"Why the uncharacteristic laziness, steepholm?" you ask. "You, who were wont to be up and doing while the larks were still a-bed?" It's a fair question, but I felt I deserved a short lie-in, having just finished my last week of a teaching for a while. There's much marking to be done, deadlines to meet, meetings to plan, plans to be execute, reports to file, a dramatic production in a local school to organize, and an office to move - but it will be several months before I need to get up on my hind legs and perform. By that time, I'll be up for it. For now, though, I am resting, and Morpheus is my bed-fellow.
This semester was my last at St Matthias Campus, where I've taught for the last 24 years. My university has finally succeeded in selling it after a decade of trying, and we're to be moved across the Frome and up the hill to the main site - i.e. from this:
I have mixed feelings, it's fair to say. For a long time, "When we move to Frenchay" was equivalent to "On the Greek Kalends" in my workplace, so often were plans to move us announced and then inevitably scrapped; but over Christmas the campus cat, Boris, died, and with the genius of the place gone I knew there was but one way. Mostly, my heart quails at the thought of excavating a quarter-century of paper from my office. Who knows what tender youthful dreams will be revealed?