Campus insecurity

The bloke I mentioned in the last post, whom I consider to be my intellectual and social inferior -- I mean in the sense of lacking a social adroitness that I can put on when useful -- got the job. Perhaps he has talents he reveals exclusively in job interviews.

My dejection was exacerbated by a post-weekend chemical comedown. I wrote a carefully-worded email to my interviewers and to our HR person, asking them to make an exception from the standard company policy of not giving feedback to rejected candidates, given that this is the fourth time I've failed at the final hurdle.

A few days later I was told that I'd passed the first stage of the selection process for a job in Trina's home town, almost as if someone was feeling guilty about turning me down a couple of weeks ago.

I must now proceed to a test I've failed before, a sort of shape sorting exercise where you have to mark off a certain shape, plus every occurrence of the one at the beginning of each line. The deadline to take it is Wednesday; I've paid a tenner for some practice tests to try to get up to standard. Some of my inaccuracy comes from gripping the mouse too hard through nerves, causing a tremor in my hand.

As ever, I haven't thought this through. Where to live: I enjoy a priceless secure social tenancy here, and I'm not sure what the rules are about transferring it elsewhere, even if a flat were to become available at the right time. What to say to Mel: it's a three-hour train journey from here, so feasible, at the price of killing any spontaneity. And other difficult topics.

To Newcastle, to see our semi-adopted daughter's graduate art show.

A couple of days prior to our arrival, there had been a violent disruption on the campus as the police and "security" waded in to a protest against the actions of Israel in Gaza. The very "security" who were filmed manhandling protesters, now controlled access to the art department.

We were told that we would have to be escorted around the galleries by security guards, but the Head of School, having to negotiate access to his own department, persuaded them that he could accompany us instead. After a few minutes' of tense diplomacy, we were all allowed in. As soon as we were out of sight of the goons, the Head of School let us wander around unaccompanied. It felt sinister, the university's autonomy erased in a bullies' coup.

I had to change trains at Darlington, where a mock-up of the new concourse suggests that they are expecting to welcome a levitating man laughing at a passenger who's unknowingly shat his kecks.