steepholm (steepholm) wrote,
steepholm
steepholm

The Long Summer

I lay staring at the ceiling for some time this morning, cat athwart my midriff, inventing the names of cancelled BBC3 shows. My favourites so far are "Pimp my Bride" and "'Tis Pity She's a Horse". I fear others will follow.

"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:

992-p

to this:

Uwe.bristol.750pix

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?
Tags: real life, work
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