There is a quirk in the time-space continuum that causes the Fridays of annual leave weeks to come around at warp speed. I swear.
I’ve spent a lot of my precious week off like this:
(In the interests of full disclosure, I should say that I’ve also eaten cake, rewatched most of Season 2 of The West Wing for the first time in far too long, read half of a truly excellent but also truly must-be-plastered-with-all-the-trigger-warnings novel about the Roman Catholic clergy abuse trials of the Eighties, and been to court — of which there is a story to tell that’s been ten months in the making and is finally all over but the paperwork, and it shall be told, I promise, just as soon as the paperwork is over too.)
Honestly, though, just when you thought I was done with exams and it was safe to pop your head back up above the parapet.
I get the odd raised eyebrow if I say that I took last year off — I was after all working fifty-odd hours a week for a lot of it. But work got left at work, and in my world and the world of many other people that constitutes a year off. In the world of my friends who are teachers, it constitutes an unimaginable luxury.
And now I’m back to it and planning to sit the first part of my membership exams in January.
There have been various opinions expressed about this.
For instance, one of my cats (Kilda comma Her Majesty) thinks that the MRCP means that she should distract me from it by deploying all her considerable powers of cuteness, that she should “help” by moving pens, licking Post-It notes, and fast-forwarding virtual lectures with her paws, and that when I get up for more coffee she should immediately sprawl on top of all my stuff. And then there’s my ward sister, who noticed the revision guide in my handbag last week and unwisely shared without being invited to do so her thoughts that there “can’t be that much” to it. And me? Me, I still think that the kidneys run on magic.