What's my course again?
Dec. 5th, 2005 07:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clo_againHuh. Second flatmate today to ask me for help on their coursework. I'm starting to think I'll know as much about economics and business management as about English by the time I leave. Right now I know enough to be happy that I'm not doing it because none of the people doing it seem to *like* it. Sure I bitch about English and damn, could our lecturer today have talked any *faster*, but I like what I'm doing. I was willing to ignore the crippling pain of cramp in my writing hand to write down everything she was saying about Gothic novels, because it's *interesting*. If people are bitching that much about their course, why are they doing it?
Or maybe I'm just bitter because if I asked anyone in my flat whether it was right to say Lacan based his theory of structuralist psychoanalysis on a model of the patriachal male figure controlling all language, I'd get a "What?" Actually I'd probably get a blank look, an actual "What?" would be more like a major breakthrough. But if I can do their courswork -- sorry that's a lie. I couldn't *actually* do their coursework, not fully, but I wouldn't expect too given that I don't do the course -- if I can do elements of their coursework, it can't be that hard that they can bitch about it. Though second flatmate should be excused from this, because English isn't her first language and she generally asks me only about grammar and how to say things correctly.
I'm so happy I do English. Even if I fail, at least I'll have had fun doing it.
Today also proved to me that I really do attract the type of person who will randomly talk to you while waiting in queues. I spent ten minutes waiting in the post office queue chatting to a foreign professor of economics, who was telling me about the English lecturer who's leaving next week and moving into a flat next door to Charlotte Church. And somehow about some English professor from Lancaster who's now at San Antonio, though I still have no idea how that topic came up, and Welsh -- mainly my not-speaking-of-it -- and how being a professor for years let him guess I was a second year.
It was one of those days, really. Bizarreness. But now most of my flat is out at the Winter Ball -- I decided not to go, given that if you don't want to get drunk there isn't really a *lot* to do other than sit around and watch other people be drunk, which I did for about five hours last year -- and I treated myself to a steak. All is currently good in my world. :)
edit: Although honestly about English, I could do without knowing that the most popular type of Victorian pornography story was father/daughter incest. Really, there are some things I'd rather not know at all than have to repress. Ngh.
Or maybe I'm just bitter because if I asked anyone in my flat whether it was right to say Lacan based his theory of structuralist psychoanalysis on a model of the patriachal male figure controlling all language, I'd get a "What?" Actually I'd probably get a blank look, an actual "What?" would be more like a major breakthrough. But if I can do their courswork -- sorry that's a lie. I couldn't *actually* do their coursework, not fully, but I wouldn't expect too given that I don't do the course -- if I can do elements of their coursework, it can't be that hard that they can bitch about it. Though second flatmate should be excused from this, because English isn't her first language and she generally asks me only about grammar and how to say things correctly.
I'm so happy I do English. Even if I fail, at least I'll have had fun doing it.
Today also proved to me that I really do attract the type of person who will randomly talk to you while waiting in queues. I spent ten minutes waiting in the post office queue chatting to a foreign professor of economics, who was telling me about the English lecturer who's leaving next week and moving into a flat next door to Charlotte Church. And somehow about some English professor from Lancaster who's now at San Antonio, though I still have no idea how that topic came up, and Welsh -- mainly my not-speaking-of-it -- and how being a professor for years let him guess I was a second year.
It was one of those days, really. Bizarreness. But now most of my flat is out at the Winter Ball -- I decided not to go, given that if you don't want to get drunk there isn't really a *lot* to do other than sit around and watch other people be drunk, which I did for about five hours last year -- and I treated myself to a steak. All is currently good in my world. :)
edit: Although honestly about English, I could do without knowing that the most popular type of Victorian pornography story was father/daughter incest. Really, there are some things I'd rather not know at all than have to repress. Ngh.
