Fraudster!

I went to one of the universities today. They have more or less offered me a job on their top whack pay scale, which comes as a surprise because I hadn’t ever stopped to think I could be worth it, nor had I ever considered I might land a job in a university. When I was at university, the staff fell into broad categories of (a) social inadequates, (b) mousy women with mousy glasses and (c) bearded men with leather elbow patches in the style of a history teacher (apologies to any history teachers reading this but fess up – you’ve probably worn one).

So which category would I fall into? (and before you mention my extreme short-sightedness, think again because I have dynamic new specs).

At least half of the SLTs reading this will know what I mean when I say we are “always waiting to be found out”. I graduated from university with sound theoretical knowledge (and a clinical distinction, having pulled the wool over the examiner’s eyes good and proper) but not the foggiest idea how I should apply it to my patients, a complaint I’ve heard many times from colleagues trained at different universities during different decades. We suffer from under-confidence because the previous generation of SLTs (who taught us) also didn’t have the foggiest how to apply their knowledge, so they holed themselves up in academia where they felt safe with their research grants and criticised every clinical move we made. I have a bee in my bonnet about this, so I’ll stop ranting before my head falls off. I therefore believe that someone someday will find me out. After today, I think my time might be up. I’m definitely going to be rumbled.

The visit to the university was exciting and depressing in equal measures. Their facilities, working conditions and general environment are astounding. Their set up is like a utopian vision of how things ought to be, complete with palm trees and parrots in the garden. They also know their onions about the particular field I’d be working in. I most definitely do not know my onions. I can barely recognise my broccoli if we are going to speak in metaphors, hence the feeling of panic in the pit of my stomach about being rumbled.

“Okay, I’ll have to be straight with you, I’d need a lot of support to do this job”
“We’ll give it to you”
“It’s a heck of a commute from home” (try 12,000 miles)
“You can leave early to miss the traffic”
“I have no childcare either”
“We can hang around until you find some. You’d be really good at this job”

The manager has a masters degree from Cambridge. My brain is roughly half the diameter of hers, yet she has the sort of head that would look nice in a hat. Where’s the justice in that?

So, readers, the question is, do I work two days a week for the next twelve months, or do I sack the whole thing off and slouch about in cafes and museums? Both are once-in-a-lifetime opportunities and I’m not sure what to do. Your thoughts are appreciated.