There is a friend of Euclio ('Stalin') and I that lives near here. She is a kind person, but sadly was diagnosed with cancer some years ago. She just called the house and I dashed to the phone (I usually simply ignore it, but something inside me told me to run downstairs and answer it). I accidentally pressed 'speaker phone' when answering. It was said lady, and she didn't seem herself, her voice was really quite different, not herself at all. After passing Euclio the phone, in a rare moment of succor, Euclio jumped on his bike and rode off. I dashed outside and inquired whether the lady was alright. He said that he wasn't sure whether to call an ambulance. Therefore, I called an ambulance, giving them her phone number. (What was Euclio going to do? Comfort her as she dies? Get her a pillow? This situation requires trained paramedics, with equipment and the means to get the lady to a hospital). I should imagine that the person on the end of the phone (999) once he hears what the lady sounds like, will probably ensure that an ambulance is sent, for it is an emergency. I should hope so anyway. It's just another day, but not like usual. I hope she's alright. Evidently she's not alright, she's dying of cancer. In any case, I hope she's okay.
I applied for another job yesterday. Naturally it has nothing to do with what I spent 12 years studying at university, but that's okay: this isn't Elizabethan England or Renaissance Italy: it's Dark Age Britain. The job basically involves watching popular culture movies (Marvel/DC) then writing short favourable reviews of them. I am starting to think that I should have bought comic books rather than ancient primary sources, infused with wisdom and abounding in knowledge (for had I large comic book collection, I would certainly be more well-placed in a job like this). Yet this isn't the Abbasid Caliphate, where knowledge and wisdom are actually worth something: we live in the Dark Ages, where comic books mean more than university degrees.
How was my day? Well, let me see. Firstly, I had to ensure that the lady was alright. She was rushed to hospital, with Euclio in tow, helping out as best he could (will wonders never cease?). It is nice to know that the authorities have it in hand, that she is safe, and recovering.
There was a video call today between certain members and colleagues of our law course. It is always nice to speak with other intellectuals, and especially nice when I am the only gentleman among a bevvy of swans: fair maidens. Sadly most are spoken for, but still, it was nice to peacock plume a little. They seemed to think I was somehow intelligent. We have to remember that many of my colleagues are also extremely well educated people, so it's important to be humble, sincerely. I wasn't as humble as could have been, of course: I was my usual bright self. I am no genius. My I.Q. is only 139, one point below genius. The late savant Didier Deman said, when I mentioned this, that, "the test must be wrong." In any case, it was nice to meet some other intellectuals, each from their own scholastic background. One scholar, took the precise same approach as I have to the current assignment: working backwards. Some students simply go through the paces, without a second thought to what's coming. I've studied with this institution enough to know that reading ahead works. On (the now obsolete) A200 module [Medieval and Modern History], for example, if one reads ahead, one gains an advantage on one's current assignment. The university is very smart: for example, each module tied seamlessly into the next. Many of these modules are now long gone, which is a shame, but by the grace of God, I have been extremely blessed by having benefitted from a certain amount of 'old school' education (especially Latin), but also been able to study many modules in which I have been a part of the first cohort: the guinea pigs. This means I have had the privilege of studying both the good old-fashioned style of studying, blended with the very latest research and methods. Similarly, the module I am currently studying is brand new, which is great. It was a sincere pleasure to meet fellow intellectuals, bright damsels, like elegant blue butterflies, flitting from flower to flower, each sporting beneath the sun as its rays pierce the verdant branches of old England's trees and green shoots, like warm beams of pure benevolence, calming the soul, in stillness and tranquility.
Then came Hades. The simpleton from the village has become especially annoying. Instead of making the sound of a duck or a moor hen, he has now taken to doing a very poor and most distateful impression of a Jamaican rastafarian. He's no Dan Acroyd (Trading Places), he was more like Gene Wilder in Silver Streak, for hours, and hours, and hours. He's been doing this absurd and really quite offensive impression since yesterday, and keeps on doing it. (Remember, this is the boy that falsely accused me of being a racist! And was soon admonished when the truth came to light, I might add. I still have a permenant burn on my arm when I happened to catch some hot pans on it, a perpetual reminder of that ill-omened evening). This is a simpleton from the village. He's never lived in Chapeltown in Leeds or Moss Side in Manchester, or Brixton, London. One day he's going to do that impression - and God help him if he does - in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he'll get more than a sharp word, not from some honkey like me, but by someone that doesn't find it funny. Needless to say, he didn't dare address me in that ridiculous tone. Maturity doesn't come over night, and around me - for some strange reason - he feels obliged to be mature, peering at my grey beard, knowing well that while he was in daipers, I was already 30 something. This, is my "superior", my better, my boss. This, is Dark Age Britain, where age, experience, being a decent human being, being well educated, polite, mindful, considerate, compassionate, kind, all mean absolutely nothing. It is a nation of savages.
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