Yesterday afternoon was Official Surmount An Ever Increasing Pile of Work Day. In an age of short attention spans and microwaveable tandoori tofu, official days cannot be expected to last a whole twenty-four hours. This is why my Day devoted to Pile-of-Work Surmountation (as opposed to Sermon-on-the-Mount-ation) consisted only of the hours between 3 pm and 8 pm. Minus, that is, the time spent gazing out the window, which I considered a necessary Occupational Health and Safety measure to avoid optical deterioration.
Marking my Victorian literature exam papers in Victoria proved somewhat less exhilarating than I had hoped. Indeed, so unexhilarating, that I almost cheered when a pair of navy blue gentleman's knickers sailed down from the balcony above and landed in my new potted gardenia (such are the joys of strata living). I decided that decorum required their owner to fish them out for himself. Who knows, knocking on the door of apartment number 7 with a pair of pantaloons in paw might breach some chapter of Thornburian etiquette. We New South Welshpersons are utterly unsqueamish about undergarmentry, but I daily hear tales of Melburnean gentility, and it is still too early, methinks, to rock that particular boat (i.e., the Good Ship Frank Discussion of Pants). I pulled down my blind, to allow the underpant salvager a private retrieval, and when I raised it again, an hour later, my potted gardenia was unfestooned.
Lesser highlights of Official Surmount An Ever Increasing Pile of Work Day include reading the following: "rediculouse", as in "a rediculouse waste of time" (one suspects the author of anti-communist sentiments); "I would like to point out that the wicked process of industrialisation was the main reason women turned into prostitution" (should this scholar get a job in public policy, I take no responsibility for resultant legislation); "sigma", as in "Ladislaw faced social sigma because of his parentage" (better than social omicron, that's for sure); and in parentheses after the word "Plummle", used to describe the Dickens character more orthodoxly known as "Drummle", the words, "Sorry if this is the wrong name, my mind is B-L-A-N-K" (a confession I found so charming that I was at risk of throwing in Official Surmount An Ever Increasing Pile of Work Day altogether).
But now that particular sub-hillock of my mountain of tasks is defeated, and I say, with a tear in my eye, and a nostalgia in my left temple, "Farewell, oh Sydney Varsity! I knew thee well!" To work.