I had twenty minutes.
I talked for forty-five.
Why wasn't I interrupted? I suspect because the Irishman was enjoying himself; every time I looked to the back of the classroom, there he was, grinning fiendishly and looking as though he was having a grand old time listening to me go on about Joyce's probable scatalogical obsessions.
I'm taking this as a good sign. Therefore, tonight I am going to sleep the sleep of the satisfied and you can wake me when work demands my presence sometime on Saturday. I will finish Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and then so-help-me I am going to read something brainless and fluffy and ridiculous before finally tackling Ulysses.
And come Monday, I start preparation for my end-of-term paper...
...on Shakespeare. (Cue duhn-duhn-DUUUUUUUHN! sound effects.)
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