Entre les murs

I went to see a movie yesterday. I would have probably not chosen it myself, so I am glad my movie companion suggested it - The Class. For me, it is strongly reminiscent of a favourite of my adolescence, and actually the novel and not the movie, Up the Down Staircase. Nothing has changed much since then, it seems. Same caricatures of teachers; same misunderstandings, same tensions, same hopelessness. Piercing, poignant. Trained by my filmmaking son to appreciate the art of visual storytelling, I notice every little detail. Yet the story itself takes over. Some things are pathetically familiar, such as the staff meeting where the most important issue is the coffee machine. But I cannot help thinking - and say it to my friend: "Thank goodness I am not a schoolteacher!"

Separation anxiety

It is always painful to submit a book manuscript. It's like a baby: you have had it inside you for a long, long time, and then it comes out of the printer and starts living a life of its own. (Yes, I do mean printer. Some people don't want their computers invaded by other people's manuscripts and request a hard copy; I cannot blaim them). I have been pregnant with this particular book for an exceptionally long time, for a number of reasons, and frankly, I am quite bored by it. But a stillborn book is worse, and then there are all kinds of academic pressure (bibliometric assessment is the fancy lable for it), and friends and colleagues have been wondering when a new book is coming and what it is about. It's part of academic games.

It is a solemn moment when you realize that a book is finished. Of course, a book, or even an article, can ever be finished and you can go on and on, but at some point it is imperative to stop. I arrived at this point today just before lunch. I deleted a good portion of a chapter to fit the word count; I added a missing reference; I changed the subheadings to bold and back. Then I could not put it off any longer. I assembled the separate chapters into a file. The book was finished.

I returned from lunch, printed out the text, squeezed it into an envelope and took a walk to the other building to put the envelope in the mail. No way back.

From previous experience I know that page proofs always come when you least expect them.

Isn't it obvious?

Today I met a colleague for lunch at the Great Hall. I have been eating there for a while now; it is a nice opportunity to talk to people. We sit at the high table, filling it up right to left as we come, and you never know who may happen to sit next or opposite to you. But occasionally you want to meet and talk to somebody in particular. This colleague and I met at the counter, took our trays and went on to the Hall. Although is was 12.30 we were the first. We sat to the left and started our meal and our conversation. In a couple of minutes another colleague appeared with his tray and, seeing us at the far end of the table, wondered: "Are you having a meeting?" We admitted that we were, whereupon he took a seat at the other end. More people came. One after another came over to us asking: "Are you having a meeting?" No, we are just two totally asocial types who like sitting far away from everybody else... Eventually the table was full, by which time we had finished our meal and left in a most asocial manner to have a cup of coffee in the Combination Room.

By the way...

...it is spring

Hidden treasures

Today's excursion took us to Thaxted. The reason we knew at all that such a place existed is Staffan's extensive newspaper reading. There was this book about this man who liked Thaxted and went there every Sunday from Cambridge. Staffan looked it up on the web. I am glad he did.

An average visitor to Sweden does not necessarily go to Härkeberga which for me is more remarkable than the Royal Castle. An average visitor to the UK will not go to Thaxted unless it is someone with particular interest in architecture or history or, like Staffan, all kinds of curious things and places. Average visitors aparently miss the most extraordinary sights, simply because these are a bit off the main road.

Thaxted church is stunning. It should be listed in all guidebooks as a major attraction. Or perhaps it shouldn't. It was wonderfully empty and peaceful. I have seen quite a few old churches in various parts of the world, so I am not easily impressed.

As we were standing there, faces up, totally overwhelmed, a woman approached resolutely. I thought she was going to tell us to leave the church for some reason. Instead, she said warmly: "Isn't it Maria?" She was from the Faculty. She sings in the church choir.

More disasters

I wondered the other day what we could expect next after snowstorms and floods. We certainly did not expect a fire. Staffan woke me about midnight to show a car burning right in front of the house. Since I was still half asleep I didn't see at once it was a car and thought that some students were celebrating their Bumps victory with a bonfire (we watched the Bumps yesterday with a mixture of awe and humour) . We had a brief discussion about the emergency number. By the time Staffan got through, a neighbour was banging at the door to say that she had already called the firemen. In fact, they were almost there. It was the first time in my life I saw firemen in action, at least so close. It wasn't a scene to enjoy.

Our car happened to be in the yard last night.

Going imperial

After long deliberations we have changed the speedometer in the car. The kays are still there, but a smaller size - just enough to evoke nostalgic feelings. The man at the workshop wondered whether we we staying in the UK for a long time. Well, why would we do it otherwise?

As we were driving home Staffan said: "But I am only driving thirty". Yes, thirty miles.