One of my comrades wagged work today, and in the course of filling in for her in classrooms new, I had an alarming encounter with a mirrored wall. The Academie de La Trobiata names its edifices after disciplines (I, for instance, work in the Humanities 2 Building, where the humanities are a whole integer more humane than in the Humanities 1 Building). This mirrored wall was in a room on the bottom floor of the Social Sciences Building, and I was sore taxed to describe the role of a mirrored wall in teaching a young scholar how to graph her relative Gramscosity.
Meanwhile, there I was trying to impart oysters of wisdom to a group of students who wanted to know where I'd hidden their real teacher, and every time I adjusted my knickers or scratched an armpit (my own, please note), a mirror me up the back of the room stared self-consciously back.
Here's where my moment of glory happens. I said - oh my! this was funny! - I said, "So, how about we try a reflective exercise?"
At least I knew that I was hilarious. Sir Edmund Hilarious.* The mirrored wall redeemed itself in an instant.
I'm præternaturally sensitive to interior decor these days, what with my impending baronetcy and all, so I did think quite seriously about this mirrored wall business. Concerned parties will be pleased to know that between mirrors and the wallpaper of my heart, the wallpaper of my heart is still winning.
Here, by the by, is a portrait of the wallpaper of my heart.
It's designed by Florence Broadhurst, whose artistic progeny resides here. It costs a ka-squillion dollars, but it's worth it just to be able to ask unsuspecting young acquaintances whether they'd like to pop up and take a gander at my Florence Broadhurst.
* In the four hours since typing the words "Sir Edmund Hilarious", I've thought better of them, several times. They're staying, though, as a public homage to those who hear me say things like this on a regular basis and continue to feed me. You know who you are.