[1] I'd like to discuss some ways in which our academic lives are advantageous to us, and how lucky many of us are; but I would also like to point out that we have much work to do if we are to preserve our (relatively) lucky status.[2] My own connection to disability is tenuous, and some might say dubious. As a long-term survivor of AIDS (now for more than twenty years), I wrote a chapter for the Lerner & Straus collection (Attinello 2006, 13-22) on fatigue and chronic illness in connection with music. As I stressed in that paper, I know that not everyone considers a long-term illness to be a disability, and I don't think of them as being quite the same, myself; nevertheless many governments (including that of the United Kingdom) define AIDS and other illnesses as disabilities in awarding benefits. So, at least in legal and political terms, there is something to talk about here.[3] In that context, I'd like to represent a point of view not just on AIDS, but all chronic illnesses-I'm thinking of multiple sclerosis and other conditions that create intermittent fatigue, as well as diseases like cancer, where both the disease and the treatment can create ongoing weakness and depression. I'd also include psychological conditions, such as bipolar and depressive disorders. What these very different conditions have in common is that they may-with the emphasis on may-make it difficult for people to fulfill normal workplace expectations: such difficulty may be intermittent, or permanent, or progressive, or static; but that difficulty can have a significant effect on working lives and careers.Let me make some cuts into the problem.Cut I: From Oxford to Community College[4] Because we are academics, we are heir to a tradition of exceptionally flexible work situations: as a lecturer at a British research university, I don't have to show up at a particular time each day, I don't have to do all of my work in the office, and there are days when I'm not even expected to come in. Of course I have the scattered, complex burdens of preparing and teaching lectures and supervising students, of keeping my research going on several fronts, and of administering various programs and procedures (in fact, British academics often have far more administration than most North Americans-unfortunately). But flexible times and circumstances, not to mention vast stretches of time around Christmas, Easter, and in the summer months, make the whole very unlike wage slavery. I can strongly attest to the difference, as between 1977 and 1997 I worked at various forty-hour-a-weekjobs; and the difference has become deeply important to me-I think that, even without a chronic illness, I would never again let a boss insist that I show up every day at 8:30.[5] Our habits reflect an earlier version of the intellectual vocation, when an Oxford don would potter through old buildings among beautiful lawns, chatting with colleagues, occasionally lecturing, and thinking vaguely about his three-volume masterwork on the boll weevil. Of course, we live very differently than that don, with much more pressure and many more demands-but, at least in a research university, we do manage to defend ourselves against the restructuring of those demands into the equivalent of full-time office work. Unfortunately, not all universities are equal in this: in Britain, there is a huge difference between what are called pre-1992 and post-1992 universities-the latter were once called polytechnics. Post-92 schools are generally much more rigid in their demands; my friend Patrick, who teaches mathematics at the post-92 university next to my pre-92 one, has much longer contact hours than I do, and is required to be in his office for thirty-eight specified hours a week, for all but six weeks a year-and then is not allowed to go into his office at all for those six weeks.[6] Now, aside from the fact that I hate the idea of having to work that way, I know that it would have been impossible for me to function on that basis over the past twenty years. …