Tonight (Matthew) I was going to talk about escapism, but now I’m not. Now I’ve got blog stagefright. Or maybe I just have nothing to say.
Earlier this evening it felt like I had a lot to talk about. Stuff about whether I am barking up the wrong tree or chasing my tail to no avail, or if I am maybe all bark and no bite — to use my three best dog analogies.
Earlier this evening I cussed quite vehemently in a sort of mock rage. And then I made a mess in the kitchen and I didn’t really give a fuck about the thing I was cussing about any more. Although might I just say there are some almightly fuckwits in the world. And who would study, anyway? It’s stupid. It’s just a bunch of pompous stupidity. I only sort of mean that. But right now I actually mean it a lot.
Oh, and it’s also especially stupid if you happen to be lecturing on a discipline that fundamentally, more than anything, requires people skills and you happen to be utterly and spectacularly lacking in them. Oh, and if you’ve clearly never actually actively worked in the field you profess to know so much about. Or if you ever did it was about 30 years ago when people used carrier pigeons to get their news out. Oh god. My blood pressure.
That’s the thing about being a mature student. I’m actually more concerned about things like my blood pressure and putting my muddled time to good use. And it seems my bullshit detector has had some polishing in the days since first I made an eager and eternally grateful sponge of myself. And I can’t do all-nighters any more, or give too much of a shit, which puts me at a distinct disadvantage.
The night before last I rewrote the Frankie intro. And in eight weeks and counting I can write the end and eviscerate the middle. That’s quite good news. It makes incidental fuckwits sort of bearable. (Dear sir, you and your humourless remarks mean not a thing to me…)
Also, and more importantly, some of our new furniture turned up today. I hadn’t expected it to be quite so big. That’s the thing with ordering stuff online. The internet is entirely dimensionless. And houses are, well, full of dimensions.
I have been working at home a little bit too much lately and have been having some rather engrossing conversations with myself/the cats. There is something to be said for working in an office.
The latest, as of about three hours ago…
Me to Baxter, who is nudging at the cat flap, looking back at me disdainfully, witheringly:
“Oh, so you’re off out, then?” (Like I’m mother to a teenager who won’t tell me where he’s going.)
Me to Sylvie who is practically surgically attached to the heater all day long:
“Sorry, Sylver — do you mind if I just turn the heater down a wee bit?” (Said truly apologetically and like I’m actually expecting an answer.) “It’s just that it’s getting a bit hot in here and I’ve got the oven on as well. Why don’t you just come into the kitchen? It’s very nice and warm in there. You’ll like it once you get in there, I promise.”
She looks at me and blinks and does nothing (it’s been tested – she will stay surgically attached to the heater all day long whether it’s on or not).
“Oh, okay then, okay. Sorry. Yes, fair enough. You just stay right where you are. Sorry I asked.”
And that’s about it. I’m looking forward to having a functioning TV in the new house. Come end of October I am just going to hang out and watch TV, possibly for the rest of my life. When that time comes, if anyone asks me to speak at a conference or even just think harder than I need to at any given point in time then I will tell them, quite politely, that my season of ass-busting is over. Possibly for the rest of my life.
I would much rather fill my head with the Living Channel and crime documentaries than case studies on crisis management and dialogic models. Unless it involves a paint chart or a creepy voiceover and some telling DNA I just can’t bring myself to give that much of a damn about it.