Sustained Criticism

Here I am, at work in the reception at the student home for the last time this summer. The weekend shifts are long and dull, broken up by the one-an-hour on average student that stops by to borrow a hair dryer, or ask the way to the subway station (which is just down the road). The weekdays are made up of laughing at students we've turned into super heroes – my favourite is JAG, the English class warrior who has a tuxedo problem – drinking coffee, doing badly at newspaper quizzes and pretending to work. We have 'office parties' each Friday, and the occasional Wednesday. We made fun of a poor lecturer for saying 'sellotape' (our graphic designer made a poster for him), we had a formal staff party that deteriorated into shots.

It's been quite a fun summer at work, but working endless hours at the student home is not my favourite way to while away a weekend. At least I get to read a lot. And because I was immeasurably stupid, I get to edit a master's thesis for a friend of a friend; The thesis writer is the worst Norwegian speller I have ever encountered.

I have survived another day in retail, with a few scabs and sore feet to prove it. I also acquired a job, and the best motivation I have yet discovered for continuing my education, and doing disgustingly well: plastered smiles, sore feet, low-quality, over-priced merchandise, uninspiring and unchallenging tasks. Not to speak of the customers. If there is a single piece of quality fabric, or material otherwise, in that shop, I will eat my ear. Selling your soul to retail, has never sounded so meaningful. But it is something to paste onto the resume, and might get me into something more interesting.

I'm still reading Nygårdshaug, and I'm beginning to suspect Afrodites Basseng is a mix of his favourite utopia, and classic postmodern this will happen if we continue. Revision isn't getting me anywhere.