End of term musings

Term is over. I left the ’Bridge this afternoon. At the end of last term, I was having emotional farewells left, right and centre, and sobbing melodramatically into The Boyfriend’s t-shirt about how much I didn’t want to leave Cambridge. This time around, I wanted to go home. Not least because I wasn’t sure how much longer my body could stand the horrendously unhealthy diet I was inflicting upon it (sample menu for a day: the remainder of a packet of M&Ms, a sausage roll, a bag of crisps, a plate of Nachos, microwave salted popcorn, chocolate biscuits. Oh, and a plum, which I maintain cancelled everything else out – that’s how it works, yes?). This term has been exhausting. I’ve done so much more: yoga, badminton, getting involved in the play, seeing other plays, English Society, formals, randomly-themed room gatherings (who could forget the Egg Party?), and the odd bit of work for my degree, too. That’s a lie; I’ve done quite a lot of work but if I say that, the scientists get angry. All I’ll say is that it isn’t my fault they have 9am lectures six days a week.

Now I just want to sleep for a week, watch some appalling daytime television, and then get started on my vacation work of reading the complete works of Shakespeare, a task which my Director of Studies casually informed us of as though it was the sort of thing one could easily manage on a lazy Sunday afternoon. No matter: I am ready to immerse myself in reading, and alongside that will hopefully manage to do a bit of writing and drawing too. I shall miss the Cam lot, of course, and The Boyfriend, but five weeks will fly by, and with a bit of luck I may even meet some of them between now and then.

And then I shall return to Cambridge for my final fresher term, prepared for the six weeks or so devoted to the Bard. I’ve a feeling it’s going to be a weird term. Everyone else will be stressing about their university exams, whereas we English students will have nothing more to worry about than our usual workload and one measly Preliminary. To put it in perspective, most of my friends have over eighteen hours of exams that count towards Part I of their degree, while we have a three-hour internally set test that means nothing. I’m a little worried that I will be unable to stop myself from making smug jibes to everyone, and that eventually I’ll push someone too far and they will either burst into tears or punch me in the face, which I’m sure I would fully deserve. So I intend to at least try to be extra-nice to all the people panicking about exams – I thought it would be cool to become the Food Fairy, delivering de-stressing cookies and cakes and the like to people who are shut away revising. Perhaps that’s patronising, but who would say no to cookies?

It will also be my last term in Cripps Court, our lovely 1960s accommodation block. For non-Selwynites, I will add that Cripps is often described as a rite of passage for freshers: it has an abundance of asbestos, depressingly brown décor, toilets situated right next to the tiny gyp (kitchen), chairs you frequently fall through, showers with spontaneous temperature malfunction tendencies and ceilings that collapse. Well, the latter happened just the once, but still. Compared with the lovely Ann’s Court rooms that my über-cool Crew of Six last week managed to secure for next year, Cripps rooms are a little bit grim.

But I’m going to miss it all the same. I’m actually very fond of Cripps. I wouldn’t have thought I would be when I arrived: once I’d finished putting all my stuff into my room on my first day, I looked around and I almost cried. It didn’t feel like a home, and I was generally being a bit pathetic, but once it had been buried under all my clutter and had some geeky/arty/lame posters in it, I grew to like it rather a lot. If nothing else, it sort of stands for independence and freedom, however trite that may sound, being the first place I’ve lived in away from home. I didn’t anticipate how fantastic it would be to live within a massive community of friends, and Cripps is where I found that. Probably the weirdest thing that I’ll miss is the glowing tree outside my window – when I come back to my room late at night, before I turn on the light all I can see is this big tree which is lit up by some means. Being me, I’ve become attached to it.

Of course, the substantially larger gyp that awaits the crew and I is quite an appealing prospect. As is the en-suite bathroom I will have with a (hopefully) consistently warm shower. And the awesome balcony that runs all the way around the third floor, which we are strictly not allowed to go out onto; this is a rule that we will of course obey (balcony RAVE, guys!). Still, despite all this, Cripps will always have a special place in our hearts, I feel. So here’s to Easter Term: our final one in our grotty haven, and one that will almost certainly see most of my friends coming to hate my exam-free existence.

Thoughts on a thespy debut (though I'm informed that the word 'thesp' is abhorrent, and thus apologise)

“What play are you directing?”

“The Duchess of Malfi. Do you want a part?”

“Yes please.”

And thus my secret yearning to take to the stage at least once during my time at Cambridge triumphed over my inherent cowardice, which had been determined to thwart said ambition. Upon reading the email about auditions for the production a few weeks previously, I’d longed to try but had been far too scared to actually do anything about it – that kind of flight-response wimpiness has me written all over it. But this chance conversation with our lovely director saw me agreeing to take on a spare minor part in a relatively small-scale production of a play I already knew, having studied it at A Level. A nice, fairly unthreatening introduction into the world of student theatre.

I’m not a natural actress: shy and hideously awkward around people I don’t know, given to turning scarlet when too many eyes are upon me, and with a habit of tripping over my words when nervous. The last time I was in a play (not counting a hastily-prepared pantomime in which I was a hippie with four lines) was when I was eleven years old. I took the lead then, but that was before I learned the art of self-consciousness, and when the audience comprised only doting family members for whom it was compulsory to appreciate our faltering attempts at amateur dramatics.

But this was a different kettle of apricots altogether (spot the pointless plot-related idiom adjustment…). This would be in a proper theatre, with a stage and wings and a paying audience who were, for the most part, not obliged to enjoy themselves. Experienced actors will hopefully forgive my being intimidated by all of these novelties. I’m easily overawed.

Rehearsals commenced. I initially regretted my involvement somewhat, having suddenly remembered my fear of speaking in front of large numbers of people. The first person I met on arriving at my first rehearsal was our stage manager, who was later to be referred to as Awkward Simon.

“What other things you been in before?” he asked, after a few minutes of uncomfortably stilted conversation.

“Er, nothing really.”

“Oh. Okay,” he said, giving me what I interpreted as an unimpressed, derisive look that said, ‘Right, why is she here?’, which did nothing to allay my worries that I was going to be hideously inferior to everybody else.

Thankfully, the rest of the cast were lovely. After the obligatory initial degree of timidity, I loved the feeling of being a part of something, and seeing the play develop and grow into something that I was so proud to be involved in. My part, as the Marquis of Pescara, was one I became rather attached to – he's just a very nice man who, unlike most of the characters, has at least a few scruples and stands around being a bit surprised and dismayed at all the madness and death going on. One part multiplied into three as I then was asked to be Lord Silvio and an executioner as well. I was really very pleased with my little collection of parts, not least because I got to wear a suit AND a threatening balaclava/surgical mask-and-gloves combo, though sadly not all at once (that would be weird, even for Webster, though I'm undecided as to whether or not it would be weirder than that classic plot device of apricots inducing labour).

I’d forgotten what it’s like to feel the unpleasant squeezing sensation of the stomach and sick feeling in the back of the throat that only comes with the anticipation of having to achieve coherence in front of an audience, but on our opening night I was happily reminded. The nerves really weren’t helped by the pre-show music – Tchaikovsky, I think – which, being epic and atmospheric and thus effectively building tension in the audience, built even more tension backstage where we were all gnawing off our own hands. Or that might have been just me. All I know is that every time the music went quiet and it seemed like we were about to start, I was tempted to regurgitate the contents of my stomach. Nice.

But when the moment came to go out on stage, the buzz was immense. I could feel and hear my heart hammering relentlessly and a rush of dizziness went to my head, but it was a thrilling kind of fear. Everything went fine, until about halfway through my first scene. I’d got my first line out of the way, I hadn’t dropped my plastic champagne flute yet, and I thought I was adequately feigning conversation with Count Malateste, but unfortunately, I’d also completely tuned out of what was being said onstage. When my attention latched itself back on to this, I was just in time to hear the words, ‘You have bespoke it worthily.” Which was my cue to deliver a line that had completely erased itself from my head. A second lapsed. Some of the cast were looking at me. The only words going through my head were ‘F*CK F*CK F*CK WHAT DO I DO?’ until, after what was probably a very short stretch of torturous silence, it came to me:

“Your brother, the lord Cardinal, and sister Duchess!”

After that small hiccup, things went fine as far as my own performance went. Everyone else was marvellous and I was filled with admiration for those who had zillions of lines to memorise and delivered them with such passion, really feeling and meaning what they said. I don’t know if I was any good but I do know that I was extremely happy just not to fluff my lines by saying something like ‘So shir, we shall not' like a drunk, as in rehearsal – twenty repetitions of  ‘She sells seashells on the seashore’ per day might have helped, but on the other hand I would probably have then said ‘So sir, we seashells…’

And now it’s all over, and I’m sad. The period from getting a part to the last performance ending saw me fall horrendously behind with my supervision work, tear the skin around my nails to shreds, and seriously compromise on sleeping and eating towards the end (I can only imagine what it was like for those whose involvement was much greater). Oh, and have 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' stuck in my head for days, thanks to our Ferdinand who made it the anthem of the production. But I'd agree to do it again in a minute.

And next time, the novelty might have worn off enough for me to not feel the need to spew out my excitable reflections in a blog post that is far too long for anybody sane to want to read.