Vomitose recidivism

I simply cannot call upon myself to speak witness to this catastrophe. I must in a very real sense withdraw and recoup.

The angst of return; the return of angst.

And so I am returned to my Chair in Heidelburg after a most fruitful and in no small manner stimulating sabbatical in the 'far east'. I am anxious to commence my path breaking exegesis in all due haste so as to shatter the published walls of academe with yet more brilliant articles that will rewrite the laws of linguistic process if not procedure. But what, pray, do I find upon returning to my hallowed oak-lined office?

I am stunned beyond revulsion to discover that my inner sanctum has been occupied by not just one but two junior academics, even lowly assistant professors! I suspected that all was amiss when old Gerhardt the janitor guided me to my door with even more cringing perspiration than was his wont. Upon opening said portal I was afflicted with a vision beyond the wildest infernal depictions of Hieronymus Bosch himself.

My bookshelves had been dishevelled and disrupted beyond repair. And there, inside my antique Duisburg porcelain sink lay stacks of my coveted Caporelli dinner service stained with what I am informed is something called Pizza, but rotted beyond hygiene. One untermensch sat with his filthy boot-clad feet upon the veneer of my precious Vermaelen desk, studiously tearing up my meticulously prepared index cards and rolling them for insertion into the extremity of what I can only describe as home-made cigarillos. His lank, greasy hair barely stirred across a battered leatherette jacket as I spluttered in righteous incandescence. But this was nothing as compared to his totally inappropriate greeting. "Chill, man" was all he uttered before returning to his hideously vandalistic task, as if I was not even therein present.

But it was the second troglodyte that sent me into spasms of cataclysmic apoplexy. This languid baboon had opened all my private mail and had scattered it hither and yon 'twixt the Grundfeld meeting table, the Qubakh carpeting and the De Lorette shelves. "You aint missed much" he opined "and since you wuzzn't here we accepted your invitations to conferences and said we wuz you. Laugh eh? Nobody noticed and we published a shedload. All on expenses, man, cool". Fearing lockjaw and cardiac arrest I turned on my heel and departed forthwith from these heinous scenes of wanton destruction and vile impertinence, marching immediately to the offices of highest authority to demand immediate explanation, satisfaction and rectification.

Imagine, if you will, my utter bewilderment upon reaching the Directorate suite of offices to find an entire change of personnel. A personage with green hair sat at a desk filing her nails and could only say "Yeah?" as if I was some menial underlaborer instead of the most eminent professor in this mighty seat of learning. Upon demanding to see the Rector I was stunned to be ushered into the presence of my nemesis, Dr Egbert von Grollingen, the fanatical schismatic and bane of my career.

Smiling his demonic and triumphant smirk, he rapidly briefed me on developments. It was he who arranged my sabbatical to ensure my absence at the time of his coup d'etat. Rector Pumpfeisten had been retired on 'health grounds' engineered by von Grollingen's fawning toadies (since when did erratic whimsy ever disbar revered academic from senior administrative duty?). von Grollingen then rapidly mobilised his forces and the coup was complete as he settled himself into the Rector's weighty chair.

He'd made some changes, he smirked, "long overdue". We were now running courses in something called 'media studies' and 'business studies', not to mention 'computing'. Enrollment had tripled, as had income. I enquired about the presence of the loathsome pond life in my office and demanded their immediate expulsion. "Ah, O'Hara and Canello, brilliant young academics, fabulous publishing record" he grimaced. "Under our new Proactive Staff Development Initiative we are now nurturing and mentoring the bright young stars by placing them in direct contact with our most eminent professors. I think they'll learn a lot from you".

Feeling faint and pleading jetlag I fled the scene, heading post-haste to the Senior Common Room which - is nothing sacred? - was now a Burger King! Huddled in the corner, nursing a 'Whoppa' and 'Big Gulp' was old Professor J.L.B. Kamala, stout fellow, champion of romanticism and all-round decent chap. Needless to say he was delighted to see me, and, furtive glances aside, a natural ally. But imagine my disdain when he made his apologies and swept from the scene, gown flapping like a demented bat. It was then I noticed his clumsy attempts to conceal himself from ubiquitous close-circuit TV cameras. What the deuce?

Clearly all is not well, and I must regroup and consider tactical if not strategic options. A counter-coup seems almost a duty but I must not be hasty. Nay, I shall be the very imitator of Quintus Fabius Cunctator himself. Victory is assured.

Pestilence, I am discommoded.

I am afflicted by a tropical malady of the gravest nature. It had always been my considered view that such pestilences restricted their visitations to uncouth or unwashed personages, but it seems that I may be in error. It would appear that these microbial parasites are utterly undiscerning and may even choose to afflict the fastidious and morally upright.

I have never had to make so many urgent and non-negotiable appointments with la salle du bain, spending not inconsiderable time periods in the most disturbing if not explosive evacuations. It is most fortunate that I had the foresight to install quality porcelain, but then 'forward planning' has always been a passion of mine.

I have urgently consulted with various medical 'types' who have tried to reassure me that my malady is a typical if not low-level food infection but I simply will not be patronised or fobbed off by these uncultured persons. Such is the gravity of my confinement that I have been forced to contract an auxiliary nurse so that I may delegate ablutionary and cleansing duties to one more skilled in these distasteful duties. Meanwhile I must endure the most excruciating headaches (migraine for sure) and cramps that would gratify the most sadistic henchman of Torquemada himself.

Needless to say, I shall be hors de combat for the foreseeable future, but may snatch such pitifully fleeting moments of tranquility that I am allotted to continue with my most pressing duties at the cutting edge of the academic endeavor.