Isn’t work completely bloody? Even when you quite like your job and think most of your co-workers are even, dare I say it, quite nice? Nevertheless, it’s Exam Term, the students are Revolting (hoo, yes), and inexplicably everything goes completely wrong at once so quite a lot of time has to be spent working out which essential bits of the job are the least essential, in that, if I don’t do them, only I will get shouted at, so I can fit in the sudden influx of damage limitation and general running-to-stay-still that I urgently need to do, single-handed, because my job-share is on holiday in Dramatic Development Week, of course, possibly deliberately so.
Anyway. Reading and writing has been rather limited to frantic emails from and confused emails to various colleagues. Books are merely those bloody annoying things that the students keep baying for and of which we simultaneously have not enough to satisfy demand and too many to fit on the shelves. And then the students keep breaking them. I have to assume not deliberately, or I’d be down Limehouse buying a machine gun. And rubber bullets, of course. I don’t want them dead, they wouldn’t have learnt the vital lesson ‘Do not fuck with the Library Assistant‘ if they were deaded.
Nevertheless, it is time to get The Novel out again, and, mayhap, actually work on it. Do you think?