back on the rack
The mad social whirl continues unabated. Fed raclette to jo&stv and d_hofryn on Sunday night, mmmm, cheese. Fed lasagne to waynne&jean last night, on the grounds that renovatory sods have dug up the entire floor of their house (except the bedroom) and they can't cook, sit, shower, or eat or breathe without excessive intrusion by dust. (I am all braced for our own renovations, starting in a week or two following the unexpectedly efficient approving of the plans by Council, go figure. Also go dragonroost, Man with Plan). Tonight, game. Tomorrow night, ballet. Friday night, the grad ceremony for all my orientation leaders. Weekend, collapse in the horizontal position and sleep for more hours than the weekend actually contains. Not a social butterfly, me. Require recharge time. Like a dodgy battery. Particularly since I'm once again feeling as though someone socked me in the throat several times before wantonly unplugging me from the wall socket and sticking me into the Duracell bunny to run pink fluffy marathons, or whatever. Body, she is scratched.
It's not helping that my Favourite Masters Student, TM, dropped by my office this morning in order to enthuse about all the fascinating reading she's doing, the which I have no time to do. Phooey. The problem with the glory days of postgrad lounging, free of 9-5 commitments and defined by drifting in a becomingly dilettante fashion between the computer screen, the tea supplies and the pile of new sf and toothsome, weighty critical tomes, is that one doesn't bloody appreciate them when they're happening. Mostly, of course, because one is too busy whinging about the total shortage of money, but hey, money isn't everything. By Freudian slippage I originally wrote "money isn't anything". Word.
Waaah! I wanna be a grad student again. Or, at the very least, an academic. I'm losing the lingo, because administration and student advice do not, alas, allow one to exercise the muscles of nuanced, insightful sophistication of thought - not even over the weekends, because I'm too bloody tired. If I stick around much longer I'm going to become an administrator, and heaven forfend.
It's not helping that my Favourite Masters Student, TM, dropped by my office this morning in order to enthuse about all the fascinating reading she's doing, the which I have no time to do. Phooey. The problem with the glory days of postgrad lounging, free of 9-5 commitments and defined by drifting in a becomingly dilettante fashion between the computer screen, the tea supplies and the pile of new sf and toothsome, weighty critical tomes, is that one doesn't bloody appreciate them when they're happening. Mostly, of course, because one is too busy whinging about the total shortage of money, but hey, money isn't everything. By Freudian slippage I originally wrote "money isn't anything". Word.
Waaah! I wanna be a grad student again. Or, at the very least, an academic. I'm losing the lingo, because administration and student advice do not, alas, allow one to exercise the muscles of nuanced, insightful sophistication of thought - not even over the weekends, because I'm too bloody tired. If I stick around much longer I'm going to become an administrator, and heaven forfend.