Today I found out that my PhD viva (what Americans would call a PhD defense) will likely take place in early December.
Repeat after me: Oh. My. Flipping. Hell.
I’ve been freaking out all day and haven’t gotten much work done. For your viva, you have two examiners (who’ve read your dissertation) conduct an oral examination of 2-3 hours. The viva is the examination/defense. The two examiners decide whether you receive the PhD or not. This is probably slightly different from the American system. I don’t know the examiners and they are not from my university. I’ve never had any contact with them, so they are completely objective. My supervisors and I have to nominate the examiners and we’ve chosen two female novelists/academics who have already agreed to examine me. The college has to approve them, but I don’t anticipate a problem there. One of the examiners is going away after the holidays, so the viva has to take place in early December. This is what I just found out today, which has me totally panicked! I have been planning to submit my PhD by October 30th, but I really wanted some wiggle room in case I needed more time. I didn’t think the viva would take place until sometime in January, which for some reason was comforting, probably because it seems far away, in the new year. If the viva were in January, I could probably submit the PhD at the end of November or even early December if needed. Now that’s not possible. I have NO wiggle room. And I haven’t even finished the novel yet! And I still have to complete the academic part!
Deep breath.
It’s all for the best, really. It would be fab to have this done before the end of the calendar year, before the holidays, before my birthday. And my visa expires at the end of January, so if I can pass the PhD in early December (If! If!) then I’ll have a better chance of changing to a work visa before my student visa expires on January 31st, without having to leave the country, etc.
I can do this. I can do it! The sudden news has just thrown off my equilibrium, that’s all. Will I be done with this in 4 months? Is that even possible? I have a hard time imagining it, but it’s for real. The paperwork is done.
Poor Anglofille has come down with a rather nasty summer cold. Wednesday and Thursday were terrible. Today I’m feeling somewhat better, but still not well. I just keep getting sick this year. Stress, I suppose.
Sadly, there is never any peace and quiet at night. One night this week, I finally fell asleep around 2:30a.m. (I’m still suffering from insomnia), but I was awakened at 3:15 by the sounds of a preacher out in the street. Yes, a preacher. He had a loud, booming voice that echoed up and down the street. From his accent, I’m guessing he was from Nigeria. So anyway, I’m snoozing in bed, finally asleep, and then I hear this loud voice saying things like, “Everyone wake up! It’s judgment day! Repent to Jesus!” etc. etc. This sermon went on for quite a while and it was eerie the way it echoed in the street. He had to have woken up more than 100 people with this. In the light of day, I couldn’t recall everything he was saying, but it was quite a detailed sermon. It was damn freaky to be woken up like that and in such a weird way.
I’ve always thought it was strange that the average British police officer is unarmed. In every other European country where I’ve traveled, the police are heavily armed, so it must just be a British quirk. There are armed police units, but the average cop doesn’t carry a gun. In a way it’s nice that the cop on the beat isn’t packing heat – it makes the police more approachable and less threatening. There is also much less chance that some hothead cop will kill an innocent person. On the other hand, we live in a dangerous world filled with violent people. It’s the job of the police to protect us from violence as much as they can and it’s not easy to do that without a weapon. Recently, Derrick Bird went on a shooting spree in Cumbria and killed 12 people. At one point early in his spree, he was confronted by two unarmed police officers. The officers had no way to stop Bird, so he escaped and proceeded to kill 9 more people.
Since the police aren’t armed, it’s not surprising that security guards don’t seem to be either. Even those guys who drive armored trucks here are unarmed from what I can see. Back home, I remember seeing those armored truck guys carrying a gun in their hand whenever they picked up cash. [Who on earth would carry around a metal box of cash without a gun? Not me.] Anyway, I bring up this issue because today another one of my weird London stories occurred – thankfully, it did not involve guns. I was in Bloomsbury, shopping at the Brunswick Centre, which is an outdoor shopping center with shops and cafes. There are security guards who patrol the area and wear bright yellow vests so they stand out. Of course they have no weapon or anything and thus, they can’t really provide any security, as I saw today. I was walking around and I saw this white guy who looked like a total thug acting strangely. He hid around a corner and seemed to be waiting for someone. Eventually, two guys of Southeast Asian appearance came around the corner and the white guy attacked them. Clearly he was waiting for them and I mention the ethnicities because I just have a feeling that this had something to do with the fight, like something racist was said, probably by the white thuggish guy, which then set off some sort of ongoing dispute in the shopping center. When you’re out enjoying a sunny day, it’s really a shock to see three grown men punching and clawing each other. It’s such a disgusting sight. So the security guard is nearby, but can’t intervene because he has no means to stop these guys. He does not even say “Hey, stop it!” or “I’m gonna call the police!” Nothing. I suppose he thought the guys might attack him next, so he just stood there chatting on his walkie-talkie. Meanwhile, all the shoppers are horrified and looking at the guard, waiting for him to do something.
I’m not suggesting that security guards be armed, but why don’t they have pepper spray or a stun gun? This fight continued, with the guys going out into the street. I went into the drugstore then, but when I came out, I heard the white guy screaming, then he ran back into the shopping center and at this point, he was carrying a wooden stake in is hand – sharp enough to kill Dracula. No idea where he found this weapon. The security guard came trailing after him, talking on his walkie-talkie. Not a reassuring sight when a thug with a wooden stake and a thirst for violence is running loose in a shopping center. I decided to leave then, because clearly if this guy started attacking random people, there would be no protection at all. I have no idea what happened in the end. I’m sure the police arrived at some point, but I wonder how the police take down a guy like this – I assume they have pepper spray or something? I know they have batons, but that doesn’t seem to be very effective unless you’ve already got someone on the ground. I’m not sure what my point is here. I guess it’s just…my sense of safety has always relied on the knowledge that the “authorities” have weapons to stop the bad guys. But I don’t have that feeling here and it makes me feel unsafe. Maybe I just need to adjust my expectations. Maybe I’m the one that has the problem. I don’t know.
It’s a historic day in Britain. There’s a cloud of ash hovering overhead, no planes in the sky and the Brits are having their first-ever televised prime ministerial debate. While this is a decades-old tradition in the States, it’s a new thing here. Right now I’m watching (but not really paying attention to) Gordon Brown, David Cameron and Nick Clegg trying to act all American and presidential. Thank heavens I can’t vote. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Meanwhile, due to the giant clump of ash floating overhead and every airport being closed, Eurostar tickets have suddenly become worth gold. I hope they don’t take mine away from me! Oh dear. Certain people laughed when I said I was taking the train to the South of France rather than flying. Well, look who’s the smart one now!
I went to a conference at Exeter this week, where I read from my novel. I was the lone fiction writer at the conference. Fiction writers (and creative types in general) often feel out of place at these sorts of academic events. Presenter after presenter does “theory speak,” making it seem as if their own mind has been erased and reprogrammed with the thoughts of Judith Butler. Reading a novel excerpt in an environment like this is intimidating. When you share your creative work, you put yourself out there in a way that you don’t if you’re just spouting theory like a trained circus animal. It made me feel very exposed, but I didn’t flee. I did my reading and to my relief, it was very well received. I think after several hours of academic papers, I was like a cool drink of water for the audience. People were riveted by my reading. I got more questions than anyone else and afterwards many people wanted to talk to me about the book and gushed with praise. I really couldn’t believe it. It gave me a much-needed boost before the upcoming retreat, where I’ll lock myself away in the French countryside to do nothing but write. Maybe I’m not crap after all? Well, we’ll see.
I had a bit of time to look around Exeter, which seems to be a very nice town, with an amazing cathedral and lots of interesting shops and restaurants. It seems the only time I travel around to English towns is for conferences. Train travel is prohibitively expensive here, so I take very few trips outside of London. I enjoyed the view of the countryside from the train window – that’s about as good as it gets for me!
Anglofille said @ 10:43 pm | academia | Permalink | Comments are off
Thanks to the BBC and their craptastic Olympics coverage, I didn’t get to see Evan Lysacek beat that whiny Russian jerk at the men’s figure skating. [What's up with the haircut, Russian dude?] I don’t care about the Olympics that much, but I do like the skating. It seems that the Winter Olympics are not popular here at all. Most of the coverage is on in the middle of the night and even then they just show bits of it. I guess because no Brits are really in contention, no one cares. Also, this isn’t really a snowy, wintery place. If they had the Spring or Autumn Olympics, where all the events invovled being soaked with rain, then the Brits would have something to relate to and want to watch. Snow and ice and mountains? Not so much.
Oh well. We miss out on a lot of things here. The Oscars too! Maybe people with cable TV get to see all this stuff, but I’m just a plebeian.
I do think the male figure skaters are awesome though (with the exception of that Russian guy), because we live in a world with such rigid, bullshit notions of “masculinity,” yet these guys are out there on international TV wearing sequins and feathers and skating to music. It’s a big eff you to all the macho assholes in the world and I love it. I love to see guys who have confidence like that, because you know they were probably beaten up a lot while growing up for wanting to figure skate. It’s what annoys me so much about the Russian guy with the hideous haircut – he’s basically saying Evan Lysacek isn’t manly enough to win the gold, because he didn’t do a quad. I’m glad this jerk and his neanderthal notions of what’s “manly” got a big ass whooping on the world stage.
Just to follow up on my post about the pedestrian that was struck by a bus I was riding on – I wrote to Transport for London to find out what happened to the guy. It took a couple weeks, but they wrote back. It was a lengthy letter, including the following sentiments:
“I am grateful for the time you have taken to get in touch. Please accept my apologies for this regrettable incident and any distress that you suffered as a result of this…I can sympathise with how you must have felt after this experience. We appreciate your concern regarding the pedestrian’s wellbeing.”
The woman who wrote to me seemed genuinely touched that I had taken the time to write. See, I’m not some cold-hearted monster, everyone. So anyway, the guy survived the accident and has recovered. It’s really amazing that he survived. The moral of this story: Street drugs make you indestructible, kids.
If I had been in his place, I think I’d be dead. After this incident, I didn’t get back on a bus for two weeks. It really freaked me out. Even now, I am very careful before I cross the street, which is a good thing.
It’s Friday night and I’m livin’ it up. Oh wait, no…just the opposite. I’m home working on my dissertation. I’m currently writing my Fight Club analysis (while listening to the soundtrack of The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert) and I’m going to throw two questions out there:
[1] This first one is just for the Yanks (and I know those of you on the East Coast are nearly snowed in, so you have nothing else to do but help me). There’s a famous scene in Fight Club where Brad Pitt’s character makes a big deal of the fact that he and Edward Norton’s character know what a duvet is. It’s apparently a bad thing that men know what this word means – it’s a sign of their figurative castration! I have transcribed this scene from the film and added the following footnote:
-“Duvet” is more commonly used in British English than in American English and many Americans (male and female) would not be familiar with this word.
I added this footnote for two reasons: I’m doing my PhD in England where the word duvet is common, but it’s not as common in the States (which is why it was an issue in Fight Club). But the key point for me is whether many women would not know this word. I think there are plenty of American women who would not know what a duvet is. Thoughts? This might seem trivial, but it’s important to my analysis.
[2] This will be for the more academic-minded amongst you. Is anyone out there familiar with the work of Max Weber? One of the profs in my department said that Weber might be able to help me with my Fight Club analysis, particularly the idea that consumer culture is traditionally considered something female, which is of course important to Fight Club. I have no idea where to look in Weber’s oeuvre to find this (nor do I have a lot of time to read much of his stuff). Does anyone happen to know about this – or, alternatively, know of another writer whose work might be helpful?
All right, I better get back to work, where I get to write sentences like this: “This reference to Lorena Bobbitt, the Ecuadorian-American woman who famously sliced off half of her husband’s penis and threw it from the window of her car, inserts the issue of literal castration into the narrative.”
It’s that time again – I must dust off the academic portion of my dissertation and begin working on it again. Chapter 1: Fight Club. You all know I love Fight Club. It’s a brilliant indictment of capitalist-patriarchy and the damage it does to men. That’s not the dominant interpretation of the film, but that’s how I read it. All of the issues in Fight Club are relevant to women as well, even if on the surface it’s very ‘male.’ Anyway, the next month will be spent writing the novel and finishing this chapter on Fight Club. How I’m going to do all of this work on top of teaching remains to be seen.
Perhaps in related news, my novel is becoming increasingly violent. It’s always had shootings and bombings, but you can distance yourself while writing about that kind of violence. Now I have beatings and torture, which is very up-close-and-personal. At first I found it difficult to write about such things because I was disturbed that these ideas and images existed in my mind, but now I sort of enjoy it. The people being beaten and tortured are really vile, so they deserve what they get (think Tarantino’s ‘Inglourious Basterds’). Because of that, it’s sort of cathartic. I’m not sure how I’ll reconcile the feminist ideals of my novel with the violence, except to say: Why should women have to play nice? It certainly hasn’t gotten us very far.
On Tuesday night I was going home on a double-decker bus from Bloomsbury. The bus was speeding down Kingsway when all of a sudden the driver slammed on the brakes; this was followed by loud, multiple thuds as the bus crashed into something. As often happens in the midst of an accident, time seemed to slow down; even though it all happened relatively quickly, it felt as if it were happening in slow motion and a million thoughts ran through my mind: Is the bus going to flip over? Are we plowing into a bunch of cars? Have we run off the road? I was facing the back of the bus, so I had no idea what was happening.
Once the bus came to a halt, it was clear that we had hit a pedestrian. People were screaming. In all the confusion, the bus driver opened the doors, the guy we hit stumbled onto the bus, then collapsed and lost consciousness. People were shouting that an ambulance needed to be called and multiple people called the emergency services. A student nurse was on the bus and was examining the guy where he was at the foot of the stairs, totally motionless. He looked dead. She said he had a pulse and was breathing, but that his eyes were fixed in space. She thought he had a serious spinal injury. She lifted up his shirt and we could see the wounds from where the bus had hit him.
I was really stunned and along with the other passengers, got off the bus and stood on the pavement. All of Kingsway was backed up behind us, since no one could get by. If you’re familiar with Kingsway (near the London School of Economics), then you know it’s not possible for a pedestrian to cross the street; between the northbound and southbound lanes, there are iron gates and a steep drop down into a tunnel. So the guy we hit should not, under any circumstances, have been in the street. This is why cars and buses speed down Kingsway and what makes it so dangerous.
As we stood near the bus, we all thought the guy was on the verge of death (or possibly already dead). About 5 to 10 minutes later the paramedics arrived. As they stepped onto the bus, something completely bizarre happened. The victim leapt to his feet and ran to the back doors of the bus, where he manually opened them (which takes a bit of strength). The crowd gasped in shock. A minute before he seemed dead, now he was on his feet and ripping the doors open. He jumped off the bus and was acting crazed; he ripped off his jacket and threw it in a rubbish bin, then began to run down the street. I cannot tell you how surreal this was. A woman who had been on the sidewalk and witnessed the accident said the bus had slammed into him hard and that it was unbelievable he could even stand up, let alone run. At the end of the block, he collapsed. The police and medics ran to him and as they were examining him, he jumped up and attacked them in an extremely violent way; it took 5 or 6 people to restrain him. He was screaming like a madman; I don’t know what he was saying, but it sounded really scary echoing into the night, especially given that it seemed he had just come back from the dead. He sounded demonic. A police officer walked by and said the guy was “off his tits” on some illegal drug – I can’t remember the name.
It seemed to me and everyone else that this guy had to have suffered major internal injuries when the bus hit him. Even with powerful narcotics in his system, I don’t understand how he could have gotten up, especially because he had lost consciousness before. He probably hurt his chances for survival by running around like that, particularly if he had a spinal injury. I don’t know if he survived or not, or what his fate will be. In London, it’s very difficult to get local news of this kind, so I may never know.
Our bus driver went into shock and had to be wrapped in a blanket. The police didn’t take witness statements or anything, which I thought was odd. As soon as it became clear the guy was a druggie, the mood of the crowd changed somewhat. There was less sympathy; the police and medics were very hardened with him – I’m sure they must deal with people like this everyday and it’s exhausting and a drain on the system. [I'm sure being attacked doesn't help their mood.]
This area of London is extremely dangerous for pedestrians. About three years ago, I stumbled upon the aftermath of a horrific accident at Holborn, where a double-decker bus had lost control, driven up onto the pavement, hit a woman and dragged her under the bus. Of course she died. If you have occasion to travel through this area (Southampton Row/Holborn/Kingsway), be super careful. And if you ride a bike through this area, you’re insane.
This incident left me feeling quite shaken and I ended up walking home afterwards, the sound of the thuds when we hit the guy ringing in my ears. It’s scary to be sitting on a bus reading Henry James one instant, and then the next a person is violently injured and perhaps even killed right in front of you. My sense of safety is still shaken by it and I haven’t been back on a bus yet; when I’m waiting to cross the street and a bus or a big truck races by, I feel my stomach clench. Accidents like this can happen anywhere, but city life just seems to be pretty brutal sometimes. Life and death in the cold, dark streets.
I guess you can throw anything up on the side of a bus nowadays [via the Guardian].
The blatantly anti-woman agenda of the mass media never ceases to amaze me. I think the British media operates in a much more overtly sexist and hostile way towards women. I’ve been living here for nearly 4.5 years now and despite the internet, I’m not exposed to as much American media as I am to British media, but it seems to me the sexism of the American media operates in a different way. Sexism is sexism, of course, and however it works doesn’t make it less offensive and harmful. I’m willing to concede that I may be wrong about the media differences, but what I can say for certain is that I feel “assaulted” by the media as a woman here in a very real way. And at least in London, there is also pornography everywhere – in telephone booths, in mainstream shops that sell newspapers and magazines and sadly, even in the newspapers themselves. You simply cannot escape it. I believe it is a form of sexual harassment against every woman who lives in this city and a human rights issue. (I’ll have a more detailed post on this coming up.)
I’ve already written about how, in London, I’ve experienced much more street harassment and abuse from male strangers – my experiences living in New York City, Boston and Paris combined do not match it. I can’t help but think that all of these issues are related.
One of the big news stories of the day is the announcement that travelers from 14 mostly Muslim countries will be facing additional screening measures before they board planes to the U.S. I suppose Obama is responding to criticism that he’s soft on terrorism. The countries targeted include Nigeria, Yemen, Afghanistan, Algeria, Iraq, Lebanon, Libya, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, Somalia, Iran, Sudan, Syria and Cuba. Cuba?
The country I don’t see on this list is the UK. Most of the major airplane bomb attempts since 9/11 have involved British citizens. Richard Reid, the “shoe bomber,” is British. The liquid bomb plotters of 2006, who planned to blow up 7 airliners heading to North America, were British. The guy who tried to blow up the plane on Christmas Day is Nigerian, but by all accounts seemed to have been radicalized when he was studying at University College London, where other students have also become radicalized and then committed acts of terrorism. So as for real terrorist threats to American airliners from foreign citizens, the UK seems to be the biggest threat of all. A British passports gets you right into the U.S. without a visa, unlike the other countries on the list, thus making the threat even worse. Thousands of British citizens travel to the U.S. each day. I doubt that many citizens of the 14 countries on the watch list can even afford to leave their own countries.
My point is not that UK citizens should be subjected to extra profiling based on nationality, though I can’t help but wonder what the fall out would be if one of these British-born terrorists is actually successful one day in carrying out a catastrophic attack. My point is that in light of the new measures, it’s important to point out that the immediate threat posed by a small segment of British society is much more serious than the threat posed by Cuba or some of the other countries on the list, making these new security measures ineffective, politically motivated and hypocritical.
I’m horrified – but not at all surprised – that when several Eurostar trains broke down in the Chunnel last night, Eurostar employees left many of their passengers to rot on the trains for upwards of 16 hours. If you’ve ever been on Eurostar – or any train at all – you can imagine how terrible that must have been, particularly because there didn’t seem to be any electricity. Apparently Eurostar has no contingency plans for emergencies. What if there had been a fire, accident or terrorist bomb? Everyone would have perished, I guess. That’s a comforting thought. The explanation Eurostar has given for the breakdowns – the trains going from extremely cold air outside to warm, humid air inside the Chunnel caused the engines to fail – seems strange to me, since it’s cold every winter and this has never happened before. Many of the Eurostar train drivers on the UK side started a strike yesterday and I hope that sabotage is investigated.
The rail service between London and Paris is run by amateurs, by incompetents, by rude, lazy people. I’ve written on this blog many times before about what Eurostar is like and how rude their employees are (particularly on the Paris side) and how utterly useless the whole company is. That has been proven by this incident. They act this way because they can. They have a monopoly on the London – Paris rail service and they know it. Why try hard? There’s no need. Taking the ferry is a hassle, flying is a hassle, particularly out of London; the train is the best option for many people and those of us who live on this side of the Channel rely on it to get to continental Europe. But Eurostar makes the experience as miserable as possible. This rail line needs to be opened up to other companies because passengers should not be held hostage by Eurostar any longer. I’m glad I decided not to go to Paris for my birthday or Christmas – it’s doubtful I would have made it anyway because of the massive disruption to their services now, plus more strikes.
There is a large Muslim population here and so it’s common to see women and girls wearing headscarves. Sometimes I also see women wearing niqabs, which is a veil that covers the head and also the face, with just the eyes peeking through. This isn’t that common in the areas where I circulate, but I do see it sometimes. However, the other day I saw something I’ve never seen before. I was riding the train and there was a young woman wearing a gold, embroidered scarf covering her head. She was very stylishly dressed from head to toe, wearing a black skirt, boots and a black coat with a belt. What was strange was that she had taken the bottom part of the thick gold scarf and pinned it very tightly over her mouth. Her nose and eyes and the entire upper part of her face were completely visible, as was her neck. She was fashionably dressed in figure-hugging clothes, her body not restricted in any way. But her mouth was covered up.
I was disturbed by that image for the rest of the day and even now I don’t like to think of it. This is no different than a woman being gagged or having tape over her mouth – no different at all. I write a great deal about patriarchy and the way that it silences women, in western culture and cultures around the world, but rarely do I see such a literal manifestation of a woman being silenced. In a free country, in Western Europe, no woman should be walking around with her mouth covered up; this shouldn’t be championed as multi-culturalism and people shouldn’t say “oh well, it’s not for me to judge.” You know what – fuck that. This woman had her mouth covered up and that’s not cool. She is an abused woman, robbed of all human dignity.
If it were legal to have a gun here then I would buy one and carry it with me. I’m totally serious.
Tonight I was walking home and some guy started to follow me. I know when someone is following me. I went into a shop to buy something and he also went into the shop. As soon as I came out, he was waiting outside and started to follow me again. Though it was only around 6pm, it was pitch dark, no different than if it were midnight. While the high street had a lot of people walking around, I was heading into an area with not enough street lights and with abandoned buildings and far fewer people (which is why I hate this neighborhood so much). Thankfully, Southwark Police Station was nearby. I could see it about a block away, so I turned around and said to this thug very loudly, “Stop following me! The police are right there and I’m going to the police!” He was a bit stunned, but then started to speak, saying something like he just wanted to talk to me or something. Unbelievable. So I screamed “GET AWAY FROM ME!!!” I walked off and headed towards the police station, then I turned around and he was gone. After this I walked home through the very dark and semi-deserted streets and felt very afraid. If he were somehow following me and approached me at this point, who knows what would have happened.
Less than a week ago, I had another unpleasant experience. I was outside of London in a small town and a guy said something very rude and misogynist to me. Then he drove off. This particular guy was white British, the guy in the previous story was an immigrant from somewhere in Africa.
You know what – I’m really sick of this shit. I’m sick of not feeling safe and I’m sick of abuse – all coming from strange men in the street. I will start to carry some sort of weapon with me, but I don’t know what. Any ideas? It’s really ridiculous that pepper spray is illegal here, because that would be ideal. Whatever I start to carry with me, I will use it on anyone who makes me free threatened and anyone who treats me in an abusive way. I’ve had enough.
My current Facebook status is that I want to run away from home. Here is my current fantasy: I go to some remote continent and live in a cave where no one can find me. I wonder if it’s possible to book such a thing on lastminute.com?
I am having one of those weeks where I’m thwarted at every turn, where everyone is pissing me off, where nothing works. This sums it up perfectly: I have to go somewhere tomorrow by train early in the morning…but a bridge on the train route has collapsed because of rain. So now the rails will be even more chaotic than normal, I’ll have to take multiple trains, it’ll take forever. How is it that a bridge in the rainiest country in flipping Europe can’t withstand a little rain, for crying out loud? I am tempted to use the F word now.
London, I have totally fallen out of love with you. I never expected this to happen, but really…I cannot take it anymore. How will London host the Olympics? I can’t even imagine it.
Anyway, I am leaving tonight and will have to stay overnight at my destination to make sure I arrive on time tomorrow. Because if I’m late for this thing tomorrow, that’ll push me over the edge. I’m teetering on the edge now, in case you haven’t noticed. My hands tremble all day. I have a constant headache. Where, or where, is that cave?
P.S. Do not even consider getting a PhD at a univeristy that doesn’t offer you funding. It’s not worth it.
Today I put Chapter 7 to bed. All 107 pages of it. I moved about 30 pages from it to another chapter a few weeks ago, so I’ve completed at least 137 pages since I returned from Paris in mid-August. Of course the chapter is not really finished – it needs a lot of work – but I’ve written it through from beginning to end. Time for Chapter 8. Chapter 7 was pretty fun to write. I realized that one of the characters will murder someone before the end of the book. Oh – and I know the ending of the story now. I came home one day a few weeks ago and in a white heat, wrote most of the last chapter (but not the very, very end). So I know my character’s fate. It made me cry.
I’m starting to worry that I can’t keep up this pace all throughout the winter. Where will I find new reserves of creativity and brainpower? Are these finite resources? My head hurts. It’s completely pitch dark here before 5:00 p.m. I’m starting to sag a bit. I have to wear my glasses all the time now too. That can’t be good. And I have pains in my hands. This really can’t be good. What are the early signs of carpal tunnel? I’m too young to die.
I recently watched The Hours again, one of my favorite films. I love this scene on the train platform. Whenever I take the train through Richmond, which I do quite often, I always think of this scene. “If it is a choice between Richmond and death, I choose death.” Not a motto for the town to adopt, I don’t think. [Richmond is lovely, by the way. I'd gladly move there.] But anyway, this is a beautiful scene from a beautiful film. “You cannot find peace by avoiding life.” Lovely.
I quit my job at the language school. I just finally had enough. I had already given up one of my classes there but had one left. In my remaining class, half the students were Spanish and they just did not like me one bit. They would come to class late each day (I’m talking 30 or 40 minutes late), they’d talk all during class despite me telling them to be quiet repeatedly, they’d skip many classes then complain they didn’t understand the subject matter. Finally, I began to throw them out of class for behaving this way. They were extremely upset about this and claimed that in Spain you can come to class late, skip class, etc. Well, terrific, it sounds like a fab system, but we’re not in Spain, we’re in England, where you must attend class and show up on time. After five weeks, this message should have sunk in. If you don’t like it, hit the road.
Not surprisingly, they complained to my boss that I am too strict. The spoiled little rich kids didn’t like being told off. [I call them "kids" but they're in their mid-twenties and should know better.] My boss defended me, apparently – I don’t know because I wasn’t there, but that’s what he said. But it doesn’t matter, because I quit. The fact is, I didn’t want to teach this class. It ended up being too much work, way more than I had anticipated. The class was spread over three days and it took away a tremendous amount of time from my PhD work. The lesson prep and marking ate into my day, then there was the actual class, then afterwards I felt drained from having to deal with all the attitude I got during the class. Even on my ‘off’ days I couldn’t switch off from it. But you know, I would have stuck with it, to the detriment of my PhD and my mental health, because I do have a sense of loyalty. I didn’t want to let the students down. But after they stabbed me in the back, the whole equation changed. I’m going to push myself to the brink and let my PhD suffer for 8 more weeks because of these brats? Nope, sorry. Not going to happen. So I left. See ya later kids, good luck to you, buena suerte!
And you know, I feel like I’ve been reborn now. I still have the university class I teach on Fridays, but that is a pleasure. [I also still have my American job.] But getting rid of my job at the language school has freed up my days and it has made me feel so liberated and alive. Yesterday I was at the library all day long! I read! I wrote! I lost myself in ideas and creativity. It was intoxicating. I am grateful for these last five weeks of hell at the language school, because I came to realize that while this PhD is a nightmare in many ways, it’s also a gift in other ways. Having time to read and to write is something that should not be taken for granted. Now, to be able to lose myself in my novel nearly all day, everyday, is an opportunity that I should cherish. My time as a student and with this novel is coming to an end and I’m not going to take on any more responsibilities that distract me from this. I am putting myself first and that’s that. I’ll have less money, but I’ll survive.
Now, I am going to finish writing this goddamn novel if it kills me.
One of the things I’ve always liked about England, particularly in comparison to certain other European countries, is that things seem to run relatively efficiently here. We aren’t normally plagued by strikes and the sort of chaos that can make living in other European countries difficult.
However, lately I have lost a lot of faith in the way this country functions. I hate to write this, since I am in many ways a guest here, though I do pay more in tuition fees than the average person pays in taxes each year and thus, I contribute just as much if not more to the economy. I also work and pay taxes, so I’m not a freeloader.
It just seems that over the past several months, I have repeatedly faced problems doing routine things through the public services, to the extent that it negatively affects quality of life. Recently I’ve written about calling an ambulance and never having it show up. I had a cervical smear done last spring on the health service and just recently got the results, since my sample was sent to the wrong lab (I have no faith that I’ve received the correct results now). I’ve also had many other difficulties with the health service. A few months ago there were tube strikes that paralysed the city. Etc. Etc.
Anglofille is an American living in London, finishing up a novel and a PhD, taking photos, and blogging about expat life, books, feminism and perpetual angst.
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