I hate week 8.
It’s Week 8. Finally. Which can only mean one thing – everything’s done and it’s time for some holiday! Can I get a woop woop?
Well no. Fundamentally not.
Because it might well be the eighth week we’ve officially been back this term, although it’s probably closer to ten, and it feels so much fucking longer, but there is still literally no end in sight.
Things really ought to be winding down, work easing off, guilt not becoming a factor in a night spent drinking and ENJOYING being alive. But, as we all know from the repulsive creatures that look back at us in the mirror each morning, which contort still further when we look past those dull skeletal wrecks and see the pile of books waiting to be skimmed and shoved on the biblio, things just never pissing stop here. And, what’s more, as an institution, they actually recognise this: the English Faculty Library extends its opening hours until 10pm in weeks 7 and 8 because, far from receding, the pressure just keeps on coming.
And I’m sick of it (although, if anyone from the Eng Fac reads this, I must admit I do really appreciate the extra hours – but it’s the principle, as always, that I’m concerned with).
Take, for example, a conversation I had with a pretty-but-dim friend the other day, which came to its inevitably premature end as I asked him if he was almost finished for the term.
“Oh yeah, more or less,” he purred, “just got an essay to finish tomorrow, then a couple of timed essays and a few bits on my dissertation.”
He sighed and looked down sorrowfully at his absurdly well defined abs and thighs.
I said nothing and left, calling the nearest docks for some rope.
And what’s even more annoying is that once we finally do finish for this term – and by finish I, of course, mean give-up-and-go-home-because-I’ve-got-nothing-left-to-give – we’ve got to sort out a revision plan and start on that.
Fuck that, is the response I usually give when thoughts of highlighters and gel pens and hot, sweaty, restless libraries full of usually fit people who suddenly think it’s ok not to shower because they’re under a bit of pressure come into my head. But then I look to the future, and the job market that America and the Banks and, would you believe it, Margaret Thatcher, all had a hand in screwing over.
So we feel we’ve got to revise, if only to guarantee our grades will make the big 2:1, which incidentally looks set to be the future ratio between the amount we’ll be taxed to the amount we’ll be paid.
So my friend may well mournfully admire his gym-toned body (and radiant skin), but those spray tans won’t be on tap the other side of Easter term, when daddy turns off the tap and Maggie starts cutting public spending, so he’d better get revising.
That’s right. Lent term has just about finished, and exam term is about to begin.
What a load of old shit.