Look, we have come through.
Today (yesterday) was the day of the external validation for the new degree programme that starts next September and we managed to get both external examiners there, and one of the three students (technically we needed four but hey, it's the summer vacation), and three of the four tean members and an acting HoD. We were grilled for three hours, and the good news is that we can run the new degree from next year.
(The bad news is running the new degree)
Some minor corrections, some conditions, some recommendations.
Naturally I've been to the pub, which is probably a bad move as I have a meeting all day tomorrow and have to get to East Station for 9.15 to be picked up.
Last night (night before last) Pushkin showed up as I got home from checking the documentation (in the pub)
and decided to help me in the gathering of a few more documents I figured I'd need. He did a lot of keyboard sitting, figured how to turn on the speech synthesiser, and eventually dislodged enough paperwork to find a space to sleep on. I'd bought myself a packet of pork scratchings from B as a treat - well, actually, he gave them to me - and everytime I tried to eat one, he (Pushkin, not B) took a sudden interest.
Eventually Pushkin joined me in bed, and lay at my feet. After a few hours he decided sleeping around my head was a better deal, and needed to rest a paw on my eyelids. The claws were a bit worrying. By six he had won control of the pillows.
I snuck in tonight without him joining me - I need to get some sleep after all.
And tomorrow (today) I'll get to be the returning hero. And will try to sit silently through an away day.
Now all I have to do is write/edit 60,000 words on
Pratchett, read five novels, fudge a course outline that's not been done, write a PowerPoint for Monday, write one lecture and revise five lectures for the week after next, write a new lecture, put a booklet together on the dissertation course, work out whether a mate is visiting Saturday, Sunday or Monday... Simple.
Boing, said Zebedee.
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Suddenly you realise it's no longer there, that presence at your ankles, that welcome on your doormat, that shedded hair on the car roof. No cries in the night. Pushkin is vanished.
a sign in the corner shop window; he has left no forwarding address. I hope he's adopted someone, let them take him to a better place, where people get the hints that he wants you to buy the cat food he's sitting next to. It's like kids bothering you to get them cigarettes even though they are underage.
