Why I am mad

PEOPLE think I am mad, which I am, of course. But they think I am really mad.

Why, they ask, have I chucked a decent job and gone for an academic qualification -- and energetic sofa-lifting -- that will not make me rich, famous and popular, since I am already rich, famous and immensely popular?

In answer, let me reproduce what I wrote to convince the folks at my university, who asked me the same:

This is my sabbatical after nearly 10 years in journalism. As a journalist fighting constant deadlines, what I have missed most is the opportunity to give all I have to a news report or feature.

Events unfold before me; I am an eyewitness to history in the making. And all I can think of is my deadline, how to get the maximum in minimum time.

In the race to present a ‘comprehensive picture’, to ‘cover all angles’, the minutes of the event --- the little bricks that go into building it -- fall only in my peripheral vision.

I see those fleetingly. I wish I have time to stand and stare.

I never have.

This is my chance, my chance to stand and stare. This offers me a luxury that journalism rarely does: to focus on a topic of my choice, a topic I am passionate about, closely, minutely.

Which, as you can probably make out, is mostly bull. What really brings me here is the glamour of a certain prefix.

That, and the weather.