It’s a fine morning. The fields are delicately applied with frost and there is a pleasant crunching beneath my window as the students march in from their camp sites and bivouacs.
A tentative start today. The disappearance of Mansfield Shark, reader in various feminisms and Tiers Mondismes, has orphaned a large stack of examination papers oddly peripheral to my vast reading.
My wayward energies this morning have resulted in a single, pithy critique, though I have paced for hours in the halls of my impressive study. In a burst of helpfulness I have written “And very few people write to Lieutenant Colonel Bruchmueller” on the half-leaf of a Morocco-bound dissertation, which appears to explore certain points of interest in the work of a Latin American.
That’s it dear reader, will keep you posted...