Responsibility I should not have

So I'm sure that my professors (Former? Future? Who knows what I'll end up doing) will be totally thrilled when they hear that I, who have dropped out of Gaelic at uni and had my application to single honours rejected because my grades weren't up to scratch, am now almost solely responsible for building a hugely hyped and important Gaelic education database that the education minister is going on about constantly and has just promised will be ready for 2010. I am also sure that the head of department will be thrilled to know that I am working with the folk responsible for the Gaelic Orthographic Convention, those bastards who robbed him of the acute accent.*

I've spent my whole day thinking that I am definitely going to make a tiny little spelling error that will fuck the Gaelic education of a whole generation of Scottish children. My wee copy of the Gaelic Orthographic Convention has become my best friend.

"Did I copy and paste that right? How are my accents? Oh my god, is that a broad vowel next to a slender vowel?!"

Time for tunage.



Put a Curse On You by Quasimoto

*I do see his point and agree that there are sound phonetic reasons for having the acute, but he gets unbelievably angry about it, and from talking to the new Gaelic students every year I've ascertained that his GOC rant has changed from something he breaks out for his second year phonetics students to being something the absolute beginners hear the first time he takes them for a class, before they even know how to count to twenty. I love my professor.

Everything's coming up Squeak!

Turns out I wont have to lie to my flatmates at all now! Just got myself a nice wee temporary full time job, which will end about the time when I'll (hopefully) be returning to the obviously cushy life of the public sector call centre.

*does a jig*

This calls for a tune that I heard in my dream the other night, where I was a Space Rollercoaster test pilot. They strapped me in to something that looked like a highly polished mining cart, and sent me at high speeds through what looked like shiny metallic and yet dark and starry ventilation shafts. The shafts had rooms branching off from them, and the scientists wanted me to spit in each room, so that they could analyse my spit and extract ideas for art, books, graffiti and tunes from it. And all the while, this tune was playing away...



Underwater by Harry Thumann