and other bureaucratic means of heading off at the pass any random student impulses towards self-definition. I have taken to counting courses in my sleep, of which I am not achieving any sort of sufficiency given the need to attend to Angela Carter in any intervening leisure moments. Those not earmarked by the Evil Landlord for concerted watching of Babylon 5, that is.
In other news, having taken my bedroom roof off, the Army of Reconstruction have put it back on again. Left flapping loosely about are several sheets of weird shiny silver plastic which I darkly suspect of being some kind of insulation, possibly from alien telepathic waves. This end of the house sounds like something out of Patrick O'Brian in the current high winds. I am grateful, however, that the re-roofing has forestalled the doom predicted by the dreaded jo, thusly:
It's been an extremely strenuous week, with about five hours a day spent in curriculum advice, registration and other bureaucratic means of heading off at the pass any random student impulses towards self-definition. I have taken to counting courses in my sleep, of which I am not achieving any sort of sufficiency given the need to attend to Angela Carter in any intervening leisure moments. Those not earmarked by the Evil Landlord for concerted watching of Babylon 5, that is.
In other news, having taken my bedroom roof off, the Army of Reconstruction have put it back on again. Left flapping loosely about are several sheets of weird shiny silver plastic which I darkly suspect of being some kind of insulation, possibly from alien telepathic waves. This end of the house sounds like something out of Patrick O'Brian in the current high winds. I am grateful, however, that the re-roofing has forestalled the doom predicted by the dreaded jo, thusly:
