“Prior to sudden death it’s
believed that your whole life briefly flashes before your eyes. Prior to death
by cancer it is somewhat similar, except that you have time to write some of it down.”
Last night I dined in
the Great Hall at Balliol College, Oxford. For a godless Cornish git like me
who attended a jumped-up Polytechnic in the North East of England, it all seems
reassuringly just like the Harry Potter films promised it would be. Long wooden tables with benches, great
vaulted ceilings high above, stained glass, dark wainscoting and of course the
constant veneer of oil portraits all around the hall. I arrived before dinner
in plenty of time to peruse the great canvases and slowly made my way around
pausing briefly in front of each work. Heath, MacMillan, Jenkins. Politicians,
oh well. I had hoped for a Dawkins or a Hitchens. Too soon perhaps?
I would have made a
great academic me; I have my own tweed jacket and everything. I was once
attending a science lecture at the RI after work (when I worked in London), and
the young lady next to me, who I had never met before, asked “Excuse me, are
you a Geography teacher?” I’m not. I normally confess my profession to be
“freelance IT Consultant” as that portrays just enough dullness and familiarity
to stunt any further questioning on the matter. A more accurate description for
those who insist on digging a little deeper would involve an awfully monotonous
discussion on the definition of software testing strategies and the management
of test engineers to allow organisations some degree of confidence when
deploying their shiny new IT system. There’s nothing the technology journalists
like more than a large failed IT project lying on its back with its uncoupled
interfaces flailing in the air, especially big titillating public sector ones
like the ones I seem to end up managing.
At present though I’m
working on a major new computer system within the IT services department at The
University of Oxford. It suits me well. It also affords me the opportunity to
strut around Oxford in my Harris Tweed, waiving my university card at the porters
to gain access to their college grounds. I often spend my lunch breaks in the
shadows of a dreamy spire or two eating my overpriced artisan sandwich kindly
dispensed by a local Hipster. There’s no better place to silently contemplate
what a marvellous professor I would have made, whilst fishing out extremely well-groomed
beard hairs from my lunch.
There’s a garage on the A34, south of
Oxford that I often stop off at on my home for fuel. I normally exchange a bit
of light friendly banter with the jolly chap who works there whilst stocking up
on extra strong mints and getting the VAT receipts that my accountant fixates about.
On one of our early encounters he clearly clocked the shabby tweed, my general
dishevelled demeanour and, crucially, my Oxford University lanyard dangling
around my frayed twill check collar. He enquired as to what I lectured in.
Missing the immediate opportunity to pass myself off as a sage old professor I
simply confessed to working for the Universitiy's IT Services department. My
appearance however clearly trumped my frank confession as on my subsequent
visit to top up on diesel he commented again on the professorship he had now
clearly assigned to me; I didn’t correct him this time. My failure to set him
straight on that occasion of course made it harder to correct him on future
occasions, and to be honest; I was rather starting to enjoy the harmless
role-play. Without blatantly lying, I concocted plausible and (fairly) honest
answers to his various questions on academic life, exams and students with just
enough ambiguity so as not to break the spell. In the impending event of more
specific questions on my particular area of expertise I pondered what I should
be a professor of. Perhaps Evolutionary Biology, as I have read a fair few
popular science books on the subject, or perhaps Particle Physics. I’ve read a
little bit about that too, and I’m pretty sure I could blag it when he asks.
Yes, bugger it, I’m going with Particle Physics. I shall be on the cusp of a
breakthrough of the theory of everything that has so far eluded Stephen
Hawking. I shall finally combine Einstein’s general relativity with Max Planck’s
quantum theory. I shall have a new and devilishly cunning idea as to how
gravity can be successfully implemented into the standard model along with the
weak and strong nuclear forces and the electromagnetic force. I shall read up
some more on it, well at least enough to understand what that last sentence
means, or indeed if it makes any sense at all. I shall be ready for him. I
shall be a Physics God, but without the grinning shiny face and Manchurian
accent. I shall amaze him with my profound insights into the wonders of the
universe. I’m ready for his next question. Alas, he never asked again.
So I may not be a
respected old academic at the University of Oxford, or even it seems, a
terribly convincing impersonator of one. Nonetheless, as a member of university
staff, even as a freelancer, I get to go to the annual department Christmas
dinner at one of the colleges, and this year we’ve bagged Balliol.
Dinner was fine by the
way. So long as there’s a piece of dead cow and a cheese board somewhere on the
menu I’m a happy bunny. However, after last night’s culinary indulgence I’m still
feeling completely bloody knackered. In fact, I’ve been feeling absolutely bolloxed
all year. It’s clearly the commute. As much as I love Oxford and my academic
fantasies, the daily drive from my small hamlet on Salisbury Plain to Oxford is
a complete and utter pain in arse. I tried getting the train instead for a few
weeks, but the service was just as unreliable as the A34. Being stranded at Pewsey
station staring in vain at the cancellation board turned out to be even more
tedious than staring at the back of a queue of stationary lorries on the A34
northbound.
So as much as I love
Oxford, the answer is clearly to find another job with a slightly shorter
commute. My role at the University is coming to an end soon anyway. Most of the
system I have been working on over the last 3 years is now up and running.
There’s just a few loose ends to tidy up before the programme winds up. Three
years also seems like an entirely appropriate amount of time to spend at
Oxford. I’d therefore started to look for my next role a few months back. Maybe
I should go back to a permanent position this time? Get my teeth into a really
meaty programme of work, one that’s not so bloody far away at least.
Furthermore, who can predict what the future may hold, I’ve really enjoyed
freelancing but it could well be good time to go back to the safety and
security of a permanent role, with sick pay and health insurance – you never
know.
I’d been to
interviews, second interviews, even a third interview for one role and I’ve
completed assessments and tests for three different roles and much to my
pleasant surprise I had actually received offers for all three roles over the
last two weeks. Having eliminated the least appealing role, I’d spent the
previous weekend weighing up the pros and cons of my two finalists. After much
deliberation, and canvassing of opinion on Facebook, I had finally settled on
an exciting and senior position as an Integration & Verification Architect
on an Air Traffic Control system based close to the South coast. It’s not the
Particle Physicist Professor Role I had in mind, but its impressive enough to
regale the nearby garage forecourt attendant should he ever ask. The location
may be a lot closer than Oxford, but trading my lunch breaks at The Pitt
Rivers, The Bodleian and The Ashmolean for a Wagamama and a Subway on large
business park is a tough ask. Still, I’m, knackered, the commute’s killing me,
it’s time to bite the bullet. I rang the agent yesterday morning and accepted
the new role.
I’ve still got a month
left at Oxford though and there’s things to do. I have three consecutive
meetings this afternoon for example. To ensure maximum comfort during my
afternoon meetings I popped into the toilets quickly to empty my bladder before
my meeting marathon. I stood facing the large white Victorian porcelain urinal
and watched in dismay as I pissed a thick crimson stream of blood.
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