This is where I did most of my degree: an old corner desk that was never really designed for handwritten notes, but which I gradually turned into a small command centre.
Around me were the essentials of higher education: two monitors, highlighter pens, speakers, a giant King Julien mug requiring several hot-beverage refills a day, and a Maltese fertility goddess keeping watch over proceedings.
Tasmania featured heavily. Photos from Mum and my trip rotated across one screen, while a small Tasmanian Devil sat beneath the other as my unofficial UTAS mascot.
Above the desk were magpies saying “wardle oodle ardle woodle”, a favourite photo of my husband with Spook and Ebony, a llama that vaguely represented Peru, and assorted objects collected over the years whose academic purpose was difficult to establish but whose presence was apparently essential.
Winter study required a poncho, extra jumper and fingerless gloves. Concentration was maintained through soft Spotify playlists and the Pomodoro technique: 25 minutes of study followed by five minutes in which I could stretch, make tea, stare into space or wonder why strategic management required quite so much sociology.
It was cluttered, slightly eccentric and completely mine.
And somehow, from that little corner, a degree happened.