The continual sound of drills. High pitched, then lower pitched as they cut through concrete. I daren't look out of the window. What's happening out there?
The fizz of a lorry's brakes. The clattering of metal poles being thrown onto metal poles. A chugging in the distance (the worksite stretches all around the building). The distant throbbing of engines …
It's driving me mad, I tell W. on the phone. I can't hear a thing. I can't work. I can't read (W.: 'that's a good excuse'). I can't write (W.: 'You could never write'). Wasn't I suppose to be taking my Polyani notes? Wasn't I supposed to be sending them to him?
Stand well clear, vehicle reversing: a warning from a tannoyed male voice. And now warnings overlapping warnings as many vehicles reverse: Stand well clear… Stand well clear… Stand well clear… And now a a high pitched throb, very loud, like a helicopter landing. Surely a helicopter isn't landing? A helicopter couldn't be landing …
A thick smell – is it tar? They must be pouring tar. They must be making some kind of route for the lorries. A hiss as of gas escaping. The high beeping of a reversing vehicle. Everything's reversing, I tell W. The whole world's reversing.
They're remaking the world behind the high glossy fences with photographs of begoggled scientists of every nationality. They're rebuilding the campus! And does it need to be rebuilt? Do they need the new office blocks for private partners of the university? Do they need to storm heaven with new glass monoliths?
My head's aching, I tell W. My head's going to burst.
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