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folly, melancholy, and other things ending in "olly"
Friday, 3 December 2010 09:25 amI'm at home today. Annotating board schedules. 'Tis the season of course-counting, imprecations, mindless tedium, and the tendency to break off at intervals to shake my tiny fist at an uncaring academic system which refuses to use computers for their good and proper function, viz. counting boring stuff accurately. Bleah.
It's a horrendous time of year. Last night I dreamed I made a careless remark to the admin staff about BA Fine Art portfolios (required as part of applications), as a result of which they beamingly conducted me to a smallish lecture theatre they'd lovingly crammed with all the Fine Art applicants, waving their portfolios, plus all the Fine Art staff off on the sidelines watching, with a certain amount of eye-rolling and foot-tapping. It was, apparently, my task to assess all the portfolios. Next door an identical lecture theatre was crammed with ditto for the BA in Theatre and Performance, except they all had their auditions ready. I spent an interminable time rushing between the lecture theatres trying to find more chairs, while wailing "but I'm not qualified for this!", to the silent but resentful agreement of all the watching academics. Later I found myself in art classes, gluing bits of paper tastefully to each other.
My job hates me, and wants to break my brain. My brain hates my job, and wants me to suffer.
I'll just vanish into my 1.6cm-thick pile of double-sided printouts (I just measured it) with the traditional muffled squeak, then. If I never emerge, someone feed the Hobbit, he's taken to eating the bathmat.
It's a horrendous time of year. Last night I dreamed I made a careless remark to the admin staff about BA Fine Art portfolios (required as part of applications), as a result of which they beamingly conducted me to a smallish lecture theatre they'd lovingly crammed with all the Fine Art applicants, waving their portfolios, plus all the Fine Art staff off on the sidelines watching, with a certain amount of eye-rolling and foot-tapping. It was, apparently, my task to assess all the portfolios. Next door an identical lecture theatre was crammed with ditto for the BA in Theatre and Performance, except they all had their auditions ready. I spent an interminable time rushing between the lecture theatres trying to find more chairs, while wailing "but I'm not qualified for this!", to the silent but resentful agreement of all the watching academics. Later I found myself in art classes, gluing bits of paper tastefully to each other.
My job hates me, and wants to break my brain. My brain hates my job, and wants me to suffer.
I'll just vanish into my 1.6cm-thick pile of double-sided printouts (I just measured it) with the traditional muffled squeak, then. If I never emerge, someone feed the Hobbit, he's taken to eating the bathmat.
