examinations & contemplation
Friday was a grand day. Friday was a day of great beauty. And do you know why? Because last Friday I completed my exams!
I cannot even begin to express my boundless joy, but allow me to make a poor attempt at it: it feels as though I have been spending the last month labouring under a stack of books, and now, some kind passer-by has lifted them off my shoulders with a, "Here, let me carry those for you.'
Actually, now that I consider it, that image is not too far removed from the truth.
Never before have I spent so much time at the library. This is quite a weighty statement, seeing as I usually spend quite a lot of time at the library - it is my haven, it is my refuge, and it is my special place. I go to the library when I am happy; I go there when I am contemplative; I go there when I am a bit down and want to smell books; I go there when I want to celebrate having handed in an essay… Whatever mood I’m in, the library welcomes me with open arms! (Though of course technically it has no arms. If the library had had arms, I am convinced it would have opened them wide to usher me in!) During the last couple of weeks, however, our relationship has been strained.
TINY BLONDE PHYSICIST: Wake up, we are off to the library!
ME: But, but it is seven o’clock, I can’t, can’t we wait? Until I am, you know, more than partly conscious?
TBP: The library waits for no man.
Turns out, she was right: arriving as we did at nine o’clock every day, we still had to struggle to find seats. Because there were students there. So many students. And they were diligent, and quiet, and studious, and probably high on the cans and cans of Red Bull they discreetly smuggled past the secret library police force. I became convinced that this police force existed because I became aware of some people’s strange behaviour; instead of revising, they were just staring off into space and fingering their mobile phones. ‘Informants!’ I hissed to TBP.
‘They’re just doing exactly what you’re doing,’ TBP pointed out in an undertone. But I was not convinced, and spent the next couple of days on the lookout.
Partly, I think I invented the top secret library agents out of sheer boredom. What with all the perfectly ordinary library guards around the place, they would probably have been superfluous. One day, when TBP and I smuggled cheap wine and cheaper chocolate cake into the library, we got caught by these perfectly ordinary library guards and became aware of the full extent of their powers.
ME: I assure you, we had no intention of eating the cake inside the library! We just came back from some midnight shopping, and it was on offer. On offer!
LIBRARY GUARD: I’m going to have to take your names for the record. Two more warnings, and your department head will take disciplinary action.
ME: This is by far the most villainous thing I have ever done. How awful! And how… strangely intoxicating.
LIBRARY GUARD: …
Not only did all my time at the library give me a taste for the life of a dastardly library criminal, it also significantly affected my vocabulary.
ME: Mlrgh.
CURLY: Good morning?
ME: Gnurh.
CURLY: I… see.
ME: The big words. Gone! All gone. Will use mono, monosyllal, mon…
CURLY: Monosyllables?
ME: WHY DOES THAT WORD HAVE MORE THAN ONE SYLLABLE.
After two weeks I kid you not of this lifestyle, I’d had enough. I reached a point when the mere thought of the library - the palpable nervousness of the students, the smell of sweat and Red Bull, the malevolence of the library informants and the itchy I-am-coming-for-your-EYES-dust - made me whimper, ‘Don’t make me go back there!’ After some persuasion, I managed to relocate most of our study sessions to the nearby café. This was preferable in that a) the atmosphere was one of joy, tea and relaxation and b) there was all the comfort food a girl in the throes of revision could wish for.
Then, after what felt like months of studying, it was time for the exams. Three long days of exams. I will not speak of how it went, because I am trying to forget. Suffice to say, I have never written the word ‘sexual’ that many times before.
After the final exam, a bunch of us English students went out to celebrate - yours truly armed with a hipflask - and there was much merriment. But then, it struck me: I was finished with exams, which also meant that I had… completed my first year. There was a moment of confused drunken panic and then I sat down heavily on the stairs of the club and thought to myself, ‘How time flies! Truly, life is transitory, just like in that, the, uh, Old English poem. Yes, I am feeling it now! “All is hardship in the earthly kingdom”…’ Inspired, I dashed to the bar.
ME: Hello, may I have a pen?
BARTENDER: Did you say ‘gin’?
ME: No, a PEN. A PEN.
BARTENDER: Okay…
Then I resumed my seat on the stairs and started to scribble, unmindful of the people trying to get past me or tipping beer over my feet. After a while, one of the English students popped over to ask me if I was okay. I gave him what I am sure must have been a frighteningly intense look, waved my tiny receipt around and said, ‘I am writing genius poetry!’
Looking over what I had written the next day, however, I realised that it was in fact not genius poetry, and that maybe I should just stick to writing essays with the word ‘sexual’ in them.
So now I’ve spent a year in England, and I wish I could say something touching and insightful about my time here. All I can say, however, is that it has been wonderful, better than anything I could have imagined*, and that I’m really looking forward to next year!
Now, weeks of just having fun stretch out before me: before returning home, I plan on exploring London with my three loyal and disposable cameras; go to see at least two plays and three bands; visit the countryside, where apparently there are blacksmiths; read for pleasure; and buy a turntable.
Okay, I lie: I have already bought the turntable! I bought it yesterday with, uh, basically all my money, and if I’d had a scanner this post would have come with pictures. It is beautiful and I love it and I am open to naming suggestions! Somehow, it just doesn’t look like a Charles Henry Featherstonehaugh III...
* This is probably not true, because I can imagine trapping a doting old aristocrat or handsome film star in an ill-advised marriage and have him lavish me with books and coronets. That may just be a bit better.
I cannot even begin to express my boundless joy, but allow me to make a poor attempt at it: it feels as though I have been spending the last month labouring under a stack of books, and now, some kind passer-by has lifted them off my shoulders with a, "Here, let me carry those for you.'
Actually, now that I consider it, that image is not too far removed from the truth.
Never before have I spent so much time at the library. This is quite a weighty statement, seeing as I usually spend quite a lot of time at the library - it is my haven, it is my refuge, and it is my special place. I go to the library when I am happy; I go there when I am contemplative; I go there when I am a bit down and want to smell books; I go there when I want to celebrate having handed in an essay… Whatever mood I’m in, the library welcomes me with open arms! (Though of course technically it has no arms. If the library had had arms, I am convinced it would have opened them wide to usher me in!) During the last couple of weeks, however, our relationship has been strained.
TINY BLONDE PHYSICIST: Wake up, we are off to the library!
ME: But, but it is seven o’clock, I can’t, can’t we wait? Until I am, you know, more than partly conscious?
TBP: The library waits for no man.
Turns out, she was right: arriving as we did at nine o’clock every day, we still had to struggle to find seats. Because there were students there. So many students. And they were diligent, and quiet, and studious, and probably high on the cans and cans of Red Bull they discreetly smuggled past the secret library police force. I became convinced that this police force existed because I became aware of some people’s strange behaviour; instead of revising, they were just staring off into space and fingering their mobile phones. ‘Informants!’ I hissed to TBP.
‘They’re just doing exactly what you’re doing,’ TBP pointed out in an undertone. But I was not convinced, and spent the next couple of days on the lookout.
Partly, I think I invented the top secret library agents out of sheer boredom. What with all the perfectly ordinary library guards around the place, they would probably have been superfluous. One day, when TBP and I smuggled cheap wine and cheaper chocolate cake into the library, we got caught by these perfectly ordinary library guards and became aware of the full extent of their powers.
ME: I assure you, we had no intention of eating the cake inside the library! We just came back from some midnight shopping, and it was on offer. On offer!
LIBRARY GUARD: I’m going to have to take your names for the record. Two more warnings, and your department head will take disciplinary action.
ME: This is by far the most villainous thing I have ever done. How awful! And how… strangely intoxicating.
LIBRARY GUARD: …
Not only did all my time at the library give me a taste for the life of a dastardly library criminal, it also significantly affected my vocabulary.
ME: Mlrgh.
CURLY: Good morning?
ME: Gnurh.
CURLY: I… see.
ME: The big words. Gone! All gone. Will use mono, monosyllal, mon…
CURLY: Monosyllables?
ME: WHY DOES THAT WORD HAVE MORE THAN ONE SYLLABLE.
After two weeks I kid you not of this lifestyle, I’d had enough. I reached a point when the mere thought of the library - the palpable nervousness of the students, the smell of sweat and Red Bull, the malevolence of the library informants and the itchy I-am-coming-for-your-EYES-dust - made me whimper, ‘Don’t make me go back there!’ After some persuasion, I managed to relocate most of our study sessions to the nearby café. This was preferable in that a) the atmosphere was one of joy, tea and relaxation and b) there was all the comfort food a girl in the throes of revision could wish for.
Then, after what felt like months of studying, it was time for the exams. Three long days of exams. I will not speak of how it went, because I am trying to forget. Suffice to say, I have never written the word ‘sexual’ that many times before.
After the final exam, a bunch of us English students went out to celebrate - yours truly armed with a hipflask - and there was much merriment. But then, it struck me: I was finished with exams, which also meant that I had… completed my first year. There was a moment of confused drunken panic and then I sat down heavily on the stairs of the club and thought to myself, ‘How time flies! Truly, life is transitory, just like in that, the, uh, Old English poem. Yes, I am feeling it now! “All is hardship in the earthly kingdom”…’ Inspired, I dashed to the bar.
ME: Hello, may I have a pen?
BARTENDER: Did you say ‘gin’?
ME: No, a PEN. A PEN.
BARTENDER: Okay…
Then I resumed my seat on the stairs and started to scribble, unmindful of the people trying to get past me or tipping beer over my feet. After a while, one of the English students popped over to ask me if I was okay. I gave him what I am sure must have been a frighteningly intense look, waved my tiny receipt around and said, ‘I am writing genius poetry!’
Looking over what I had written the next day, however, I realised that it was in fact not genius poetry, and that maybe I should just stick to writing essays with the word ‘sexual’ in them.
So now I’ve spent a year in England, and I wish I could say something touching and insightful about my time here. All I can say, however, is that it has been wonderful, better than anything I could have imagined*, and that I’m really looking forward to next year!
Now, weeks of just having fun stretch out before me: before returning home, I plan on exploring London with my three loyal and disposable cameras; go to see at least two plays and three bands; visit the countryside, where apparently there are blacksmiths; read for pleasure; and buy a turntable.
Okay, I lie: I have already bought the turntable! I bought it yesterday with, uh, basically all my money, and if I’d had a scanner this post would have come with pictures. It is beautiful and I love it and I am open to naming suggestions! Somehow, it just doesn’t look like a Charles Henry Featherstonehaugh III...
* This is probably not true, because I can imagine trapping a doting old aristocrat or handsome film star in an ill-advised marriage and have him lavish me with books and coronets. That may just be a bit better.