outwait outrun outwit


an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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I head to Galway tomorrow, to celebrate a friend's birthday and to submit the hardbound copy of my thesis. I might ask for an embargo on the electronic submission, as my examiners have suggested I prepare the thesis for publication.

It feels a long age since I submitted my thesis corrections. In the meantime, my father-in-law died and we've been adjusting, by small and large degrees, to the aftermath. We moved to the house above the pub, to stay with my mother-in-law in a labyrinthine place full of creaky shadows and the nearby faraway echoes of punters. I'm always on errands, dashing from house to shop to office to bar. In the bar, I chat away and surprise people when I tell them I'm an introvert with social anxiety. I'm even learning to drive on country roads, white-knuckled at junctions. The dreamy-eyed scholar is long-gone, and with her, those vague plans of writing and reading and carrying on in a shapeless way.

Other news: my ex emailed me the other day. He wants to send a small box of my things and to apologise to me in person. That life too, thank goodness, is ancient and distant, a weird underworld dream.


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