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Crikey, is that the time?

So I shall shortly be starting work at my alma mater, attempting to inculcate some notion of poetry writing into a group of people who (using myself at that age as an example) will think that either a) I don't know what I'm doing, and that they could do much better themselves on account of being eighteen and therefore knowing everything or b) have zero desire to be there and will repond with mulish silence to everything I try and teach them. So shortly, in fact, that's it's NEXT FUCKING MONDAY.

Nervous? You betcha. Logically I know it will all work out fine, I know my stuff, I've prepared as much as is humanly possible. But since when did logic have anything to do with nerves? I'm excited, obviously, it's the first time I've done this (guest spots before were in the guise of "visiting writer" i.e. not structured, I didn't have to do any marking and they didn't expect RESULTS), yet another career change (if you can call a short-term, one-semester agreement a career change, but who knows eh? WHO KNOWS?); you'd have thought by this age I'd have worked out what I was going to do with my life, but apparently not.

Still, it'll all work out for the best, I'm sure *cough, cough*

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