I have just this week been radically re-evaluating what I am capable of. [But see NaNoWriMo counter - Ed]
I told you all that I had passed my MA, making me a BaMaMa, which is just stupid. Well, last week the University finally got around to sending back the dissertation, all 15000 miserable last-minute-scribbly panic-welded words of it. But for insane, possibly-involving-vast-clerical-error reasons of their own, they marked it A+, 75%, jolly well done and thank you.
What? What on earth? [And, I repeat, see NaNoWriMo counter, for the full brain-wrenching paradox]
I assure you people, the dissertation was shit. I knew in my bones it was shit and I would just about scrape a pass, mostly out of the pity and embarrassment of my tutor’s hearts, and I’d have to bury it in the Council compost heap when it came back, after two goes through the shredder, naturally. And I had good reasons for knowing it was shit. I was grieving for my lost baby, I had been very ill and I can see now I panicked and went back to work [full-time work! Reed, you ARSE] far too soon, I hated the subject I was writing on, I procrastinated by reading and reading and reading and S was beginning to panic for me as bloody hell, I was leaving the writing part late, I typed the whole thing out in a last-minute frenzy [there's a king-sized typo in the Introduction that swallowed a whole sentence. How unsurprised I was to see it there].
The only people I have told about the A-freakin’-+ so far are my bestest friends, some colleagues, and the internets. No, not any family. Why have I not told family? Well, frankly, for their own safety, for they will say ‘I knew you’d be fine, I really don’t know what you were making such a fuss about’ and a red mist will descend and then eight police-men will be holding me down and prying the shattered remains of the twelve-foot solid oak dining table from my bare hands.
[Which somehow makes the NaNoWriMo belly-flop A-OK, does it?]