Cool for Cats

Shock horror.

I have taken the enormous adult step of enrolling in another university course. You'd think this was no biggie, but actually, for a teacher who thought her study days long gone, it's a bit of a departure from the norm of simply being a "teacher". I'm the one who's supposed to do the teaching, dammit.

Now that I come to analyse my decision, I'm pondering the possibility this may be my version of a mid-life crisis. While some men go out and blow it all on a ridiculous Ferrari or a 22-year old with sparkly lip gloss, and some women go out and splurge on the latest Salvatore Ferragamo frock or three days in the Blue Mountains with Sven, classic masseur and local Nordic god, it looks like my descent into madness comes with an annotated bibliography and a small but perfectly formed reading list.

Clearly, enduring the slings and arrows of outrageous hormonal tantrums is insufficient for my inner masochist: I must now parade my senile moments in full public view and secretly hope for absolution in the form of an HD. Less than that and I may be drummed from the regiment. Like all the best heroes in narrative, I will endure my failings and temporary insanity in the hope that at some point before the sun sinks in the West, I will have beaten the baddie, located the treasure and saved the world. With appropriate Harvard referencing, naturally.