Saturday, September 29, 2007
If you have ever had a months worth of Very Important Things to do and only five days in which to do them, you may know how I feel.
It probably doesn't help that it is very necessary to maintain a facade of being completely in control of everything.
But it isn't nice to be waking at 4am hyperventilating as you realise yet another potential crisis you hadn't planned on.
I am trying my best to keep calm. I can't now even comfort myself with the vision of myself standing in one of the corridors of The Hermitage. I am sliding into panic mode.
Here it is 28 degrees and the light as bright and sharp as ever it could be, and the floor of the ocean visible through its turquoise curtain. The flags are out, the shark net bobbing around in the blue, swimmers lazily lapping out there for fun, all the way. The biannual Music festival on the beach almost here, the lifeguard returned and ready in place for drownings.
Russia and Glasgow seem like figments of my imagination. Actually, I myself am starting to feel like a figment of my own imagination.
I have cooked 7 dinners and only 20 more to freeze. I have ordered lunches, booked babysitters and cleaners. Obtained copyright to use the images in my paper. Almost finished editing. Written course content. Locked all my assessment marks i my office and givn away the key.Bought small plastic bottles and a little travel clock. I have not finished writing ALL course content. I haven't graded the 120 assessment tasks from three weeks ago.I haven't written the extensive instructions manuel. I havent checked whether I will be presenting using windows or mac. I haven't timed the latest version of my paper. I haven't checked to see wher my polarfleece hat is. I haven't bought locks for my bag so I don't get drugs and bombs in my luggage. I haven't photocopied the work I wish to take. I haven't decided whether to buy some civilised clothes to wear in scotland or just look like an uncivilised idiot. So much to do. So little time.
Her are your presents. You may choose which things are yours,