... but not far enough, in this case. Mexes has a fever & won't play.
The alarm went off at 7 as usual and I surfaced slowly, sorting through elusive elements of a fleeing dream, a giant lizard, a trip to Somerset, was that a machine gun? can we correctly deploy this platoon at the same time as changing the wallpaper? clearing thoughts flowed into a more concrete reflection on Band of Brothers, that means it's time to get up for class and think about screen representations of warfare, that means oh fuck it's wednesday that means Arsenal tonight. Fuck fuck fuck. I lay in bed for a bit contemplating the idea of trying to go back to sleep for 24 hours and resurfacing once it was all over. Then I rolled over and contemplated Chelsea Boy with resentment. Chelsea through comfortably, after their minor scare. All very well for him to lie there snoring contentedly, safe in the quarter finals.
Off to work then to fret quietly while pretending to listen to students' banal opinions on mai '68, and exchange predictions with like-minded colleagues. Then the news that Mexes has a fever: I can only conclude that our entire medical staff are laziali. Or they are actually car mechanics and electricians who won a phone in contest to work at Trigoria for a bit and have been allowed to practice as physiotherapists. "We need an acqueduct direct to Trigoria from Lourdes," said my barista.
I think I shall get changed, (the Vivienne Westwood dress is maybe not ideal football wear) and have a cup of tea, and try to think positive thoughts.