Pierre Bourdieu on the Sociology of Translation

I'm sitting in the Wolfson Research Exchange, a part of the Library reserved for PhDs. Every place is taken, but an uncanny silence reigns over the room, as everyone pretends as hard as they can to be working on their dissertation. The fact is that we all believe that the others are well-organised, self-disciplined researchers, who are just now ticking off items off their daily, weekly and monthly to-do lists, and so we all do what researchers do best: keep up appearances.
Me, I can tell you right now that the Humanities Building I can see through the window has no less than four parabolic antennae on its roof, versus two old-school bent-wire affairs and two brave, but rather mangy-looking bushes. Also, a strech limo version of a Hummer just drove by on University road, which begs the question, who has their hen night on campus, in the middle of a sunny Wednesday. Or which Department Head decided to show that the power of positive thinking can overcome the recession.
The Humanities building has a sad little Japanese garden in its patio, and it seems the cherry tree has gotten into its mind that blossoming time will be any day now: it's covered in little pale pink buds, upon which some very happy birds are feasting as I write.
There is also, you'll be happy to know, a cloud shaped very much like a Fedora in the sky.