In the fossil record they call it punctuated equilibrium. You just blink and, wham, a species appears in a bedding plane. This is my current bedtime reading. I selected it for its research relevance, but it's quickly becoming a page turner with familiar characters whose situation I can relate to. Were the first few pioneer individuals of a species intimidated by the big ecological niche waiting to be conquered? As I move to my new lecturer position, I ponder this with some empathy.

“Whose group are you working for?” is becoming a common question when I meet new faces at coffee time. It's as if they're asking, “So what species are you?” My reply: “My own.” For the first time in my career I am not starting a job as part of a research team. I'm starting alone. Of course I still have distant collaborations, but nothing nearby. My group must grow if it is to persist.

Growth needs funding, and funding calls have deadlines — 32 days to go in my case. So I'm considering some ideas and meeting the locals and their research interests, face to face. Either I go it alone with my existing collaborators, or establish a new, joint project with researchers in my new department. The latter sounds good, but have I got time? I suspect it's a rate of adaptation that few of my fossilized friends would have had to endure.