She Hadn't Realised He Was Going To Be So Young

Photo by Mahmudur Rahman on Unsplash

Mike walked back upstairs to ASH*, after a two-hour session that had promised an Introduction to PhD supervision for new lecturers. He was gingerly holding an oily and sugar-filled flapjack, and some green tea in a Gravestown logo plastic keep-cup. (These were costly at £9, but the university still sold plenty). Yet again, the backstairs offered the only deserted space in this teeming campus. Any faculty visitor would notice straight away that all Gravestown’s healthy young folk (as well as the older and possibly less healthy staff -and also all those people who genuinely couldn’t do stairs) seemed to spend long minutes queueing patiently - and not-so-patiently - in small crowds, waiting for the overcrowded lift to bring them up from the ground floor to ASH on floor 2.

Mike’s shoulders slumped. There was a cheery notice on Harry Dickinson’s door:

Out until Wednesday. Please refer urgent queries to FAM**. Thanks!

As Mike fumbled for his key, juggling flapjack and cup, a splash of boiling tea scalded his fingers. He turned. A young woman with an irritated look on her face was zooming in on him.

“Are you Dr Williams?” Izzie asked; and couldn’t be bothered to hide that she doubted it. She said,

“I need to see Dr Williams - they’ve allocated me to him”.

“Yes, I’m Dr Mike Williams - call me Mike”, the guy said, unlocking the door awkwardly.

Izzie appraised him while he fumbled at the door. She picked discreetly at a bit of rough skin on her thumb.

“You’re Isobel, right? Let me get in and get this tea down first”.

Izzie felt her face pinch tight -

“It’s Izzie - not Isobel”.

Door open, she made her way into Mike’s office ahead of him, without offering to help with the keep-cup-and-flapjack situation. That was his problem. And she hadn’t realised he was going to be so young. How was this going to work? She felt as though she was already being rude, but somehow, she couldn’t help herself.

Izzie threw herself heavily into one of the two chairs and sat, repeatedly snapping one of several charity rubber wristbands that she wore onto her inner wrist. She kind of knew she was doing this, and she also knew it could be irritating to other people, but that was their problem. She realised she was slumping, and sat forward. She was ready; was he, now that he’d sorted out his snacks?

Mike stood up to close the open door. Didn’t he know anything?

Izzie told him flatly,

“We have open-door supervisions here. In case of sexual harassment by lecturers”.

Mike looked embarrassed. But the cause was unclear; was it the sexual harassment thing, or what he was about to say next?

“It’s my first week here. First day, actually”.

Oh whaaaat? Was she being palmed off with a total junior, now? Had Gravestown just dumped her, then? Given up on her?

He went on.

“I’ve not finished all my induction work yet, so I’m sorry, but I’ve not really got a proper idea of all the policies and processes around here - or the details of what your thesis is about; but I’m excited to be working with you”.

Izzie picked at her thumb. ‘Policies and Processes’? First Fucking Day? Not one bit of this sounded promising. Time to do a first test. She looked up from her sore thumb, to ask,

“You’re younger than I expected. Is this your first job?”

She leaned forward a bit.

“Am I your first ever PhD student?”

She sat back, breathed out. Was she being rude again? But she had to know - had a right to know, surely?

Mike sipped his tea.

(‘Set the right tone at the outset, or things can go badly. Be warm, inspire confidence - but don’t get over-familiar’.)

“Well of course, there’s pluses and minuses here”, he was saying.

(‘If you’re young faculty, it can help to remind students occasionally of your qualifications and expertise.’)

“And because it’s not so long ago that I finished my own PhD, I can still remember what it’s like to be in that position - to have a thesis to finish”.

Izzie flinched. She felt her anxiety rising. This ‘only just finished, myself’ business was meant to be a plus? He was burbling. Didn’t look very confident - or confidence-inspiring. But she listened, unable to allow hope to ebb away just yet. He was saying,

“And because up to now I’ve been doing my post-doc research, I’ve not had to do much teaching or admin, so I’ve had time to read a lot. You’ll find me pretty up to date with a lot of literature”.

Izzie listened carefully to this last bit - was he saying that the other supervisors were out of date, then? Was there something in that idea - or was it more Gravestown bullshit? She couldn’t even tell any more.

Mike went on,

“I want to help you. I hope we can have some interesting discussions. What’s your thesis topic?”

About time. But how was he going to react to this?

Second test. She watched him closely as she spoke, slowly.

“Wicca and women’s spirituality among lesbian-feminist communities in UK”.

She sat back and watched. Waited.

Mike sat silent for a moment, taking another sip of tea and fiddling with the flapjack wrapper, depositing oil on his fingers, trousers and shirt in the process. He looked pained at his smart new keyboard, and rummaged on the desk for a wet wipe.

Izzie observed him.

Wet-wipes on the desk, drinking green tea, came running up those stairs like fucking Shaun T.; but he’s eating those crappy flapjacks. And the plastic logo cup? Gauche! Weird. And he seems more worried about his greasy keyboard than my thesis. Oh - he is going to speak. About time. Go on, then.

“Ah, that’s going to be very interesting for me”.

Don’t lie. I can tell. Wrong answer. Zero engagement.

He said,

“I don’t know anything about the subject”

I’ll bet.

“But as you know -”

(‘-make them aware and remind them often’-)

“- a PhD student is their own subject expert, in charge of making their own bibliographies. This is your thesis!”

(-‘encourage ownership and self-responsibility’.)

He sounds like he’s repeating some crappy call-centre script. I know it’s MY thesis. But it’s THEIR job to help me write it.

Mike said,

“Where I can definitely help is in working through the material with you and helping you frame your analytical stance. Who are you using?”

Oh, maybe he’s got something, after all. He’s gone straight in with the theory. That’s hopeful. Third test.

“Oh, you know, the obvious ones - Asa Trulsson, Butler, a bit of Lacan. Maybe some Elizabeth Grosz, Ursula King, and of course, a lot of Irigaray. I’ve been looking over summer at Shai Feraro. But I’m still trying to work through what I can really use, you know? Nobody’s getting it exactly right”.

Hope he understands what I mean. Maybe, if he’s read as much as he says, we can talk theory. Maybe he will be different from the others, after all?

Mike took another sip of tea and shoved a piece of flapjack into his mouth, scattering his trousers with more oil and crumbs as he did so.

More buying time, but what was he actually thinking?

He said,

“Mmmmm, well, I think we’re going to have some great conversations. How about if I read everything you’ve written so far, over the next few days, and we meet for a proper supervision next week? How many words have you got so far? You’re in your 4th year, right? When’s your final submission deadline?”

Oh, really? I drop all those interesting concepts and heavy names on you, you promise me that you’re up to date with theory and ready to engage - and then you’re just like, how many words have you got? what’s your deadline? Just like all the others!

Several shades of expression flitted across Izzie’s face, most of them hostile, and she couldn’t be bothered to hide any of them, before she said, carefully, twiddling her rubber wristbands,

“Well, I’ve had a really bad year, so I’m still sort of where I was at the end of 2nd year, when they passed me through for thesis continuation. I’ve had a lot to deal with, so I didn’t get much done in 3rd year.”

Please don’t make me tell you the whole story again. It’s all in the files. If you’d bloody read them, you’d know all the stuff I’ve had to deal with. Just don’t judge me. I’m not this.

Mike was looking concerned. Was that concern for her - or for the stupid Gravestown deadline regulations or something?

He was asking,

“So, how many words exactly have you got so far - and what kind of shape is it in? A decent 2nd draft? That’s what we’d aim for in final year”.

Fuck! And fuck him! No dodging here. Don’t judge me. I’m not this.

She was picking at her thumb really hard now, enough to make it bleed a bit. She knew it looked bad, but she couldn’t control it.

“Well, I’ve got almost 60,000, and it’s sort of a bit messy, erm, maybe more like a 1st draft. They let me through to final year cos they know I can do it, they know I can finish - I’m an AHRC*** scholarship student, did they tell you?”

Izzie jutted her chin up and set her mouth firm, but it was a little shaky. She bit the inside of her lip, hoping it was discreet enough not to notice.

Don’t fucking cry and don’t apologise. Explain. Make him understand.

“But I’ve got so much going on in my life. And then - my old supervisor was so unsupportive. And the PhD cohort are all hopeless - nobody is into serious theory like I am, so I’ve got literally nobody to talk to. They’re mostly all applied sociology people. Stats and stuff, not ideas, you know? It’s been so awful”.

“And your final deadline?”

Izzie looked at the floor. Was he even listening? He was obsessed. And this was another straight question that could not be dodged. Man-bully!

“June”.

Izzie tasted blood inside her mouth. This is horrible. I’m not this. Am I this?

She slumped back in her chair and began to fiddle again with the rubber wristbands. ‘Empowered women empower women’, read one; she quickly moved it to the back, leaving on show only ‘No means No!’ This was all so unfair. Embarrassing. He was just like all the others.

Mike was speaking again.

“Well, that’s lot of work, for sure, but, erm, you sound like you know what you’re doing”

(-‘as a supervisor, you must offer confidence and positivity, even when you don’t feel optimistic for the student’).

His voice is ridiculous - bright, cheerful. This situation is dire, and he knows it. This is because he’s so inexperienced. He gets how serious this is, and what a mess I’m in, but he can’t understand why - and he has no fucking idea what to do. How’s he going to help me? How the fuck can I finish by June?

He was scribbling now - a Post-it - and handing it over, saying,

“And now I’m on board to support you. Sometimes a fresh pair of eyes can really help. Send me what you’ve got so far and we’ll meet for feedbacks. I’ll do this urgently, because we don’t have time to waste here. Will this Wednesday morning be ok? Here’s my email ID. I only just got it set up, I don’t think I’ll be in the system yet”.

Izzie took the Post-it without a thank you. Nothing to thank him for so far. She couldn’t understand why he was insisting on having to read what she’d done up to now. It’s all shit, there’s no point. What would really help would be to talk through the theory framework with someone who actually understands.

Izzie mumbled,

“OK”, without meeting Mike’s eyes and went out, far more gently than she’d come in.

*ASH = Arts, Soc Sci & Humanities Faculty

**FAM = Faculty Administration Matrix

***AHRC = Arts and Humanities Research Council

I first drafted this a gazillion years ago. Life became very lifey. I’m back on it and determined now to Get This Fucker Finished for 2026.

What do you want to know? Ask, if there’s anything. I have a full draft, list of characters, synopsis, if you’re interested. Even a query letter that I was forced to compose at a writing workshop back in 2023. Sod that, I’m doing it self-pub or indie now.

I changed narrator voice several times (Mike’s mum POV; impersonal omniscient; multiple) and am still smoothing text from all those shifts; you’ll notice infelicities of tense, voice, and formatting around that. Sorry. You might even spot some head-hopping (please God no, surely I’ve not?) I’ve settled on using close 3rd for a few main characters and impersonal for minors; and impersonal for whenever we’re alone with Mike. I’ll never go into his head. All this feels like knitting an Aran cable jumper - and I’m a crocheter, not a knitter. Money no object, I’d be hiring an editor right about 2 years ago.

Themes include: post-neolib institutional hellholes; miseries of the specifically academic sort; diversities of several kinds, and some of them do not play nicely together; projections and (mis)representations; absurdities; personal change and maturing.

Dr Mike Williams is a young Black lecturer from a working-class background, who is pinching himself in gratitude that he’s managed to get an academic probationary post. His mum and nan are massively proud of their boy. But by the end of the academic year, he’ll be weighing up whether this dream job is actually a nightmare. One of his many troubles is that he’s been allocated to Izzie, one of those ‘problem PhD students’, in a very unsuitable match.

If you want to meet Izzie’s partner, here they come:

On Campus

Teresa at the Barber’s

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October 13, 2025

On Campus is a novel about lecturers, grad students, admin and support personnel: all of them in a hell that is more realist but only slightly less literal than the one in Kuang’s Katabasis. I first-drafted it in 2018; then my life started lifeing very intensely. Things are finally settling, and I’m on the 4th round of rewrites. Someday, this fucker wil…