so you're brilliant, gorgeous, and ... I don't believe you
Sunday, 14 November 2010 09:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
freckles_and_doubtOoh, my Livjournal bar is all over a meteor shower. This makes me strangely happy. As, in fact, does the fact that yesterday we took Lucy out to Overture - or, rather, Lucy took us out to Overture, courtesy of British Air, who stuffed up her flights royally and gave her Monies in recompense. Overture was luvverly, although they've changed their pricing structures and are no longer quite as good value as they were. Gorgeous food and wine, however. Entrecot and mushrooms, and incredible trout terrine with magical pickled things done to cauliflowers. And deconstructed postmodern apple crumble, all exploded on the plate, with cardamom. Good food also makes me strangely happy.
This weekend I don't have a pile of marking to do. I feel about 30Kg lighter. Finishing the marking, it's an astral diet plan. The weekend is mine, mine, utterly mine, and I'm sleeping ten hours a night and bumming around doing not much with enormous enjoyment. My day job takes it out of me; I don't realise how much it takes it out of me until the pressure lets up a bit and it transpires I'm actually dead. Also, my eyelids are turning into a dragon's again, which is a sure sign of stress.
In fact, I lie: I have two essays to mark. They came in late, and are driving me bats because I can't work out if the writer is plagiarising or not. They're beautifully written, sophisticated, on topic, focused; mad googling doesn't turn up any of the phrases she's using. Either she's an undiscovered genius, or she's plagiarising with extreme cunning from very obscure sources. But it's horribly depressing, to actually start reading the one piece of excellent work in ten which I'm lucky to receive, and have my immediate response be not joy, but suspicion. It's a filthy time we live in, when basic honour is no longer an entrenched and accepted virtue. It makes one realise why the SCA exists.
Moral issues notwithstanding, I'm having a lovely weekend. I hope you are too.
This weekend I don't have a pile of marking to do. I feel about 30Kg lighter. Finishing the marking, it's an astral diet plan. The weekend is mine, mine, utterly mine, and I'm sleeping ten hours a night and bumming around doing not much with enormous enjoyment. My day job takes it out of me; I don't realise how much it takes it out of me until the pressure lets up a bit and it transpires I'm actually dead. Also, my eyelids are turning into a dragon's again, which is a sure sign of stress.
In fact, I lie: I have two essays to mark. They came in late, and are driving me bats because I can't work out if the writer is plagiarising or not. They're beautifully written, sophisticated, on topic, focused; mad googling doesn't turn up any of the phrases she's using. Either she's an undiscovered genius, or she's plagiarising with extreme cunning from very obscure sources. But it's horribly depressing, to actually start reading the one piece of excellent work in ten which I'm lucky to receive, and have my immediate response be not joy, but suspicion. It's a filthy time we live in, when basic honour is no longer an entrenched and accepted virtue. It makes one realise why the SCA exists.
Moral issues notwithstanding, I'm having a lovely weekend. I hope you are too.
