My whirlwind translator Meggy is knocking on my door. This morning I am to meet my Dean.
‘Hello Will,’ she smiles.
Meggy is best imbibed rather than simply looked at. Each time I clock her she’s wearing a new outfit. Today she looks like she’s off to Ascot; an ostentatious yellow puffy dress, orange near Napoleonic hat, pink lip-stick, mounds of blusher - though thankfully, this time, she’s stopped short of the cheek glitter. Her wardrobe must be the size of an aircraft hanger, I muse, locking my door. Mine wouldn’t even fill a pilot’s locker.
We walk towards the English department building in light rain. Meggy offers me a spare umbrella and an appraisal of her life which sounds like something Stalin would have devised back …show more content…
Any urge to find a job or tell the days apart had withered, well, daily. With the benefit of hindsight, it was inevitable the shit would hit the fan. Or, in a more anodyne image: that I would have to face the music - having previously believed my speakers were best positioned behind me to really appreciate Beethoven. I was, after all, 36, shingle (sic) and suffering numerous ailments; some physical, many economic, a few psychic: I hadn’t exactly been hearing voices, but I had come to believe my potted plants were laughing at me from a variety of angles.
Truth is though, I’ve always been driven by a lack of ambition. No agency, no design; a rather rudderless ship. Or, to stretch the metaphor somewhat: less a ship or ocean liner, more a dinghy wheezing along by a slow puncture. For example, even when the Dean had assured me the job was all mine back in October, there had been little sense of achievement or elation: only that, in all my days of indecision, I’d finally been tapped on the shoulder by fate dressed up as an English teacher with tatty clothes and low