Working like a dog. And not a cute fuzzy friendly one.
I'm not sure I'm into this thing called 'work'.
I mean, I'm a copywriter. And if a copywriter tells you he's 'working really hard', ask closely about what the job really entails: lounging around with a huge pad and Magic Markers dreaming up witty headlines and sketching the odd picture of a fish riding a bicycle. And in advertising, for Darwin's sake - okay, I haven't written campaigns for a while, but even 'CRM strategies' and 'information architecture' don't exactly compare with, say, a 16-hour shift in a Chinese garment factory.
The trouble with studying for an MBA is that you can't 'wing it'. There's real volume and depth to be chewed through and committed to memory. (Except for the Organisational Behaviour module, where it's so easy to bullshit you can wing it. And by golly I'm going to. Hey, I can write impenetrable sixty-word sentences too, three-metre-tall lecturer guy!)
Look at my bloody calendar. Monday to Friday, two 3.5hr lectures a day except Mon and Wed, where the gaps are filled by team meetings that always go on far longer than expected. Evenings are filled with assignments and revision. Frequently we have early meetings before class and two hour catch-ups afterwards. Yesterday, a Saturday, was taken up with a 13-hour daytrip down south for Operations Management. It's rare I get to bed before 1am, and I've been to the gym precisely once in my four weeks here.
The Sunday Times (last week's) is virtually untouched on the easy chair, with - horrors - the previous Sunday's still largely intact underneath it. And that's DESPITE a particularly alluring picture of Michelle Pfeiffer on the cover (whoa, she looks great for 30, let alone the 50 years she actually is.)
"Time off" - whatever that is - fits into a neat three-hour slot between waking and noon on a Sunday. "Waking" being a flexible concept, time off this week amounts to the next 45 minutes. Into which I'm determined to squeeze a £1.25 coffee at the Arts Centre.
I mean, I'm a copywriter. And if a copywriter tells you he's 'working really hard', ask closely about what the job really entails: lounging around with a huge pad and Magic Markers dreaming up witty headlines and sketching the odd picture of a fish riding a bicycle. And in advertising, for Darwin's sake - okay, I haven't written campaigns for a while, but even 'CRM strategies' and 'information architecture' don't exactly compare with, say, a 16-hour shift in a Chinese garment factory.
The trouble with studying for an MBA is that you can't 'wing it'. There's real volume and depth to be chewed through and committed to memory. (Except for the Organisational Behaviour module, where it's so easy to bullshit you can wing it. And by golly I'm going to. Hey, I can write impenetrable sixty-word sentences too, three-metre-tall lecturer guy!)
Look at my bloody calendar. Monday to Friday, two 3.5hr lectures a day except Mon and Wed, where the gaps are filled by team meetings that always go on far longer than expected. Evenings are filled with assignments and revision. Frequently we have early meetings before class and two hour catch-ups afterwards. Yesterday, a Saturday, was taken up with a 13-hour daytrip down south for Operations Management. It's rare I get to bed before 1am, and I've been to the gym precisely once in my four weeks here.
The Sunday Times (last week's) is virtually untouched on the easy chair, with - horrors - the previous Sunday's still largely intact underneath it. And that's DESPITE a particularly alluring picture of Michelle Pfeiffer on the cover (whoa, she looks great for 30, let alone the 50 years she actually is.)
"Time off" - whatever that is - fits into a neat three-hour slot between waking and noon on a Sunday. "Waking" being a flexible concept, time off this week amounts to the next 45 minutes. Into which I'm determined to squeeze a £1.25 coffee at the Arts Centre.
Labels: Warwick University
posted by chrisworth at 11:01 AM
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