What professors do apart from teaching

At a social event, a student made a comment on my recent circulation of conference information: “I have now finally realised how much more professors do than just teach”. This was a generous acknowledgement, as people, especially outside academia, tend to believe that professors are those lucky, lazy people who pop into classrooms every now and then, deliver a lecture and then go out for a beer. And have long summer holidays. Even people within academia, who know that instructors also have to prepare for their lectures, supervise written coursework, grade exams and papers, and console students who fail the course; even these people can hardly imagine how much work is done in between these obvious activities. In addition to my previous descriptions of a typical day or week, here is what I do, whether it is a part of my job description or not.

As the head of an academic group (or research team leader), I regularly meet up with my team members for informal conversations. These can happen over lunch or coffee, which does not mean that they are relaxed and necessarily pleasurable. Some of them take place in my office, with a box of tissues within reach. I also need to do formal staff reviews at regular intervals. I hold three business meetings and an awayday every year, preparing agendas and checking minutes. I represent my group's interest in various committees and I report back from these committees. For this, I need to write papers, often running them through colleagues for comments and approval. I have limited financial responsibilities within the group. I have 0.2 secretarial support, which means that I can ask my secretary to book meeting rooms and catering, keep accounts, produce flyers and posters, collect information for the monthly newsletter, circulate papers and take minutes. Yet it is still me who needs to tell them what to do. I take care of visiting scholars and make sure they feel welcome. Some are more demanding than others. Sometimes I have to remind them gently that I am not their supervisor. I also assess all applications from prospective visitors before I reject them, pass them on to a colleague or explain in message after message what I need from them. There is a secretary who takes care of visitors, but I need to compile files for her to process.

The past few years I have been working hard on the national university assessment (known by its most recent euphemism REF, Research Excellence Framework). The amount of time and effort put into this pointless game is unimaginable. It could have been spent on research. Not to menion all trees cut down to produce the mountains of paper.

As a member of several committees, one of which I chair, I attend meetings, read documentation, prepare arguments, take actions, exchange emails and occasionally talk to colleagues face to face. During term time, there is at least one scheduled meeting every week and innumerable urgent meetings of all kinds and shapes. I am also on College Council and several College committees, which sometimes clash with Faculty committees, and I need to decide which to prioritise and to remember which hat I am wearing. For some reason, I have not been asked to be on any University committee. Not that I am eager to, but when I was new in Cambridge, a female professorial colleague warned me: “You will be in huge demand as a female professor”. (Only 6% of Cambridge professors are women). Apparently something is wrong with me, but I let sleeping dogs lie.

As a member of the children's literature teaching team, I attend planning meetings and evaluation meetings, write course descriptions for the webpage and maintain the education platform. As an internal masters examiner, I attend two exam board meeting per year – these are the occasions when you need to produce your own death certificate to be excused. There are also Masters Management Group meetings and Quality Assessment meetings, to which I this year managed to send a younger colleague, bless her; and Doctoral Management Group for which I have put myself forward because I feel it is important. This term I am replacing a colleague as a course co-ordinator, which implies checking that all students have actually arrived, allocating supervisors, re-allocating supervisors, disentangling the tangled allocations, seeing students with additional questions, making sure that the register is in place, and, the other day, fetching the key to open the lecture room. Later on I will have to allocate assessors. There is an array of admin support for all these activities, and I need to keep track of who is doing what. Sometimes I have to apologise in my email: “This may not be your responsibility, in which case...”

I am Graduate Admissions Co-ordinator in my academic group, which is such an ungrateful job that this year I couldn't find anyone to do it. Which means that I first do the GAC (wonderful word, isn't it) job, and then sign it off as Chair. We receive about a hundred masters applications and fifty PhD applications, and I must read them all, forms, recommendation letters and project descriptions, deciding whom to pass them on to. Then I have to rank candidates who also apply for funding. There is a jungle of funding out there, and all procedures are different. It seems that the University has recently realised it and will eventually make it more comprehensible.

As a director of the Children's Literature Centre, I plan activities, allocate bits of our tiny budget to them, invite guest speakers, approve student-run events, complile mailing lists and decide what drinks should be served at Open Days. I arrange the Jacqueline Wilson Award ceremony which includes the nice moment of notifying the winner to make sure they can attend, booking room and refreshment, printing out the diploma, issuing a cheque and taking care of the sponsor. I know I should be doing more about the Centre, but I simply cannot. This is, by the way, not included in my job description and therefore regarded as hobby.

Every now and then I take Professional Development courses, preferably online. Most of these are very helpful. I also attend in-house workshops if relevant.

I am sure I have forgotten half of it (because I really try to get it off my mind as soon as possible). And I haven't even mentioned “service to the profession” which I do more or less every day. 

No wonder I can only do my own research when I am on study leave. 

Nothing happened...

“You haven't blogged for four weeks”, Staffan points out. He is right. I haven't. When I don't blog for a long time, it can be for two reasons. 1) nothing has happened. This doesn't happen often. 2) far too much has happened. This happens all the time. When it happens I don't know where to start and let still more time pass and more things happen.

With reference to my account of imminent events, the viva went well, but I was so worn out when I came back that I cancelled all travel until Christmas, except Stockholm where I had too many important commitments. The Stockholm trip went fine. Staffan took me to Stansted. I was picked up at Skavsta by my oldest son who “happened” to be in the vicinity (which he has now admitted implies that someone dear to his heart lives close by). He took me to the place where I was staying, which is the International Writers' Guesthouse, in the very centre of the city. It is a small, but comfortable flat with three rooms and shared bathroom and living room-cum kitchen. During the week I stayed there, I saw a glimpse of my neighbours twice.

In the morning, I went down to a cafe for breakfast. It felt weird. The guesthouse didn't have wi-fi, only a USB cable, while I had brought my paddy. But every cafe with self-respect has wi-fi these days. Some of them have “coffee” for password. Then I bought some stuff for future breakfasts and topped up my travelcard. I had a long, pleasurable lunch with a friend, ending in incredible luck in a thrift shop where I found some remarkable dollhouse miniatures and spent more money I would be prepared to spend “at home”. But I wasn't at home, I was travelling, and then you are allowed to spend more. In the evening I went to admire how the youngest and his girlfriend had re-recorated their flat and to taste her famous and fabulous onion soup. The next day was also full of children and grandchildren, and that night I got horrendous neck pain. I often get stiff neck and know how to deal with it, but this was unbearable, and eventually I gave up and went to Emergency. It transpired that I wasn't a resident. “It will be expensive”, said the receptionist. “How expensive?” I asked. She named the fee. “Do I have a choice?” I said. So much for having paid taxes in my own country for twenty-five years. I got painkillers, and my clever daughter made me buy a wheat pillow, which is a bag of wheat that you heat up in a micro and put on your neck. I have now become addicted to it. I sat with it on my neck throughout the conference.

It was a very strange feeling because normally you go away to a conference, and although technically I was away, I also was kind of at home, but not really, since I didn't stay at home, but in a hotel. In the middle of the conference I escaped to attend a family crayfish party which was marvelous and far too noisy. It was also weird to travel back to Cambridge with the students (back home) and with my friend Kin (going away together) who was to stay with me for a couple of days. On top of it, Staffan was going to Stockholm the day after, but I won't go into more detail.

Kin and I had fun together when I wasn't busy with examination boards and crisis team meetings. We did all the necessary sights in Cambridge and around, went to Formal Hall (where I was obliged to say grace, as I happened to be the most senior at table) and even watched a movie. Then the pre-term business hit me: meetings, business lunches, early supervisions, arriving visiting scholars, a row of formal dinners with details I wish I could write about, but I shouldn't. And the next week it finally starts for real: PhD induction on Tuesday, masters induction on Wednesday, academic assessment meetings and meetings about the new Head of Faculty, more supervisions (I have four new PhD students), more formal dinners, various committee meetings, College Council, research seminars – all this in addition to teaching which I, according to my job description, am supposed to do “every now and then”.

Home

The best definition of home: “Home is where your device automatically picks up internet”.

The other day, after a strenuous train journey I posted on Facebook: “So good to be home”. Yesterday, a student greeted me: “I thought you had gone home... to Sweden”.

After five years, people keep asking me whether I had been home over summer. Yes, I say, I stayed at home all summer, I have such a beautiful garden, and the weather in Cambridge has been perfect.

People ask me whether I plan to move home when I retire. I don't think they mean old people's home.

I am going to Sweden next week, but I am not going home. I am going away. My device will not pick up internet automatically, I'll have to get a password. People assume that we have kept a place to return to, but why would we? We don't even know whether we will return. Does this reaction imply that most people don't burn their bridges? That most people can point to a place on a map, real or imaginary, and say with confidence: this is my home. Or rather: this is where I come from, which is not the same. I envy them. I cannot even go a generation back to say: this is where I come from.

I define home egocentrically, in an embodied present tense.

Hard facts

Today I have been employed by the University of Cambridge for five years.

My email software claims that I have since then sent 5,704 emails. That's less than three messages a day. And I always complain that I get at least a hundred emails every day and spend two hours replying to them.

I have taught 200 undergraduates and 100 masters. I have supervised 30 masters. Some of them progressed to doctoral studies. I have supervised seven PhD students two of whom have successfully completed and three more are almost there.

Because of our marking system I have marked twice as many assignments as I have supervised. (Occasionally I had to mark essays and theses on school leadership in Uganda, innovative mathematical education or second-language teaching in Indonesia).

I have sat on a score of various committees and chaired two. I have attended hundreds of meetings (although if I am as wrong in my perception as with emails, maybe there weren't really that many).

I have spent a lot of money on a successful research project and failed with a number of external bids. Many colleagues have left and many new colleagues have arrived. Half of the people in my academic group have been promoted. I have worked under two Heads of Faculty.

I have visited the University library twice. (Everything I need is available in the Faculty Library). 

I have been to two hundred formal dinners. (I haven't been to all the 31 colleges).

I have had two research leaves.

My university card expires this month. I am no longer a newcomer.

What professors do off term

Once again I find inspiration in Phil Nel's blog to reflect on what I have been doing off-term. This, and “research period” are the official labels for the time between terms. Vacation is an unknown concept in this part of the world. Non-academic employees have annual leave. Academic staff have research periods.

The definition is still vague. For instance, there is “full-term” (eight weeks three times a year) as opposed to... I am not sure what, some nebulous weeks before and after full term reserved for meetings, last minute-supervisions and grading. In Easter term, April to June, there are no taught classes. The undergraduate students revise for exams, the graduates write their theses. The instructors supervise.

I cannot quite say when my nebulous term finished and research period started. I had six masters students this past year, and although we had told them that we wouldn't read their drafts after the first of July, of course we did. I also read some drafts by other colleagues' students, just because I am so noble. As soon as the masters had submitted their theses, I received twice as many to grade. This is because we double-grade all student assignments. A masters thesis is 20,000 words. It takes me at least a day to read each and provide written feedback.Simple arithmetic.

My PhD students were also eager to submit something before they went on vacation. One student had her viva (final oral exam) in the beginning of July. Another had an upgrade (from probationary to full PhD status) in the end of July. A student who is not my supervisee was submiting her thesis and asked me to read it – because I am so noble.

We are now at the end of July. I didn't go to the Winnipeg conference that Phil went to, and I didn't go to IRSCL conference in Maastricht either. I didn't go to any conferences this summer. Instead I used my precious research time to complete most of the imminent commitments. I submitted a book manuscript in the end of May, and it is now under review, so I don't have to think about it for a while. I wrote three commissioned book chapters, revised two book chapters, wrote a conference paper and two abstracts, one for a conference, another for an edited volume. I administered blind reviews for a special issue of a journal that I am guest-editing. As usual, when you least expect it, page proofs arrived for several articles. I reviewed a promotion case (reading all submitted publications) which took me about a week. I examined a PhD (viva still to come), which took another week. I read and gave feedback on some book proposals for a publisher where I am on an editorial board. I wrote a huge number of recommendation letters. I read papers for a PhD workshop in September. I wrote my research group “narrative” for the national university assessment (known to UK academics as REF, spelled out Research Excellence Framework). I gave a talk at a summer school for gifted 16-year-olds from underprivileged social groups who are encouraged to study at Cambridge. I attended a few off-term meetings. I hosted an awayday for my research group. I entertained visiting scholars.

Unlike Phil, I have full salary all year round. Technically, everything I do in my research period is part of my job. I will be paid a token fee for the PhD examination and the promotion report. I am exempt from the coming conference fee because I co-ordinate the workshop, but I am paying for my travel and accomodation. Luckily, I have generious travel allowance.

We are now at the end of August. Meanwhile, I went to Norfolk for a couple of days, and we had guests who very efficiently prevented me from working – thank you! I went for walks and did a lot of gardening on sunny days and miniature-making on rainy days. End of August, when most academic friends are starting work, I can finally breathe out and start planning my vacation... sorry, my research period. Term doesn't start for another five weeks. Wait a minute: I am going to the PhD examination at the end of the week. I am going to Sweden in less than two weeks. (Most of it is work, but I will have three free days to see friends and family). The day after I get back, I have Examination Board, one of those occasions in Cambridge when you need to provide your own death certificate to be excused. And then those nebulous weeks before full term: meetings, business lunches, loads of urgent emails. And then full term, and I am co-ordinating the masters course this term, and I expect at least two new PhD students, and I expect at least three upgrades, and at least three of my current PhD students will be submitting first full drafts, and I have agreed to do far more teaching than I am required.

I'd better enjoy those last few hours before life catches up with me.

Books are dangerous!

 You think books are harmless? You think book cannot kill? Let me tell you something.

Last week, as I was at home indulging myself with a PhD examination on a bright, sunny morning, I got an email from Reception at work. My bookshelf had come off the wall. My first reaction was, “Hell, I must interrupt my pleasurable pastime and go to the office”. My second reaction was, “What a nuisance, I have just sorted all the books, and it will take me ages to put them back”. Third reaction, “All my Alice and Moomin mugs will be broken”.

I didn't go to the office that day because it made no sense: what could I do other than watch the ruins? I suppressed all thoughts of it, but yesterday I felt that I had to go, out of propriety. (Mind, I could have been away on holiday or conference).

My first reaction as I opened the door was, “It doesn't look all that bad”. The holes had been painted over, the books were in neat piles all over the room, the Alice and Moomin and Peter Rabbit mugs had miraculously survived – a few other mugs of less affectionate value were broken, as well as some picture frames.

The porters saw me coming and gave me a full account of what it looked like when they discovered it. “Did you have your books in any particular order?” asked one. “Luckily no one was there when it happened, another said. It would have killed them”.

Fifteen minutes later it hit me.

This bookshelf with its sharp corners and its tons of books could have killed me. Or a student. Or a cleaner.

It doesn't help to know they have filed it as a “serious incident”, that an inspection stated that wrong fittings had been used, and that they will give me a new and safer bookshelf. It's like having been in a minor car accident, and cannot keep imagining what could have happened a second before or after and turned it into a major accident. A fatal accident. I may not have been here to tell the story. 

Image: Colin Thompson

Replay: five years ago

Just going back five years in this blog. Not much to add. Five very happy years, with all the ups and downs.