I think there might be rats in the walls. Or mice. Possibly cockroaches, although that seems far less likely, as the climate here isn’t very conducive to such insects. Then again, it might be the ghost, the Merry Field ghost that wanders about our halls and sometimes opens windows and doors that we haven’t touched. When I knock on certain doors in our flat, the doorknobs will rattle and there will be a little rustle from inside. When I call out, I’ll find out that the room’s occupant is out or in the shower, but definitely not in the room. So I back away slowly, respectful, giving the ghost its due. It doesn’t hurt me to be careful and I don’t lose anything by being occasionally superstitious.
Eight week begins tomorrow. The last week of Michaelmas Term, 2012. There is something alarming, terrifying, about seeing how fast these weeks have gone by. Each day has been long, sometimes tortuously so. Today, for instance, has been spent with a back-ache, fury and resentment and resignation moving through my gut, and a constant need to sleep rather than study; all of which have been, of course, pushed back so that I could read Henry Miller’s book, “Tropic of Cancer.” Which, by the way, is the first book I’ve read in a very long time that I actively dislike.
Listening to Duke Ellington, I try to soothe my back and chest aches with deep breaths and reminders that soon enough I’ll be going to bed. I have vowed to have an early night. One a week is allowed, is it not? I think so.