All According to Plan

Yes, yes, I promised shoe and London pictures, they are forthcoming. Just not at the moment. Cannot be arsed (perfect verb choice, if I may say so myself) to find the necessary iPhone cable. And no one seems to find theirs in close proximity to me.

I have a resolution for this semester: bother. I will, in the spirit of keeping spirits high and trooping on, paste it into the front of my filofax and think that I shall bother. Bother enough to care about stupid exams, papers and classes. Enough to get the grades I should have (at least according to general consensus).

Which brings about the other thing I've been thinking about lately. Expectations. But first random: discussed the Muhammad cartoons with Dad a few days ago. 'Well, it can't have been that long ago? Last year, 2008?' I suggested. Neither of us remembered, so we googled. The cartoons were published in 2005. 'Well, welcome to the old people's club.' My little brother claims this is the first decade we have 'control of', as he puts it. Meaning that we have something of an overview of events.

As for expectations, they continue to interest me. There was never a question of my going to university: 'what are you studying?', rather than 'are you going to university?' Maybe solidly academic interests like discussion, literature, language and suspect French flower names are to blame, perhaps the big words I throw around for effect. Old friends – I now have not only old friends, but friends I can say I have not seen in years, how's that for old? – are routinely shocked by my choice of discipline. 'What, really? Not medicine, law, the diplomatic corps?' The ones that know I have always read vicariously, as well. The remainder, who stay quiet, smile knowingly, and, I suspect, expect to encounter me again in a few years when I've had time to come to my senses.

And here my Uncle deserves to be quoted. We discussed my abysmal career opportunities and vague plans: 'Well, you know, in this family, you either become a Doctor; rebel and become a Priest; or give life the finger and work as a low-level administrator, because you didn't bother. And you are a closet philologist, no matter what. And you will acquire a mission somewhere along the way.' Working not-so-hard on the philologist part, and I think I have decided that I want to cut people open for a living. In keeping with ancient family tradition, expectations, and all according to a plan apparent to all but me.

I wonder where people get the idea that I must become either a doctor, lawyer or diplomat?

All According to Plan

Yes, yes, I promised shoe and London pictures, they are forthcoming. Just not at the moment. Cannot be arsed (perfect verb choice, if I may say so myself) to find the necessary iPhone cable. And no one seems to find theirs in close proximity to me.

I have a resolution for this semester: bother. I will, in the spirit of keeping spirits high and trooping on, paste it into the front of my filofax and think that I shall bother. Bother enough to care about stupid exams, papers and classes. Enough to get the grades I should have (at least according to general consensus).

Which brings about the other thing I've been thinking about lately. Expectations. But first random: discussed the Muhammad cartoons with Dad a few days ago. 'Well, it can't have been that long ago? Last year, 2008?' I suggested. Neither of us remembered, so we googled. The cartoons were published in 2005. 'Well, welcome to the old people's club.' My little brother claims this is the first decade we have 'control of', as he puts it. Meaning that we have something of an overview of events.

As for expectations, they continue to interest me. There was never a question of my going to university: 'what are you studying?', rather than 'are you going to university?' Maybe solidly academic interests like discussion, literature, language and suspect French flower names are to blame, perhaps the big words I throw around for effect. Old friends – I now have not only old friends, but friends I can say I have not seen in years, how's that for old? – are routinely shocked by my choice of discipline. 'What, really? Not medicine, law, the diplomatic corps?' The ones that know I have always read vicariously, as well. The remainder, who stay quiet, smile knowingly, and, I suspect, expect to encounter me again in a few years when I've had time to come to my senses.

And here my Uncle deserves to be quoted. We discussed my abysmal career opportunities and vague plans: 'Well, you know, in this family, you either become a Doctor; rebel and become a Priest; or give life the finger and work as a low-level administrator, because you didn't bother. And you are a closet philologist, no matter what. And you will acquire a mission somewhere along the way.' Working not-so-hard on the philologist part, and I think I have decided that I want to cut people open for a living. In keeping with ancient family tradition, expectations, and all according to a plan apparent to all but me.

I wonder where people get the idea that I must become either a doctor, lawyer or diplomat?