Baewatch: Where to find the love of your life in Cambridge
Scientifically proven success (maybe)
Ah, university. “The glory days”, they say. “So many memories”, they chuckle. “So many lovers”, they wink.
Silence. A tumbleweed rolls past and swiftly catches fire. Your edgy new wall tapestry from Amazon dot com has fallen down from the wall. A relative of some description has just called and dropped the old "soOoOoo any progressions in your dehydrated love life ;;;;)))))” line. Best get to it then. Fear not, grasshopper. I have tried and tested the prime bae-catching hotspots in Cambridge so that you don’t have to.
This would seem an obvious starting point. A conveyor belt of suitors all at your fingertips. Is–is that someone coming towards me? Already? Wow, that was eas–oh, no, no thank you, I don't want to take a punting tour today.
Picture the scene: you have galloped on down to Mainsbury’s to scoop up some edible companions for the all-nighter essay crisis black-hole you have inflicted upon yourself. You reach for your favourite snack, at the exact same time as a mysterious…ly attractive stranger. An awkward brush of the hand and wait for it…actual eye-contact commences. You've done it. Start drawing up the wedding table plan now, you have found the one. If this doesn’t happen straight away, no worries! Simply outsmart fate by standing by the hummus and tapping every pot like a game of Bop It until you accidentally-on-purpose brush hands with a fellow Sainsbrarian, or until the nice lady from till three politely escorts you outside.
Don’t ask an English student for advice on this. I just dropped my fluffy pen like Cher did in Clueless but no one picked it up for me. Horrified, I glance around. Where is everyone? Have I come to the right room? Hello?
The ADC Bar
Brian on the streets, "54 Camdram credits" in the sheets. Haha anyway, did you know that he’s in a thing this week? And another *thing* the week after next? You decide to add him on Facebook (you know, in case he becomes the next Eddie Redmayne or something), but more so to keep up to date with every –thing- after thing after //thing// that he’s in. THING.
It’s 2am. You’ve lost your friends. You just want chips. When Despacito calls, it’s time to go into survival mode. Drink yourself young, wild and carefree enough to flutter around from vague acquaintance to vague acquaintance telling them they’re beautiful and that you love their outfit. Now your seminar crush thinks you’re weird. Tragic. “The club isn’t the best place to find a lover” – Edward Sheeran, 2017.
Doggy paddle your way through the inevitable pool of tears that will flow when you realise you panic-bought into the extortionate membership fees for fear of fomo. Spy future bae peering at the debating podium from the modest heights of the fourth row. Are…are they also…lamenting the state of their finances? Perhaps this was money well spent after all. Point of information? Your number, please.
This seemed like a right old jolly laugh at the time. Make a group with the gals. Swipe to the left, swipe to the right, criss-cross and all that jazz. Happy days. Small talk about your college with Jasper who does Bio Natsci to your heart’s content because, well, he does Bio Natsci, so you’ll probably never run into him, right? Wrong. Suddenly, I am seeing Jasper everywhere. No, I mean literally, he must’ve cycled past me in town about five times today and dear God has he seen me or am I just weirdly attentive to my surroundings. Either that or I truly am an unrecognisably ugly Catfish.
I am yet to find someone who takes one look at me on the treadmill and exclaims with delight, “wow, is that a crying tomato? I must court her immediately”. But hey, maybe you’re a Blue or one of those people that don’t sweat or something. If so, go forth; procreate with fellow gorgeous gym humans. But know that I hate you.
Look, this was not how I envisioned browsing the catalogue of eligible young singles at the tender age of nineteen either, but Cambridge has that adorable habit of catapulting you from bed, to library, to Cindies, to bed, like a tired, fragile pinball. When pressing times arise, one must learn to multitask. A couple hundred words on Marxist theory here, a glance at the spice over there, it’s just natural selection, really. Overcome the language of ~silence~ by sliding chosen library crush a note, or better still, writing them a dubious Crushbridge.
(Real talk, someone did this to me once, but I never heard back when I left a casual-but-cute-and-available “lol” in the comments, so I guess love is dead after all).