In a moment of self-reflection I considered keeping a diary of this week’s events (my last week of being an attending student, ever) and quickly remembered that diaries are now open to share online, and are more commonly called blogs. Whereas the 20th century teenage girl’s diary may have been top secret and padlocked with one of those little mass-produced locks which all have the same key, rendering them pointless, a blog is openly non-secret, yet has still taken over the concept of tracking our lives through words. This, combined with the theme of this blog being ‘the life of a final year student’, it felt appropriate to track my last week online. Here’s Monday:
As far as Monday morning’s go, mine aren’t that much different from any other worker’s: I get up at a painfully early time, desperately try to remain awake and go to work. I suppose it’s good practice for the rest of my life really. However, as my status is that of ‘student’, I do bask in the importance of finishing at lunch time and being home to spend the afternoon as I wish.
This is where my ‘diary’ falls down catastrophically: I’ve realised it isn’t interesting. My afternoon consisted of having lunch, tidying the house and reading the Easter edition of the ASDA magazine before moving onto some coursework in my make-shift study. See? Not interesting. The evening is slightly more life-reflective though so I’ll continue.
As any good (or bad) student will know, Monday night is student night. This means cheap drinks, awful music and getting confused about how close the weekend is far too early in the week for a working person to consider going out. A couple of drinks with some friends, I don’t mind. But this Monday turned out the same as many others, meaning the early-in-the-night-and-home-for-a-sensible-time drinks were postponed until later on due to sheer student laziness and just as I’d given up on the thought of going out and going to bed instead I promptly get dragged out of my pyjamas (via text message) and down to the nearest student bar instead.
It was only last Saturday night when I fell asleep at 10pm how I thought to myself that it was funny what difference a few years make. At eighteen I could have been getting into bed at that time when an impulsive text message from a friend would see me ready to hit the town quicker than Superman puts his cape on in a phone box. This week I was fast asleep and looking forward to a full 8 hour’s kip. It’s strange how that end-of-an-era feeling can prompt you to do things you don’t normally do, then. By the time I went to bed I’d been up 21 hours and was feeling guilty about the abandoned seminar reading lying on the desk from a few hours before. And that was Monday.