Reasons To Go 0.6 (Part Ten)

A Pig Of A Year

'Well,' she said opening a box of Belgian truffles that had arrived on her desk on the last day of teaching.  She popped one in her mouth, gave a little grunt of pleasure.

The Faculty Christmas get-together was finally over; another inimitable festive extravaganza comprising powerpoint presentation of statistics from the Admissions Department (on slides that deployed the corporate template) and a finger buffet.  She had long ago perfected the art of occupying a strategic space at the food table for the duration of such lamentable occasions: her only solace in the face of forced convivial conversation with her colleagues.  With the appearance that she was only ever helping herself for the first time, the secret was to place slowly and intermittently four sandwich quarters (humus and roasted vegetables, egg mayonnaise, cheese salad and something that might not have been meat), a few hand-crafted crisps and an onion bhaji on the paper plate; the process interrupted with the cleverly clandestine activity (requiring both speed and dexterity) of a left-handed platter-to-mouth movement. To the casual observer, she was merely a slow chooser and pernickety eater.

'A pig of a year,' she continued, popping another piece of cocoa-dusted confectionary in her snout. 'And, they certainly made of pig's ear of it, it has to be said.  You have to admit it.'  She gave a snort at the thought of it.  

'To begin with, not covering my sick-leave.  Left me high and dry.  I was turning over essays like a battery hen lays eggs; and, with A grades - as always - as scarce as hens' teeth, I felt quite disillusioned, not to mention hen-pecked.

'In addition, I was having to juggle new modules, old modules in need of modification (however minor), modules I was scheduled to teach and those that had been scheduled for the semester I was absent.

'And then there was that old horse.  Don't get me back on that old horse.  I ensured I only ever rode side-saddle but it still left me sore.'

'Pigs' swill,' he blurted out, about to gesticulate and shout, but she interrupted sharply.  'Just hold your horses,' she commanded.  'As I've said before, that old horse was never going to recruit; any reasonable wanna-be student would have realised immediately, if not at interview, that they were buying a pig in a poke.  That horse had no tried and tested content.  You have to acknowledge it.  The thing was a crippling joke.'

'What makes you so sure, you pig-headed cow?  That horse was a winner, it just had a false start.' But he was lost in metaphor, and starting to choke.  The battle was finally lost.  

'And pigs might fly,' she said, somewhat sly, as he made a grab for the chocolate box.  She let him have it, it would have been churlish to do otherwise.  She unplugged her computer, packed her bags and put on her coat and gloves.  She was going 0.6 in the new year; it was hard not to gloat.  She turned off the light as she left, leaving him in the dark.