So far, getting to grips with the second semester timetable has been more confusing than the first week of Fresher’s.
Monday started with these texts to Lauren at seven thirty in the morning:
Me – Hey Lauren, what lecture hall are we in this morning?
Me -Lauren, I checked my timetable, I think I just missed a seminar.
Me -Are you going to shorthand?
Me -LAUREN WHAT’S HAPPENING
Lauren- Baby, we don’t have anything on today. GO BACK TO BED.
Tuesday was less confusing, more horrendous.
We were late to a three hour workshop because 1) Lauren needed to stop and buy a Diet Coke and 2) Lauren wanted to eat a fried egg before leaving the house because, “I just really love fried eggs. And Marmite. I love Marmite.” Which is of course totally understandable. When we finally arrived, the lecturer was late because of a sudden and enthusiastic snow storm. Of course.
I love Marmite too, but let’s not argue over this
After an hour of shorthand joy, which was sadly lacking in inspirational poems, Patrick, Lauren, Ollie, Will and I made our way to what we thought was a compulsory lecture. We arrived late and giggly with Patrick shouting “Vicky’s revenge!” in honour of the Chris Huhne affair that was making headlines that day.
Half way through the lecture, Lauren nudged my arm and tilted her head to her notebook. I read, “WE SHOULDN’T BE IN THIS LECTURE.” She rolled her eyes. Ollie two people down was grinning at me. I nudged Patrick. When he had understood, he groaned and wrote on his pad, “LET’S LEAVE RIGHT NOW.” Lauren and I shook our heads and spent the remaining time writing Nicki Minaj lyrics in shorthand in tired irony.
“You know, that carpet was really nice,” Ollie said when we had left, giving back our handbooks to the lecturer and looking sheepish. “It really was,” we chimed, exhausted.
Wednesday was worse. We sat through a surprisingly interesting two hour lecture and at the end, stretching and discussing merrily the giant paninis awaiting us in our favourite cafe, our lecturer says cheerfully, “Just so you know guys, the next two hour lecture is mind-numbingly, bone-achingly dull. But it’s necessary. Have fun!” and he left in a flurry of guile and poorly disguised wickedness.
So we sat for another two hours in a room with asbestos warnings on the doors listening to a man explain what a councillor was.
By the time Friday rolled around, Lauren and I were in desperate need of a distraction.
“What’s that?” I ask, as Lauren enters the living room with a pint jug full of liquid.
“It’s 500 ml diet coke, 500 ml vodka,” she says happily. “What?” she says when everyone begins laughing. “I had a nine hour day this week. NINE HOURS.”
Then she trips on one of the pom p0ms on her winter coat and drops the jug onto the carpet. “It’s my vodka, MY VODKA!” She shouts as the liquid starts to seep into the carpet.
Halfway through the night, she begins telling people what animal they would be. “Bertie,” she says to her flatmate. “You’d be a bear. One of those really big bears with a moon on its tummy.”
“A sun bear!” I say.
“Yes, yes a sun bear. You on the other hand,” she turns to me, “Would be a deer. A really nice deer. A doe. Don’t be offended, isn’t that what Harry Potter is?”
I wasn’t sure if it was tiredness or the vodka fumes that were starting to evaporate from the carpet but I was suddenly very content. If a crazy timetable means our weekends in comparison are this much fun, then I’ll happily sit through another four hours of Public Affairs lectures. Just no more shorthand.
Please, please no more shorthand.
Umm, I’m pretty sure it’s a stag, Lauren
Images courtesy of Google