For the last week, I have been making the final corrections on my PhD thesis. I have gone over every page, multiple times, fixing commas and full stops. I have even removed words like "whilst" and "outwith" that my examiners didn't like- they, ironically, showing a preference for American-style English and not approving of some perfectly fine and proper Scottish words. (The rumour that I called Les Paul a "glaikit eejit" in chapter nine are completely false; it was chapter ten) At this point, all I want is a quiet life- or any life at all that doesn't involve electric guitars before 1930. Even with the work that has been done polishing the text, I still see little mistakes cropping up- things that really ought to be sorted, like awkward sentences that need to be sent to charm school. But I'm finding it hard to care; for now, I just want the boulder to stay on top of the hill.
I have other rocks to roll.
The Inn of Infinite Sadness, or alternatively, Smudge and Hobbes' Traumatising Transcendental Transatlantic Trip. Being the adventures of two very large, unwillingly peripatetic, half-Bengal cats and their owner (of rather similar description) as they prepare to leave the North American continent in search of a new life in their (the cats, not the owner) ancestral homeland of Aneda. Sigh, what I won't do for a decent cup of tea.
That's okay, dude. There are no electric guitars from before 1930. There are no monsters in Loch Ness or under your bed either. Unless either Smudge or Hobbes manages to crawl there, that is.
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