journeys.

Bug's Bottom to Shipnell's Farm, Foxhill to Middle farm, up to Kidmore farm then down to Toker's Green or Dyson's farm or maybe up to Chalkhouse Green and the back route to Emmer Green; Perhaps along to Kidmore end and over fields to Sonning Common, past the Bird in Hand and the route to Dunsden and from there back to Clayfield Copse; Possibly over Binfield Heath and past the stand of houses and past Hurley End, then towards Henley-on Thames; Or possibly just up to Balmore and look out across the broad Thames Valley, bowl of my birth, and think, as ever, of the possiblities and maybes and wherefores of the broad world without, of the lives I have met, or will cross, or will never encounter, and think, yes, there are worlds out there; And, as ever, I resent that I will never live long enough to encounter everything there is, or was, or will be. And here I am, at 39, looking at photos of my parents at my age, and remembering me as a 17-year-old, watching them and considering what it would be like to be their age, and who or what I would be; Now here I am. And of course, there is only ever now, and the fields and folds and paths I have ever and anon walked.

What was it?

Maybe it was having to tell a colleague, for the umpteenth time, how to install a printer on his computer, and knowing that I'll have to tell him again any time soon; Maybe it was having to pack all the stuff on my desk up, because they were moving my desk nine inches to the right and were worried about Health and Safety; maybe it was the second call from the exams officer, who couldn't work out a perfectly clear spreadsheet as to who should be put in for exams and when, because she couldn't be arsed to understand timetables; Maybe it was when one of my colleagues shoved her oar in, and started telling all and sundry that exams would be on days they weren't going to be; maybe it was another colleague who has studiousuly ignored the list of people who wish to sign up for a course, then called them to say that the course had been cancelled due to lack of demand; Maybe it's the colleagues who have had a go at me because of other people's incompetencies; Maybe it was the sense that I feel I have been marginalised and sidelined, both professionally and socially, for reasons that I don't understand; Maybe it was the realisation that the 'pay increase for sustained contributution to the university' has nothing to do with sustained contribution at all, but rather the number of letters after your name, another kind of box-filling, and the convictio that I am not paid as much as I deserve; Maybe it was the realisation of just how much I have contributed, and how little support I've actually received; Maybe it was this or that or the other, or an aching sense of loss; But I just realised, I really don't give a shit any more, and I am utterly sick of clearing up other people's crap for them. If people are so desirous of drowning in their own incompetence, then so be it. They deserve to drown. What I will no longer let them do is drown me alongside them. It is noticeable how, in any given organisation, the most competent are loaded up with work until they become functionally incompetent.

A very quick update. I've been busy on several fronts over the past week; the arrival of the laptop has proved to be, so far, a good investment on my part. Work on the Dip. has increased; I'm editing A Guide to Reading; and I'm experimenting with some other stuff too. I also downloaded OpenOffice, which I'd recommend as a replacement for Windows Office.
Booze - wise: 34 units over the course of the week.

Contingency Plan.

Everyone should have one. Currently, I'm plotting how I will deal with the predicted snowfall for tomorrow, in terms of how I shall get to work first, and then what to do when no-one turns up ofr class.

Not much to scrawl.

I haven't posted much this week, as you have probably noticed; In fact, I've been busy putting together, then rewriting, a substantial entry regarding one of the subjects I listed earlier. That, and I've been too busy. In the meantime, I didn't have any booze until last night, when I was driven from the house by my wife and her friend discussing clothes. Ended up having 3 rather dissatisfying pints of London Pride, and, on returning home, the last half glass of white wine in the fridge, and a single whisky as a nightcap. That still adds up to 8 or 9 units, however.