Thursday, September 29, 2005

walking wounded
TA told me this morning that I've become cold, mercenary and nasty. Where has nice, compassionate Lisa gone, he asked in a voice that sounded lost. Meanwhile, our home life makes the thought of actually going to hell (in a handbasket, natch) rather appealling. After last week's round of intense and scary meetings, work has become dead calm, worryingly so, and I have begun the boring process of applying for jobs again. The solicitors are dragging their feet and our escape route seems to be overgrown with thorns. I keep having existential crises - who am I, what am I doing here, what would happen if I just cleared the bank account and disappeared? - and suddenly I think I understand why people just up sticks and vanish leaving everything and everyone behind to set up home on the streets of a city far away and lose their shoes and forget their lives in a soup of Special Brew and meths. I'm tired and bewildered as well as, apparently, cold, mercenary and nasty.

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