It was inevitable that I would eventually just give in to my workload and move onto campus. My new “home” was a small space at the end of a bench of computers in a noisy student lab: we had words about Radio 1 blasting out all day. As well as a machine I was allocated a tiny chest of drawers for my clothes. Each week a freshly laundered set of underwear would be brought to my workstation. I wondered how the laundry service knew that the black knickers from Marks and Spencer were mine?
Of course a permanent life on campus did nothing to lessen my workload. If anything, it increased. One day at 12:10 a student appeared at my desk to ask why I had not turned up to a meeting. I didn’t even know that this particular meeting had been called. I dropped what I was doing and hurried along the corridor. As soon as I walked through the meeting room door I understood why I was so desperately needed. This was yet another committee that needed someone to whip it into shape. I was supposedly the only person with the skills for the job. “I don’t suppose I’ll get any workload allowance for this?” I asked my boss. She was already shaking her head before the words even escaped my mouth.
Meanwhile outside the sun was setting over the autumn hills and all I really wanted to do was to get out there with my camera.