Patrick Leigh-Pemberton: On working hard or hardly working?

There are few more confusing minefields in the life of a student than the work life balance. We are defined by society’s expectation of minimal productivity, and yet, every now and again, the institution who has accepted us expects a little something. Be it an essay, or a lab report. Or indeed a presentation, these demands are often not so easily met as people in the real world would like to believe. And yet, Society also expects us to have a certain amount of fun. University students are meant to occasionally go to parties. It really is expected of us. At least, I like to think so, and I would take it very personally if any of you were to try and correct me.

This can often lead to a very difficult situation. You have accepted the invitation of drinks/supper/dancing/general all-round young person fun things, but realise that you also have to do some work the next day, or worse, that evening, in order to be ready for the next day. Often you will just back out with an apologetic text, and everything will be fine. The real difficulty is when you decide that you can go for “just a couple of hours”. You arrive, you chat, you meet some new people, wave at old ones, maybe have a soda or two (“no, honestly, I have a 9 o’clock tomorrow and have to do some work”), and are generally having a good time. And then it dawns on you. This party is beginning to settle in. The chances of leaving subtly when everyone else moves on are slim, as no one seems likely to move on. What do you do? (this, by the way, is practically my conclusion, so if you are expecting resolution from this article, I apologise)

You may think that this is a trivial problem, but I can assure you it is not so. A modern day Wilde might remark (note the comparison to respected literary talent, adding gravitas to whatever I have to say without actually reducing the originality of my own prose, isn’t that neat?) that  the only thing worse than being careless about appearances at parties, is being careless about disappearances from parties. To whom, exactly, do you say goodbye? At a small soirée, there is no contest. You say goodbye to the host, then occupy as central a position as possible and wave at the assembled company. It is a friendly evening, and no one minds. A large party is harder to gauge. The last person you spoke to is an obvious one, without making it seem like they are the reason you are leaving, the host is inevitable (however much they are on the far side of the room talking to someone you despise, you must). But who else? New people you have met seems like a good idea, but you probably can’t remember their names. Old people to whom you haven’t spoken? But they might start a real conversation, and then you are back at square one, and everyone to whom you have said goodbye gets slightly miffed by your continuing presence. You can’t pull off the airy wave here, as everyone will think you are about to make a speech or something equally hideously embarrassing, and will start doing the sssssssh thing they do when such an offering appears on the cards, and then you really are stuffed. Similarly, just saying goodbye to one or two people seems a little rude. I have decided that there is only one option. That is to call the Fife Council and register a noise complaint. No one really minds. The host is pleased, as it means that they threw a cool party. The guests won’t mind at all, as it was probably dragging on a bit anyway (I mean, if you genuinely thought about returning to the library, it must have been a bit dull), and the Council noise team get to put another house on their warned list, fulfilling their purpose, and protecting the citizens of St. Andrews. This doesn’t work at supper parties. People will notice what you are saying on the phone.