Carla Jenkins: On the frontline of revision

Alas, my dear readers, the time has come. It is a time we have all been dreading, fearing, praying for its delay. The silhouettes appeared, fresh across the horizon of no-man’s land (the library entrance), and from that day on there has been no going back. Revision Week, fellow procrastinators, is upon us.

You know it. I know it. The local living in the flat underneath us knows it. From the moment we hit snooze on our alarms, the whole town knows it. St. Andrews is thrown into a furor. Comrades march up and down market street, provisions (in the form of Tesco value onion rings and two liter bottles of Coke) tied to their backs. Couples wrestle over the last seat with a plug on the first floor, knowing that whoever loses must face the inevitable depravity of noise that is the silent section. Others mill around outside the glassy cornucopia of doom, already on their 8^th break, lighting two fags for that extra hit as they twitch to the surrounding cries: ‘how many hours have you done today?’ (…It’s 8 AM) ‘…When is your first?’ (…it was yesterday) ‘…What is your average?’ (…Better than yours, mate).

This is only the beginning of the slog. By the end of the week, the apocalypse has descended upon our ancient little town. No more are we silent and determined; no more are we marching, persevering, powering through. We no longer dress ourselves in the unyielding fashion materials of Topshop Joni jeans and ASOS cocoon coats; rather, we are swathed in the healing touches of cotton, spandex, lycra. We are shells of the students we used to be: dragging our feet, drooling, oblivious of time or date. Grey circles surround our eyes as we squint at the obscure light from the sky – whether sunlight, or the glare of our laptop screens, we can no longer decipher. Hobbling along, bent double like ‘old beggars under sacks’ (for Wilfred Owen, our Intermediate 2 English knowledge is all we can summon from the depths), we squirm and scrape and only just pass by.

Another day. Another 8 o’clock start. It is seemingly endless, this oblique reference to our futures. But today is different, for now doomsday is upon us. The day of exam has come. A cloud of darkness shrouds around our heads as we trudge to the sports hall, matriculation cards shielding us from the invigilators prowling the isles as we take our seats. The revision week debris lies all around: notes abandoned at the back of the hall, clear pencil cases, leaking pens; and the tangible anticipation of relief that will engulf us at the end of three long hours. We wish with all our might that the time goes unmarked; that there will be no trill of a hidden mobile, no unsuspecting vomit, fainting episodes of fellow students. In a few hours, we will be free. We will leave the exam hall, our hands cramped and our fingers curled. The December winds will slap our ruddy cheek, leaving our hair in tangles as we walk gaily home, relishing in the short-lived freedom… to study for the next exam.

All I can say is this. Whilst sitting in my intermediate two English classroom, reading the poem that ensured I applied for English as my course (and ultimately, what I hope to be my future) I wish Owen had warned me, as I warn future sixth years before me: Dulce et Decorum est, Pro Posterus Mundi (It is sweet and right to die for one’s future).*

 *As a disclaimer, I do not take the study of War lightly, and do not wish anyone to think that flippancy is how I treat such a subject. This column is highly influenced by my study of War texts this week – hence why I have replaced ‘patria’ with ‘posterus’ to this end.