From essay period to exam/dissertation period. The deteriorating life of undergraduates continues at an alarming rate as I stare blankly into the face of graduation, which stares back at me with open arms and a mask that hides the wily grin behind it. For it knows that my Bachelor of Arts will read ‘Sociology with Criminology’, and it knows that, beyond the vision of graduation, the real world will not be kind to me.
Has anything happened on campus since you’ve been away? Of course not, this university hasn’t had anything noteworthy happen to it since they concreted over Vanbrugh ‘Paradise’.
The only thing the paper picked up on was the strange ousting of Constantine SA president Usman Khan. Now I’ve met Usman, he’s an absolutely lovely bloke who loves his cricket, so it’s hard to see why anyone would want to slander him. Unless it was by some immature cliché collective, of course. Hmm.
What was most peculiar about that situation was that no one seems to have come and said exactly what Usman has done wrong. A group of new students who have no knowledge or experience about how a college should be run, telling a new student with no knowledge or experience about how to run a college how he should be running a college. Flawless Oxbridge-reject self-reinvention, probably.
Meanwhile, essay requirements have meant that I’ve had to spend a shit Easter holidays tucked up in the studious bosom of JB Morrell and his many books, occasionally fleeing back to the four-bed terraced house that I reside in after dark.
It is at this fragile point in my existence that all my housemates thought it would be a good idea to abandon me. Away from the sunny Snapchats of my other housemates having a relaxing time in a cosy London coffee shop, living alone for near enough a month has invoked nothing but fear for when I inevitably have to survive in the real world.
I live in an old house, but every noise in my abode convinces my mind that my place is in a perpetual state of burglary. It’s led me to occupy my mind with some pretty odd things.
Firstly, you’ll be pleased to know that I’ve made lots of friends with the insects. Ants appear seemingly out of nowhere on my leg. I’ve befriended at least three of them, I think. Well, they all look the same. As I type this, I’m chatting to a fruit fly about my railway map of Britain and Ireland from 1907 while feeding it a grape (because I like trains, alright, each to their own).
My time on the internet has also been a tad confusing, as a few Intelligence Officers from GCHQ are probably discussing. Aside from the copious amounts of pornography (only joking, mum), I’ve noticed each of the sections of the library – JB Morrell, Raymond Burton and Harry Fairhurst – are named after rich, white men. A patriarchal conspiracy via subliminal messaging, it would seem.
Also, on a strange internet tangent, the online reviews for magnetic cat flaps are bloody hilarious. They work by putting a special magnetic collar on your cat, which unlocks the cat flap as they go through, stopping other cats from getting in. Unsurprisingly, this does have its problems.
One consumer lamented how the cat they have been trying to prevent entering the house just smashed the cat flap off its hinges as a way round the problem. Elsewhere, another consumer noted how her cat had managed to confuse the locking mechanism, meaning her cat became the only cat that couldn’t get in, while all the others could.
These magnets were also proving to catch these cat’s out in their mishaps outside the home. One user commented how her cat came with half of her neighbour’s cutlery draw stuck to the magnet, whilst another user found her cat wrestling with the metal water dish that had attached itself to the poor thing’s neck.
When my parents got round to fitting one for our cat, it proved to be a helpful adversary to working out who had stolen half of my lunch. Probably the cat grappling with a soup spoon stuck to her collar.
Anyway, I’m only mentioning magnetic cat flaps because my cat’s died and I’m trying to sell one. Don’t worry, I’m over it.
Who needs a cat when you’ve got ants to talk to, eh? My life is slowly turning into a rejected plot-line for Ant Man.