Off Kilter

A manhole had burst open on the way to the university bus stop. In the dark, the sewage looked like an oil slick. The air was damp and shit-smelling, exactly matching my mood. Since arriving on Thursday I've managed one night's sleep of more than three hours and been forced to sit through twelve hours of training for the fourth time, on the premise that I may have forgotten how to write on a whiteboard or structure the most simple of forty-minute lessons. Last night I had no sleep at all; tonight it's half past two and I'm sitting with a glass of water, typing on a computer, listening to the noise of traffic through an open window.