I have forgotten the plums that were in the icebox
I am amused by the way in which tweets in my LJ sidebar occasionally become involuntary poetry. Yesterday I was clearly channelling e e cummings, albeit a younger and less accomplished e c cummings who was probably stoned at the time:
right, well, that was a day
during which I achieved
precisely and absolutely
nothing
The exigencies of space have happily contrived to give the sentence a descending number of words per line, culminating in the solitary splendour of "nothing", null and isolate as the closer to the piece. As an epitaph to my day, during which I did, in fact, achieve nothing, it's fairly effective. I marked about three dozen essays over the weekend, in a bizarre and concentrated two-day burst which suggests I must have dredged some actual self-discipline out of the sludge with a gaff, and it's left me a bit disinclined. For anything, basically. I am re-reading the Ankh Morpork city watch novels in strict chronological order, and eating malva pudding at intervals. (OK, I lied about achieving nothing yesterday. I made a malva pudding).
On the upside, a brief interchange with my boss this morning reveals that she's expecting me back at the end of November, not the start. This is weird. I may, apparently, be permitted to go back a couple of weeks earlier as long as it's only for half days. Why is it that everyone else seems to be taking this illness/fatigue thing more seriously than I am? I still don't quite believe in it. But I'm inherently obedient. On with the non-working, then.
Apopos of not much, to whom might I have incautiously lent my copy of Iron Man 2? It's unaccountably missing from my shelf, and I'm poised on the brink of ordering a spiffy special edition DVD to replace it.
right, well, that was a day
during which I achieved
precisely and absolutely
nothing
The exigencies of space have happily contrived to give the sentence a descending number of words per line, culminating in the solitary splendour of "nothing", null and isolate as the closer to the piece. As an epitaph to my day, during which I did, in fact, achieve nothing, it's fairly effective. I marked about three dozen essays over the weekend, in a bizarre and concentrated two-day burst which suggests I must have dredged some actual self-discipline out of the sludge with a gaff, and it's left me a bit disinclined. For anything, basically. I am re-reading the Ankh Morpork city watch novels in strict chronological order, and eating malva pudding at intervals. (OK, I lied about achieving nothing yesterday. I made a malva pudding).
On the upside, a brief interchange with my boss this morning reveals that she's expecting me back at the end of November, not the start. This is weird. I may, apparently, be permitted to go back a couple of weeks earlier as long as it's only for half days. Why is it that everyone else seems to be taking this illness/fatigue thing more seriously than I am? I still don't quite believe in it. But I'm inherently obedient. On with the non-working, then.
Apopos of not much, to whom might I have incautiously lent my copy of Iron Man 2? It's unaccountably missing from my shelf, and I'm poised on the brink of ordering a spiffy special edition DVD to replace it.