My 24 hours in the IC

As I tentatively packed my overnight bag on Friday and dug out the least offensive snacks from the depths of my cupboard, I felt very much like a lamb ready for slaughter.

Even so, after a night spent tossing and turning in anticipation, I clocked into the IC at 10am bright eyed and bushy tailed, ready for whatever the IC wanted to throw at me. I went in eager and enthusiastic, with dreams of witnessing things no one had ever seen before and of putting an end to our hostile relationship.

My short lived composure was lost in a matter of minutes, as I was left trawling up and down the 7 flights of stairs until I found the only last available group work space; a biro smudged table that let out a piercing squeak at every breath or move of a limb.

Wheezing and sweating profusely was not the positive start I’d had in mind, and I could no longer stomach the prospect of my IC cafe breakfast. I’d fallen at the first hurdle.

Too nervy for a solid brekky.

The whole situation was only made worse by the arrival of Sam and Robyn, who were nothing less than appalled at the choice of table. With every sweep of a pen and subsequent squeak, I watched the rage boil over Sam’s face and I knew I should have tried harder. Whilst 10am is the crack of dawn to me, it’s Friday night rush hour in the IC.

I tried to divert the attention onto our IC cafe lunch. Despite the fact this is 2014, there’s no menu available online. As an IC cafe virgin I had hopes of pesto and mozzarella Panini’s, luscious pastries and exotic fruit. Sitting down at the cold wooden table after 15 minutes deliberation over a ‘pizza wrap’ (Is that a thing?), I knew if anything was going to push me over the edge it was another mediocre IC meal.

Sam came prepared with his own lunch time treats.

15:00pm came the charger crisis. Not only was the table offensively squeaky but it’s plug situation was less than desirable. Edie and Robyn made a quick trip home for an extension lead, and as I watched them skip merrily downstairs, the reality of another 19 hours in the confines of those 4 walls began to hit home. I got up to open a window then realised the IC is just one oversized, greenhouse like prison. Suddenly, my limbs began to feel weird and I had an overwhelming desire to stretch myself out over the carpet of Level Four and groan loudly. Luckily, I refrained.

Morale was soon boosted by the delivery of a KFC into the cafe. I’m not proud of it but I’m also a great believer in fried chicken being the answer to all of life’s problems, and if there was any time I needed some southern fried goodness in my life; it was now.

Salvation.

The weak all went home for their dinners and I managed to buckle down to some serious work, with a hysterical enthusiasm never felt before. A critique of capital theory in geography? Let me hear it. Leisure and travel in contemporary societies? Please, tell me more.

The half way point was marked with a visit from Ellie and Matt and the delivery of coke (drinkable). Honestly I’d never felt better. I talked them through the trials and tribulations with good humour and laughed off the prospect of another 12 hours; I’d come this far, surely it was plain sailing from here?

“I can do it!”

Midnight saw the long anticipated relocation into a group room; finally a private Tab space where I could stretch to my heart’s content and be as thoroughly annoying as I desired. Before long, it was no longer a Tab space but a solitary Daisy space; yet as I watched everyone pile in the lift for home I still remained unphased. I could do this.

As an individual in a group room I knew I was on dangerous ground, under the threat of eviction by the IC sheriff, I quickly packed up my stuff and moved down to Level 2 silent area. Level four was abuzz with large groups of raucous third years clearly mistaking it for a social club.

You can see the cabin fever.

I lasted 4 minutes on Level 2 area before the deafening silence, smell of sweat and too much learning pushed me straight over the edge. Here saw the beginning of not a gentle dignified decline, but a full speed meltdown. By 3:30am I was back in the IC cafe, rocking myself with a coffee and trying to FaceTime my Mum to send help.

“All my friends and I…”

From then on in it wasn’t pretty. The bright, gaudy colour schemes of Levels 2-4 became nauseating and the walk up to Level 6 was clearly out of the question; so I took to a corner of level 1 where I spent the next few hours staring into space, googling “How Tired Do You Have To Be To Die”, and documenting my severe decline with ugly selfies.

At 7am the early risers began slowly filtering in. I made my way up back to Level 4 to hide and physically almost recoiled back out of the lift upon seeing my reflection. Imagine Gollum crossed with Voldermort. My skin was greyer than a Sheffield sky and my eyes, once green and circular, were no more than dull, bloodshot slits. It was at this point I enlisted the #PrayForDaisy hashtag.

Here I was able to sleep safely without the threat of the power hungry IC Sherrif kicking me out and revoking my U-card privileges. I managed a modest 40 minutes. Upon waking 8am seemed like an appropriate time for my last red bull and some cold pesto pasta. It wasn’t. I remained stationary in the fetal position for the next two hours.

Concealed nap time…

There’d been rumors floating around that come the 24 hour there’d be a name call on the tannoy to check I wasn’t dead. At this point I wasn’t sure if I was actually was dead or not, nor was I in anyway certain of my own name; but regardless, as 10am drew near I was excited at my chance of IC fame and a trip to the Info Desk.

Slowly dying.

It wasn’t true. It was a lie. 10am came and nothing happened; if you plan on doing a 24 hour stint with the hope of said tannoy check then don’t, you will be disappointed. I clocked out, my eyes burning and my entire body on the verge of convulsing, and still nothing. No automatic music or confetti as I swiped my U-card over the barrier.

A day on and I am still not okay. The jet lag like lethargy and loss of motivation for all normal human tasks is nothing compared to the haunting memory of one of the worst experiences of my life and the huge gaping hole that has been stripped from my soul.

#PrayForDaisy