8am: Monday morning. I am listening to a rousing conversation about the differences between the way men and women talk about sex. Apparently, women like to describe things in intimate detail (“and then he ran his fingers …”) whereas men prefer the “waaaahey… tits” form of communication. Not that we’re reverting to stereotypes or anything. Everyone has their conjugal priorities and it seems that, in this office, good grooming is paramount. Ironic really, considering none of us have showered for a good 48 hours. Anyway, I digress.
Striding (let’s be honest, driving) home after production weekend is sweet. For the past week, everything has been dedicated to creating the 24 pages you are about to read and it is finally finished. The sleep on Monday night is the sleep of the victorious, the sleep of someone who has overcome obstacles (lazy freshers, corrupt files, no Frubes, etc.) and still succeeded. I have been known to announce to my housemates on my return: “ I am drinking from the keg of glory… – bring me the finest muffins and bagels in all the land!” (WW). Stat. They generally ignore me.
However, after wallowing in my stamina and skill for a few hours, the tidal wave of reality hits. Suddenly, it’s no longer enough that you’ve produced an edition. Friends need seeing, significant others need attention and you’re going to have to say something in a seminar eventually. This is the first wave. Then comes the second: demands for nights out, essays, house food shopping trips, grandparents’ emails, internship applications and it’s exam season for the second time this term. All the things you have studiously been avoiding come crashing down. You need that keg back. Please?