Once a month does not sound much, but when you see the ream of printed paper that arrives the week before, with a groaning thud on your desk, it feels like a more weighty commitment than it sounds. ‘God’, I mutter to myself. ‘Has another month gone by that quickly?’ For a moment I perceive my life ebbing away in monthly aliquots.
With a heavy heart, I take the papers home. With several evenings ahead of working through them, I decide to experiment a little: I try soft lighting and background music first. Soon though, I find myself singing along to music I have happily left in the background on countless other occasions. How about a comforting glass or two of wine instead? Hopeless, that one: halfway through the first paper I realise the evening has gone, and I have no memory of what I …