Monsieur tit fell out
My bike’s been in the repair shop for almost a week. This has meant, amongst other things, that instead of cycling everywhere I go, or taking the bus to university, I’ve been walking the three-ish miles from our house in Salford to the church-type building between the libraries where I have my one weekly seminar. My lecturer is one of a dying breed. One of those rare types in universities these days who are actually good at their job and so clever it feels completely intimidating to be in their presence. She is eloquent and poised in her intellect, so much so that she beckons you in to speak and is somehow able to transform all of your vocalised mute points into fascinating interpretations of texts you’re constantly worried everyone else understands far better than you do. All without making you feel like you’ve wasted everyone’s time by daring to believe you should have said anything at all. Rather, this is exactly how I feel in her seminars, and yet I keep going back to the class
