So today I was busy editing (a hermetic book) and had not noticed that the postman had come and delivered my master's degree certificate. There is no party, nor any solemn ceremony in Latin, but instead I had to work at that... place. I suppose it's better than the last place I "graduated" (Jimmy's Homeless Shelter in Cambridge).
Receiving this degree is important, because I have had no right to call myself a 'master' until now, (whatever that means, here in Britain: 'master of the kitchen sink') until I had been formally conferred with the honours of the degree. It is only now, from this point, that I have the right to call myself 'master' (of the kitchen sink).
Surely, holding a Magister Artium in litteris humanioribus cum honoribus means I'm worth more than doing unskilled labour for minimum wage? Evidently not, in Dark Age Britain, 2022. This is not the ninth century during the Abbasid Caliphate, evidently. So, there is no option. Either I remain enslaved on this... prison island, or I take my chances elsewhere, and move on to something more than just slavery for the bare minimum wage. Surely there is more to life than unskilled labour for minimum wage? There is, and that means living abroad. What opportunities are there here?...
Max.
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