JON: I had an invitation recently to act as external examiner at a university back in the UK. My first reaction was to grab it with both hands as a sign that I can still do the sort of stuff I used to do. However, on more mature thought, and after some discussion, I decided to turn it down. Why?
1 When stressed I start to gibber, stammer and generally become hard to understand, even for those who know me well.
2 I absolutely NEED to take mid-morning and afternoon naps, or at least lie down for half an hour or so to recharge (a.k.a. let the drugs kick in).
3 If I under-dose, I slow right down and become unfit for any kind of purpose. I worry that the time change, though only one hour, could be enough to mess up my internal clock.
4 If I over-dose, I get slightly high – not a problem if I’m out being social, but hardly appropriate for an external examiner. It’s a serious responsibility to take on and should not be conducted by somebody whose poor tiny brain is liable to turn to custard every so often.
So I stayed home. And what did I do instead of examining eager young minds? Well, for many people Sunday is not so much a day of rest, but a day of DIY, and to me every day is a kind of Sunday. So do I engage in DIY? Pha! I find people’s claim that this is somehow “fun” quite absurd and possibly borderline pathological.
What we (and of course by that I mean Marie) did instead was hire a handy man for a day. He’s done a fine job, with Marie supervising. Which is something of a miracle, because whenever she and I attempt to do anything DIYish together it typically degenerates into World War III. I must admit it’s slightly emasculating to have someone else do your DIY – I used to be reasonably good at it (at least, when I put a shelf up it generally stayed up). But this way is soooo much better for our marriage and for my back.
Mind you, such good sense only prevails for a while. Marie was up in town for work the other day and I thought to surprise and delight her by stacking some of the vast quantity of firewood we’ve just had delivered. She was indeed delighted, and I suppose that goes some way towards a) re-masculating me and b) making up for my very sore muscles.
BREAKING NEWS
The Danish bureaucrats have pondered, pontificated and procrastinated and phinally decided that I am a person of sufficient worth and value that they will allow me to become a member of the Danish public. There are a few restrictions: I may not get to vote, rape or pillage, and I am to be force fed herring for breakfast, lunch and dinner until I can pronounce the Danish for ‘my postillion has been struck by lightning’. But these are tiny inconveniences compared to the great boon that is the possession of the magic CPR number that will now allow me to insure myself, open a bank account, get a doctor’s appointment and generally start living like I belong here.
1 When stressed I start to gibber, stammer and generally become hard to understand, even for those who know me well.
2 I absolutely NEED to take mid-morning and afternoon naps, or at least lie down for half an hour or so to recharge (a.k.a. let the drugs kick in).
3 If I under-dose, I slow right down and become unfit for any kind of purpose. I worry that the time change, though only one hour, could be enough to mess up my internal clock.
4 If I over-dose, I get slightly high – not a problem if I’m out being social, but hardly appropriate for an external examiner. It’s a serious responsibility to take on and should not be conducted by somebody whose poor tiny brain is liable to turn to custard every so often.
So I stayed home. And what did I do instead of examining eager young minds? Well, for many people Sunday is not so much a day of rest, but a day of DIY, and to me every day is a kind of Sunday. So do I engage in DIY? Pha! I find people’s claim that this is somehow “fun” quite absurd and possibly borderline pathological.
What we (and of course by that I mean Marie) did instead was hire a handy man for a day. He’s done a fine job, with Marie supervising. Which is something of a miracle, because whenever she and I attempt to do anything DIYish together it typically degenerates into World War III. I must admit it’s slightly emasculating to have someone else do your DIY – I used to be reasonably good at it (at least, when I put a shelf up it generally stayed up). But this way is soooo much better for our marriage and for my back.
Mind you, such good sense only prevails for a while. Marie was up in town for work the other day and I thought to surprise and delight her by stacking some of the vast quantity of firewood we’ve just had delivered. She was indeed delighted, and I suppose that goes some way towards a) re-masculating me and b) making up for my very sore muscles.BREAKING NEWS
The Danish bureaucrats have pondered, pontificated and procrastinated and phinally decided that I am a person of sufficient worth and value that they will allow me to become a member of the Danish public. There are a few restrictions: I may not get to vote, rape or pillage, and I am to be force fed herring for breakfast, lunch and dinner until I can pronounce the Danish for ‘my postillion has been struck by lightning’. But these are tiny inconveniences compared to the great boon that is the possession of the magic CPR number that will now allow me to insure myself, open a bank account, get a doctor’s appointment and generally start living like I belong here.
1 comment:
my husband surly could not stack all that wood.
Post a Comment