Nice moves


I’d been planning to write something about Libya and the LSE, but found my eyes crossing with boredom as I read it back. Who cares what I think? (Except, ok, can I just make the point that I’m glad countries are asking clever people like the LSE to help rebuild their economies. Far better that than asking any old freelance gobshite who did work experience at Northern Rock).

Well, the genocide essay has been popped off to a hapless lecturer or two, and in celebration of the 24 hours of screen time racked up over that last weekend, my neck went ouch. A cheery Scots osteopath put me through my paces (‘Does that hurt?’) and diagnosed a sprained facet joint. First I knew I even had any, never mind that they were sprainable. Still, turns out not to be fatal, probably, and I was sent off with instructions to apply heat and ice in relatively quick succession, and given what can only be described as a dance move to practise. It’s hard to explain, but it’s a peculiar mash-up of Tony Manero, Adam Ant circa ‘Stand and Deliver’ (rather than circa ‘waving a gun in a pub’), and a social-realist Soviet sculpture. Sorry, that’s the best I can do.

Anyway, problem has arisen in the form of a workplace constructed almost entirely from glass. This is no place for a dandy highwayman to be taking to the dancefloor. The only place that doesn’t expose me to stares and giggles are the cubicles in the loo – bit cramped but just about doable. Except for the overhead lighting and the gap under the door. Result: silence by the washbasins as everyone watches the frenzied shadow of a bizarrely silent but thrashing lunatic in stall 3.


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