Writing fever

I have been footering at a course of study for the last two-and-a-half years. It's one of those delightful ones where you spend all day working, and then go to a class after work, to be lectured by educationalists. It makes me quite cross, because nine-tenths of the evidence they base their edicts upon is pure bunkum. Anyway, I need to gain a qualification in education, so that I can in some way legitimise my teaching commitments. In these brave new clinical days, it's not enough to pitch up and teach a group of students any more, no, you've got to have a certificate that you've been exposed to the theory of it all. That sounds very anti-education, and it's not meant to do so. It's just hard to spend all day using a reproducible evidence base to guide clinical practice, and then trot off to class in the evenings and look at the results of focus groups, where you can interpret it any damned way you like.

Anyway. I'm supposed to be producing a dissertation this year, towards a Masters. The one of you who may be reading may remember that I once produced a nearly proper bit of thesis and got a day out in my best clothes on the  strength of it. So 20 000 words seems like a piece of banana cake. Except it's not, naturally, because I've left it until beyond the last possible moment, and am now trying to cut as many corners as I possibly can. I started yesterday, and have given myself the unambitious target of a thousand words a day. Day two is over, and I'm happy to say that I'm at 2064. And that's with bunking off until 4pm. I'm going rapidly bonkers, being shut in the house all day with a broken toe. So the sister took a day off work to spring me, took me out for a large brunch and a bit of a hobble round the shops. I bought a small birthday present for a young friend. I tried on a lot of jeans. I do not like shopping for jeans. But I did like going out with my sister.