Farewell To All That (6)

FAREWELL TO ALL THAT (6)

The Priestess sucked the cork from a litre flask of Primitivo di Manduria and spat it on the floor. 

'Now, this caravan thing . . .'

'There are two metal posts dug deep in the ground,  96.8 metres apart. You can rig up a slack-line (it don't hurt the trees). Pull it tight, ratchet hard, that's the art.'

The Priestess bit the end off a Robusto, and reached for a match. 

Then, she sniped:

'Now, look here me Dearie, I'm sick of this stuff; sick to death of it (bored of it, too). You're going away for a couple of months. It's not like you're fucking Thoreau. 

'So, you think you're unique; all this caravan chic. Just don't splash on the chemical loo.'

Stepping In The Salad (1)

STEPPING IN THE SALAD (1)

Well, I could not abide walking on side by side with the Priestess; the woman appalled me. 

So, I quit my life's hike. Then, I got on my bike. 

I applied for a job in HE.

(Senior Lecturer in Photography History.)

Now, it might have been funny (as was the money they paid me to work like a dog). But, I quick lost my wit; academe is not fit - in effect, it's like driving through fog.

In an open-plan office, I sat at my desk.

Education's burlesque: I find it grotesque. I bit hard on my lip and tried praying to God. (Self-indulgent and sorry, I let out a sob.)

'Don't you worry, my dear, I have noted your prayer. In your hour of need, I will always be here.'

'You,' I said, eyes open-wide. 'My God.'

'Indeed,' she coolly replied.

Then, the Priestess stuffed an out-of-date, Aldi Welsh cake in her slackly-defined gob.