Semester Two
So this is it, today's the day, this is where it all ends, I think to myself, as I do every morning while negotiating the astounding stupidity that is Monday morning on the roads. Everybody is still asleep, there is only me, a ghost of a man struggling to change cold gears up a busy hill in the rain.
In swerving to avoid an idiot in a Golf GTI who doesn't look left before she swings out into the road, I narrowly avoid taking out a pensioner who isn't looking either and stepping out from behind a van. And in swerving away from her, I nearly crash into a small girl who is running across the road (it's a RED man) without looking to get to school. Ah right, I think, one of THOSE sorts of days.
I am a Stastistician. How did this happen? I am asked to provide statistics on our new partner faculty, because my statistics are so great and they don't have a proper statistician like we do. Um... I have a degree in music?
I spend the week being shouted at by feckless academics who leave it til the last minute to find out which room they're in and how many students they have. My worst problem is a group of 50 in a room for twenty. Of course this is all my fault. The same lecturer unfortunately has a clash with a postgraduate group who claim that they didn't agree (I have the emails to prove it) to move halfway through their day.
There is shouting in the corridors. I'm not blaming you, he says, but I've told them all to complain very loudly about your cockup. I shrug and drink more coffee. It's all their fault anyway, all I do at this stage is damage limitation. They complain to me because they didn't know this was being taught in the mornings, how was I supposed to know - I can't do mornings!
Of course there is much spluttering when I point how that I did remind them all to check before this term started, the timetables HAVE been on display since September and not in a locked filing cabinet in a disused toilet either.
At the weekend, the GF electrocutes herself cutting through a wire that we had been assured was DEFINITELY disconnected. She's fine, thanks. We discover that the wire, which leads to two spare sockets (not working) is connected to the light fitting in the bedroom. I nearly slice my finger off (slight exaggeration) and we chop down a couple of (mostly dead) trees and plant five new ones. The bonfire is impressive.
I receive an email from somebody called 'Pavita':
And Dave sweetie I want to see you to make things right between us. PLEASEDave I just want hug. this is horrible. Please dave. I don't know how to express what I am feeling in words. I just want to hug you maybe you would understand if you saw me how I feel. Please Dave.
