Tuesday's grey and Wednesday too…

Moin moin! (As they say in Schleswig-Holstein). I'm starting to wonder about the wisdom of moving in to a flat within 100 yards of four nightclubs… though I must say that I thought the weekend started on Friday, not Tuesday!

The flat proceeds apace. Last night Emma came round and we put together two sets of drawers, some CD storage and a bookcase, which towers above us. It was stunningly easy, and the two shelves put in backwards may be ascribed to the bottle of fine Chianti with which we wetted our whistles. Still unsure about where everything's going…

Busy day today - 3 meetings, a party, my mum might come down with furniture, rugs and some plates. No more eating off a copy of Grigson's English Food… Then it's off to the Civic Hall for some posh lefty Radio 4 ranting tonight, courtesy of Marcus Brigstocke.

Went swimming today… with a full escort from Sea Shepherd (give them your money) and ploughed through the necessary lengths with very little enjoyment.

Sous les livres, l'appartement

It's been worth moving in already: I've discovered that it's entirely feasible to wake up at 8.46 a.m. (that's 1 hour and forty six minutes after my usual time) and be opening a lecture at 9 a.m. Admittedly, I wasn't at my most fragrant or collected, but it's an important discovery.

I had a go at an IKEA chest yesterday, but stopped at the hammering stage as it was midnight. Construction was conducted to the sounds of Radio 3's weird jazz stuff, which really didn't work - it was so manic and frankly unpleasant that concentration was hard, but Radio 4 was doing something boring and I've not bothered setting up the TV. Oh for my beloved Late Junction.

The Donnie Darko condiment set

Still Life With Violin and Soviet Spaceman

Some of the books and records

Records A-D

Eventually, the kitchen.

Our house, in the middle of our street

Welcome to another week in the fun factory.

It's been a momentous and hugely expensive weekend for me. £3000 later, I've moved house for the first time in 9 years and 10 months, from the cramped room in which I wrote my PhD (occasionally) to a city-centre apartment. It's now piled high with boxes of books and my beloved vinyl records - I'll post some photos tomorrow, but I've cleared a space on the bed at least.

I'm now persuaded that going to the pub, then to a nightclub and dancing until three a.m. is not the ideal way to prepare for a weekend of heavy manual labour. Still, it was fun.

Taking down the old room was weird. Mostly joyful, but very hard work, and I kept finding things which touched off odd memories. My madeleine moment was finding photographs, and a load of band t-shirts from the mid-nineties, when I was rake thin: they were mostly skinny-fit and cool: Velocette, Gorky's Zygotic Mynci, Silver Sun, Super Furry Animals, Catatonia, the Belle and Sebastian 'Study at Stow' shirt from 1995, my 1970s Adidas v-neck shirt, a C+W embroidered shirt, alongside my old biker jacket, which will definitely appear in public again. The t-shirts, despite forming a significant role in my cultural development, will be awarded to the girls I know who can squeeze into them. Despite all the swimming, I won't be seeing a 28" waist again unless I develop some horrendous disease. Anyone know of a good one?

Anyway, I need to say a massive public thankyou to: James (who used the excuse of driving the big white van to air his most reactionary views: the Daily Star on the dashboard was the piéce de resistance); Gerry, Mark, Dan, Neal, Anita and Howard. They all overcame their various disabilities to shift massive, heavy things for almost 12 hours. Nothing was broken nor lost, and nobody complained, despite the intense provocation afforded by my half-arsed organisation. I'm not, it's fair to say, going to have a second career in logistics.

I also saw Cynical Ben on Friday. Having explored the delights of Walsall and Willenhall for the day (he's a local lad) he texted to cancel going out for a drink with the words 'Fuck the Midlands, I'm off. The idea of spending another 3 hours here is giving me the fear. Sorry'.

He relented, and sat in my first-year poetry lecture, and had the good grace to not openly mock or heckle, so thanks to him too! He even met Zoot Horn, which was all a bit postmodern.

The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home.

Well, less Mole than Vole, but I've handed over a fistful of dollars, got my keys and inspected my kingdom. It's OK. A few faults, and I still don't know where the books and records will go, but it's mine, and moving commences tomorrow, with help from James, Gerry, Mark, Dan and Anita.

I'm exhausted, dusty from head to foot and the heavy work hasn't started. Before that though - another poetry lecture…

Now you see me

Hi. First week going OK? You won't hear much from me this week: I'm appearing for teaching and a meeting, then disappearing to pack. If anyone's got boxes, please drop them off in MC217. And if you know of any reputable van hire companies, let me know.

Meanwhile, feel free to abuse the comments section with your flights of fancy.

Of cardboard and paper

I'm definitely moving house to a decent enough flat in the town centre, getting the keys a week on Friday. Now I'm overwhelmed with thoughts of the packing, the shelving required (70-80 metres for the books and records) and the cold hard cash… frightening. Next week will be spent alternately teaching and packing! Obviously I should cut down on things which need moving, but I called into the bookshop to order the poetry course textbook and ended up buying four more books: Andrew Brown's examination of Sweden, Fishing in Utopia: Sweden and the Future that Disappeared, a new translation of Y Mabinogion (my fourth), Michel Faber's satirical The Fire Gospel, and some bracing polemic, Slavoj Zizek's Violence.

Neal, Emma and I went to the Hogs last night - watched Manchester United grind out a dull win and lost in the pool competition - me in the first game, Neal in the second.

A long, long day.

What a tiring day it's been. Two induction sessions for students, who looked as shellshocked as I felt, and the biggest union meeting I've ever seen - basically everybody was there. Funny how the prospect of unemployment or doing somebody else's job on top of your own produces a sense of militancy and solidarity.

It was quite uplifting - we're not going to take this rubbish lying down. It really infuriates me that higher management have dumped us £8 million in the hole by misreporting our student numbers, yet not a single one of them has apologised, resigned or suggested any way to recoup this money in any other way than to sack teachers, reduce course choices and increase class sizes - all the things guaranteed to help students drop out… into a vicious circle.

Moving out is starting to become a reality too - Gerry and Mark have delivered a great pile of boxes to my house. Now I need to work out how I can get, afford and squeeze 70-80 metres of shelving into a one-bedroom flat.

So - home to pack, eat delicious home-made soup, read up on poetry and Shakespeare, then it's swimming and fencing tomorrow.