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No, its not a review of Sartre's novel, but my current state. It's been a regular lechorous companion since I was young. One of my earliest memories was feeling trapped in nausea, my toddler self clinging onto the coarse orange cushion of our old second-hand settee, limpet-like, as the room became full of visiting Irish voices. My Dad's relatives on a rare visit to Hulme, Manchester circa 1975/6. I tell myself now, thirty-five/six years later that this spate of l'nausee is due to the PhD - I'm planning on printing and submitting it tomorrow. Last week the nausea was due to the mock viva. Before that the stress of academic self-doubt combined with economic insecurity and job hunting. Maybe I'm so hyper-sensitive that life is one long bout of nausea? Am I perhaps living in bad faith - is that what the nausea is a symptom of? Whatever it is, I am submitting this PhD tomorrow. And then I shall wait to be called to the real viva. Perhaps I'll take a bottle of ginger beer in with me (ginger is meant to be good for nausea). And after that I shall set about planning a lovely holiday. And be nauseous at leisure.


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