It's a sunny day up in Wellington, and I'm ruminating about things. Not, actually ruminating. Though I would if I could. How handy would that be? "Wouuuuhhp think I have a little snack down here somewhere... Sandwich, take two!" Even rabbits have it sorted; they can re-eat their own poo (I learned this from reading Watership Down. Also that rabbits are vicious little bastards and are all named after plants; you better watch out if you're trapped down a warren with Viper's Bugloss, just saying.) All we humans get is two-minute noodles and cup-a-soup (do not try tell me these are not previously digested food products).
Anyhow! Birds are squawking in rubbish bins; small children have had large floppy hats forced down around their tiny, handle-like ears; and the wind is whistling through the exposed downpipies and ex-soviet concrete corrugations of Wellington Hospital in a chirpy and exceptionally brisk manner. ("Chirpy and "brisk"; I imagine a well-kempt grandma with a perfectly draped shawl stopping off at a farmers' market in east Auckland for two apples and a small loaf of artisan bread, before stepping elegantly back into her mini and fwooshing back along the country roads to tea, tai chi and maybe a little Wimbledon on tv) and I am thinking about what I am doing (not much) and why (not sure) and how (not very effectively) and really, what is the point of being here, at the library, ON A HOLIDAY! It outrages me. Abit.
I have successfully read through one journal paper, and even made relevant and thoughtful (complete illegibility being a well-known mark of scientific acumen) comments in red pen. It is now third coffee time (being 11am. This is actually not very bad at all. People (who drink coffee. A requirement for being one) are either extreme and unabashed coffee drinkers, maintaining a solid 80bpm and twitchy hands from 8am til the bar closes; or trying to cut down (irritable and twitchy until 10am, when they cave under the influence, then asleep in the brain after 3pm and useful only for napping, heterosexual sex, and golf)). In terms of coffee, I am a moderate extremist. My extremities are extremely moderated. No. My extremes are. My moderation is extreme. I'm extremely moderate. Fuckit. Off to get coffee.
(It was shit coffee. Again. Over the course of this week I will compose a vitriolic poem dedicated to purchasing coffee from the med school cafe. It will be entitled "Fine, you bastards, take my three dollars, Fuel is three minutes walk away along the corridor watched over by the lady in charge of requisitioning medical supplies and my utter fear of her gaze combined with my (non-denominational) hatred of spending my (subjectively) hard-earned money will cause me to, once again, patronise your cafe". I patronise often.)
This brain narcolepsy plaguing me today has been possibly induced by the imminent prospect of having to one day find a job in public health (every year of my life seems to better qualify me to be a government employee), but more probably by the sideways rain coming past the window. Sideways! The only reason it's hitting the ground is that the wind forces it into buildings so hard it bounces back and creates an interference pattern. Seriously. There is a huge flow of it to the north, then a smaller flow coming south again after bouncing off the hospital. It's quite impressive. I will make a diagram.
Figure one: the buildings in Wellington often interfered with the progress of the horizontal humidity.
So, why am I here? Last week, I was a builder. Well, a labourer. On a building site. I had earmuffs, a tiny hammer and some gloves (after my mum came to the building site and abused the boss for not meeting health and safety standards when she saw I wasn't wearing any. He took me aside and said "Jesus Christ Ruby, I would ban her from the site, but she brings us hot cross buns. So wear some f***ing gloves!"). I carried things up and down hills, swept things, made coffee, and opened the beers on friday afternoon. And it was lovely. But not something I think I could do for the rest of my life (mostly because I am only 15cm taller than a piece of gib-board). Which is why I will sit here for the rest of my holiday, reading long, boring, and probably irrelevant papers written thirty years ago by people with impossible-to-pronounce names, and staring out the window at the sideways rain and nicer cafes, dreaming little dreams about pushing paper and having a really low-carbon-emissions bike.
And just to finish off, this Sunday (afternoon, of course), I'll be heading down to the Hutt river, if anyone cares to join? I'll be the one sitting with arms wide open.
Cheerio.*
Ruby.
*required by law to be at least 49% animal flesh and 1% red food colouring. Most authentically served with tomato sauce. Delicious boiled or deep-fried. For maximum diabetes, enjoy with a cup of orange fanta and a party hat today.
Anyhow! Birds are squawking in rubbish bins; small children have had large floppy hats forced down around their tiny, handle-like ears; and the wind is whistling through the exposed downpipies and ex-soviet concrete corrugations of Wellington Hospital in a chirpy and exceptionally brisk manner. ("Chirpy and "brisk"; I imagine a well-kempt grandma with a perfectly draped shawl stopping off at a farmers' market in east Auckland for two apples and a small loaf of artisan bread, before stepping elegantly back into her mini and fwooshing back along the country roads to tea, tai chi and maybe a little Wimbledon on tv) and I am thinking about what I am doing (not much) and why (not sure) and how (not very effectively) and really, what is the point of being here, at the library, ON A HOLIDAY! It outrages me. Abit.
I have successfully read through one journal paper, and even made relevant and thoughtful (complete illegibility being a well-known mark of scientific acumen) comments in red pen. It is now third coffee time (being 11am. This is actually not very bad at all. People (who drink coffee. A requirement for being one) are either extreme and unabashed coffee drinkers, maintaining a solid 80bpm and twitchy hands from 8am til the bar closes; or trying to cut down (irritable and twitchy until 10am, when they cave under the influence, then asleep in the brain after 3pm and useful only for napping, heterosexual sex, and golf)). In terms of coffee, I am a moderate extremist. My extremities are extremely moderated. No. My extremes are. My moderation is extreme. I'm extremely moderate. Fuckit. Off to get coffee.
(It was shit coffee. Again. Over the course of this week I will compose a vitriolic poem dedicated to purchasing coffee from the med school cafe. It will be entitled "Fine, you bastards, take my three dollars, Fuel is three minutes walk away along the corridor watched over by the lady in charge of requisitioning medical supplies and my utter fear of her gaze combined with my (non-denominational) hatred of spending my (subjectively) hard-earned money will cause me to, once again, patronise your cafe". I patronise often.)
This brain narcolepsy plaguing me today has been possibly induced by the imminent prospect of having to one day find a job in public health (every year of my life seems to better qualify me to be a government employee), but more probably by the sideways rain coming past the window. Sideways! The only reason it's hitting the ground is that the wind forces it into buildings so hard it bounces back and creates an interference pattern. Seriously. There is a huge flow of it to the north, then a smaller flow coming south again after bouncing off the hospital. It's quite impressive. I will make a diagram.
Figure one: the buildings in Wellington often interfered with the progress of the horizontal humidity.
So, why am I here? Last week, I was a builder. Well, a labourer. On a building site. I had earmuffs, a tiny hammer and some gloves (after my mum came to the building site and abused the boss for not meeting health and safety standards when she saw I wasn't wearing any. He took me aside and said "Jesus Christ Ruby, I would ban her from the site, but she brings us hot cross buns. So wear some f***ing gloves!"). I carried things up and down hills, swept things, made coffee, and opened the beers on friday afternoon. And it was lovely. But not something I think I could do for the rest of my life (mostly because I am only 15cm taller than a piece of gib-board). Which is why I will sit here for the rest of my holiday, reading long, boring, and probably irrelevant papers written thirty years ago by people with impossible-to-pronounce names, and staring out the window at the sideways rain and nicer cafes, dreaming little dreams about pushing paper and having a really low-carbon-emissions bike.
Figure two: twitter's foray into online dating was brief (if exciting).
And just to finish off, this Sunday (afternoon, of course), I'll be heading down to the Hutt river, if anyone cares to join? I'll be the one sitting with arms wide open.
Cheerio.*
Ruby.
*required by law to be at least 49% animal flesh and 1% red food colouring. Most authentically served with tomato sauce. Delicious boiled or deep-fried. For maximum diabetes, enjoy with a cup of orange fanta and a party hat today.
