image by Leonard Freed. Click here to buy. Click image for large version
At last. The much discussed, rumour-based, policy-driven, top-down shakedown-fuelled office move has taken place. The 'porters' shifted all our stuff this morning into our new space, where we're sharing with two other blokes, all blokes in one room! All we need is a urinal, that symbol of masculinity!
And as I'm sitting there, 5 jobs and 5 years down the line, it hit me: this was the very same room where I had my viva*, those millions of years ago, way back in the palaeolithic age. Do I need to get out of here? Is the room trying to tell me something, like a friend giving you a pat on the back when it's your round at the pub? I don't know. All I know is that it feels very strange, as if I am caught in some kind of game, an allegory where we are all puppets in someone else's hands. I need a pair of scissors...
*A viva (viva voce) is an oral examination for PhD candidates