Saturday, 3 March 2012

Note: I LOVE Academia. And academics :)

I was chatting with a friend yesterday, and we re-decided on something we both discovered a while ago: academics are hard people to date, and very hard to live with.
If there are any academics reading this, please, let me know whether you agree.
The obvious caveat is, of course, that everyone is hard to date and hard to live with. At some point or the other.
But the point is this -
The work never stops.
We (and by we I mean my friend and I, but this applies to lots of others I know) never want it to stop.
When ideas are happening, nothing else is more important.
When writing is not happening, everything else is more important, but everything is a trigger for murderous rages, spontaneous combustion or deluges of tears without warning.
It's hard to take.
And that's the edited version.

What else.
The hours are long, the pay is apparently low (though actually I'm perfectly happy with mine. *touches table). We can get very bossy, very know it all. We want to believe in our work. We can't take even half the pressure that this belief entails.
It's messy.

Of course, there are upsides.
But during my conversation with my friend yesterday, I couldn't see any.
Mostly we just come across to partners or potential dates as obsessive, self-absorbed, bad-tempered egomaniacs. We came to this conclusion by analysing my behaviour (eep) and the recent conduct of a potential beau of hers. Shocking. Ghastly.

But then here's the thing:
I looked up from my laptop and asked the room in general, I wonder if I'd be easier to be with if I was in another job.
The Man answered, But I don't find you difficult!
I hadn't known he was in there with me! (See self-absorbed, above.)
Hearing that made my insides flood with warmth.

It is the best of times, it is the worst of times.

Going home for five days.
Dad unwell.
I am scared and sad.
But the garden will look kind of, somewhat, almost, like this. And it will be warm. And I hope to help my Dad recover quickly and smoothly.

Right now, though, I'm typing this in a room strewn with last-minute packing mania. And looking out of the window. Much like Carrie on an evening in. Without the hair. And the face. And the apartment.
But with the Man typing away on his football website in the other room.

Friday, 2 March 2012

Wednesday, 29 February 2012

I like scribbling on pretty things over dinner

When were you most happy?
When were you least happy?
What do you love?
What do I love?
Say everything.
Water—fish in it—and hedgehogs—I love hedgehogs. Marmite—I'm addicted, and baths, but not with other people! Islands—and your handwriting. I could go on all day.
Go on all day.
My husband.
And what do you hate most?
A lie. And what do you hate most?
Ownership—or being owned. When you leave, you should forget me.

Where there's a will, there's a way.
Where there's a willy, there's a won't.

Tuesday, 28 February 2012

I saw this while browsing through Camelia Isabella and thought of my mother. It's from Pans Labyrinth:

"You’ll meet her, she’s very pretty,
even though sometimes she’s sad for many days at a time.
You’ll see, when she smiles, you’ll love her."

I love her even when she doesn't smile. But when she does...

Monday, 27 February 2012

I'm in love with them both

Black trousers, skinny black sweater, over the knee tan boots, big tan bag and long white winter coat.

An older man passed me by in the corridor and maintained eye contact the whole way.

I like seeing what different people like.

Sunday, 26 February 2012

I still think this is awesome.