I am a third year. If anything, those four words should allow you to feel a great deal of sympathy for me. The stories are true; it is just how you imagine it. I have become an old aged pensioner with a penchant for essay writing and am living in fear that I might never know what it is to experience fun ever again.
It isn’t just the workload, Oh no. It is the idea that now you have reached the age of 20, you should be able to cook a meal that doesn’t consist of the two words super and noodles. The fact that Facebook statuses are overloaded with the ‘D’ word (Dissertation, as if you didn’t know.) The heart-wrenching fact that you can no longer stay in Sugarhouse until Oasis comes on, because you’re just too tired.
[pull]The other day, they made me play ride the bus and now I can’t face public transport.[/pull]
So far, so depressing. However, sometimes it is comforting to know that all is not lost. In the three weeks that I have been a third year, I have been more productive than I ever was in the first six months of my first year. I have become one of those smug people that find joy in posting on Facebook what I have achieved that day: “Bex has saved the world and it’s not even lunchtime.” I like to mention in passing just how knackered I am, and make tutting sounds at my boyfriend when there is too much washing-up.
The four first years I live with refer to me simply as Mum. They stare in disbelief when I mention my hey-day of Carleton nights and Sugar doubles. The other day, they made me play ride the bus and now I can’t face public transport. They drink gin as if it were water, and favour centurions in place of Monopoly.
In truth, I am optimistic and like to think that I have the best of both worlds. My days are filled with meetings and deadlines that Alan Sugar would be proud of and I find myself having discussions about mortgages and cake-making. However, despite all that, I’m in Sugarhouse on Saturday night like any student. I might be dancing away to a song I’ve never heard of and wincing when I down an apple sourz, but I will be having the time of my life.
Only difference is, with age comes wisdom. I’ll be going home alone and I won’t fall asleep outside the porters lodge with my face covered in cheesy chips whilst murmuring the lyrics of Mr. Brightside. Remember the good old days?
