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I could make you rue the day
Monday, 1 February 2010 07:04 pmHuh. Yesterday was, in fact, my blog's fifth birthday. Somehow I always miss it, which must be significant in some way or another. I always forget the anniversary, but during those five years of blogging I don't think I've missed posting for more than three days in a row at any point. Is this (a) obsessive-compulsive, (b) unduly verbose or (c) sad? Also, They Do Say blogging is dead (replaced, no doubt, by Twitter), which I take a bit personally and tend, in truly bloody-minded fashion, to set out to prove wrong out of sheer principled cussedness.
Today was completely unspeakable. I gave curriculum advice solidly from 9am to 6pm, finishing off by walking back to my office in tears owing to utter exhaustion. At this time of year I can't go anywhere without being stopped every ten steps by students for advice on problems which are clearly more important than anything else to which I could possibly be dashing. In this kind of space all I can think of is how much I hate this job, which is sad, because mostly I don't. Memo to self, must prevent self from succumbing to a frenzy of frustration and resigning from it during these hectic periods, I'd probably regret it. Probably.
Not even the vague desire to see if the tilers have actually tiled the kitchen is dragging me back home tonight. I think I'll take one look at the household filth levels and my soul will waft gently from my body, leaving a peacefully restful corpse curled cat-like in the grime, while my last remnants of consciousness drift off among the clouds in search of cleaner climes less filled with dust and the persistent narcissisms of students.
Today was completely unspeakable. I gave curriculum advice solidly from 9am to 6pm, finishing off by walking back to my office in tears owing to utter exhaustion. At this time of year I can't go anywhere without being stopped every ten steps by students for advice on problems which are clearly more important than anything else to which I could possibly be dashing. In this kind of space all I can think of is how much I hate this job, which is sad, because mostly I don't. Memo to self, must prevent self from succumbing to a frenzy of frustration and resigning from it during these hectic periods, I'd probably regret it. Probably.
Not even the vague desire to see if the tilers have actually tiled the kitchen is dragging me back home tonight. I think I'll take one look at the household filth levels and my soul will waft gently from my body, leaving a peacefully restful corpse curled cat-like in the grime, while my last remnants of consciousness drift off among the clouds in search of cleaner climes less filled with dust and the persistent narcissisms of students.
