So I came out of the shower (at five-thirty this morning: apparently this hour is not after all a fiction in the mind of clockmakers) to find myself weltered in gore, as the cut on my nose opened up again. I may have latent late-developing royal blood; I seem to have forgotten how to clot.
Hey-ho. At present I am walking softly and carrying a big wad of tissues.
I will need to walk more, as the student union cafeteria isn’t open today or tomorrow. Apparently students don’t devote their weekends to rising early and working hard. Who knew?
Us, we have been working hard. Yesterday was all lectures all the time, the first time we’ve just been in the classroom all day. We started with black holes and ended with amateur astronomy, by way of scientific ethics and the Calculus Wars. Apparently I have not quite lost that urge to cry “Oh, sir, sir, I know this one!” as though my understanding were an apple to set upon the teacher’s desk.
Seriously, I am rather enjoying the way the course here tracks over and under and around what I already knew or thought I knew: demolishing some of it, building on some, stretching and remaking and underpinning as we go. And I am rather lamenting the education I didn’t get, forty years ago – or at least the structure, the mind-set I was forced into. I am of that generation that could do arts or sciences but never both: I gave up chemistry and biology at fourteen, maths and physics at sixteen. Even then, given the choice, I’d have done maths and languages for A level, but that option didn’t exist; and if the teachers had had the wit to give us even basic astronomy and something of the history of science, who knows? Maybe my latent scientist would have won out over my observed linguist. I could still have been a writer. And this week at least, I am regretting the path not taken, that part of me that atrophied at school.