Retrograde

Last night, I put my books back on the shelf and cleared my desk. Hold the congratulations though; it's not that I've suddenly reached apotheosis and need no longer work at my doctoral thesis.

Rather, it was a sudden attack of the rare and debilitating malady known as Alfie-itis, also known as What's-it-all-about syndrome. Sometimes it hits you, this creeping malaise which leaves you wondering whether it is worth doing anything at all. Because the same old things continue to happen, no matter what you do.

[Yes, the same old things. For those of you who are wondering why it's called Alfie-itis, I will just chuck a few more old things at you. Burt Bacharach. Cilla Black. Cher. Michael Caine. Dionne Warwick. Trivia. History. Haha.]

So for a couple of days, I am making retrograde progress. Why should I care about education, improving things, or finding out what can be improved and how? I am making money. I am earning my keep. I am thinking like Homo economicus, the very model of a modern major materially-minded man.

Or so I would like to think. Even in my retrograde progress, I am retrograde. I can't help thinking of words, books, literature, philosophy, music, all the things that some people find valueless and effete. In fact, I have this overwhelming urge to spend money in a totally useless way far removed from the cleverness of Homo economicus. I feel like splurging on Folio Society editions, fine chocolate, good wine, and comfortingly vague graphic prints.

Madness, again.