Tuesday, April 29
Naa and I left the house early and I went to Arcada to write comments on the thesis that I had read yesterday afternoon. Then I grabbed a cd I had borrowed from the library ten days ago and returned it. Now I am waiting for a tram that will take me past Arcada and down to Diacor for my appointment at 10:45. I need a number 8 for that and this is a number 6, but I will take it anyway and change at Sörnäinen.
My knee will be diagnosed as a mild form of arthritis that can be kept away with regular exercise, once I have taken a short burst of tablets to bring down the inflammation. The doctor will suggest that it was my lack of regular walking and jogging in winter that had led to the inflammation. He may be right. It had, indeed, occurred very shortly after I began my Spring walks in earnest.
We will discuss my recent burst of frustrated anger at some length, and he will propose that I have an initial consultancy with one of the Diacor psychiatrists to discuss what, if anything, to do about them. I will happily agree and make an appointment for ten days time.
I will get a suprise summons to a lunch at Prakticum to meet someone from YLE’s new media department to discuss a major project that we might be involved in. Usually I am sceptical of these “major projects”, but this one will seem genuinely exciting and eminently practicable. I will leave with the unusual feeling that I am actually looking forward to the second meeting in a few weeks.
I will work on more administration and then, at 17:30 switch to rereading and editing parts of my thesis. I am not really sure if this is actually advancing the work, but it is certainly serving to keep me in contact with the material, and keeping my interest in completing it alive. In my more optimistic moments I will imagine that genuine progress is actually being made and that the relatively slow speed of this is for the better.
Through sad circumstance I am being compelled to intersperse my bursts of rapid writing with longer periods of contemplation and measured rewriting. This might well turn out to benefit the final work but not in a way that particularly pleases me. I would much rather be the father of a twelve year old I loved than the author of a well respected work.
Actually, if I am honest, my first choice would have been to have been both. This option, though, the one that is being played out now, is very definitely the one I would have least wanted if I had been given any say in the matter.