Return of the Mojo

Exam time is a bit like war if you believe Spike Milligan's version of events; long periods of boredom punctuated by moments of great excitement. I hang around in airless corridors, try to sit in my office, sit sipping Evian in periodic meetings, but in the end this is no good. I find myself back in the pub again, where I can reflect on the female bottom at great length through the plate glass windows. You have to be there, you have to be in the vicinity while all these exams go on, and your phone might beep at any moment drawing you in to one catastrophe or another, but in the meantime, I just sit, remembering Danielle ask 'Are you a tit man or an arse man?' The context was an upstairs room of a pub in Borough and we were enjoying a somewhat refreshingly libertarian event some years ago, but the question is still very hard to answer. I think I sort of gurgled at the time. But in the midst of nothing to do (but that nothing being of great importance because you are simply waiting for action stations- and to leap in to that action at any moment) that's what you might find yourself thinking about. Am I a tit man or an arse man? Indeed, can there be such a distinction? Which particular psychological realms might one enter to consider it? And what about legs, or shoulders, or haircuts? It's a minefield out there.

This at least assured me of the return of the mojo.