Friday night I went from a raucous discussion on Contemporary Lit to an only slightly less raucous on Tai Chi. Both were in preperation for exams I was going to be having the next day. (This sort of disjointedness has characterised my studies this semester – and I’m loving it.)

There were five of us in that second meeting in the near empty caf. At one point, as we scribbed down notes on the article, A. paused to remark that three of us were left handed. And it was true, only two of us didn’t have our arms half-twisted over our papers.
And that of course prompted a discussion on the right-handed nature of the world. One of the girls was surprised to discover that scissors are made for right handed people. And I had to laugh, when A. pointed out that mugs are, too – the labels are on the wrong side.
And I remembered J., our resident Maltese, who, in his 312 presentation wrote on the board, and I couldn’t help noticing that though right-handed, he wrote like he was left-handed.

I love the randomness. Especially when it’s so abundant, as it has been lately.

Like turning into the secluded path that goes into MacCorry and seeing a tall young man at the top of the steps dancing by himself: a silent, hand pumping joyous dance that had him soaring above the arches.

Stopping for the shock of colour of the young tree just outside Douglas. The purple-red leaves breathtakingly beautiful against the near black bark and the steel grey sky.