The people we could have been

Exam term is almost upon us, once again. This time last year, I was merrily revelling in the fact that I had no real exams (well, not strictly true - I was attempting to read all of Shakespeare and preparing for another term filled with essays and lectures, but it was relatively light on the work front for Cambridge). However, not even an English undergrad can escape exams forever, and now they're approaching at a rate that is immeasurably faster than I am comfortable with. And, as usual, I haven't done enough revision, so panic levels are steadily rising in a manner that is not conducive to concentrating on anything. I've spent the last couple of hours avoiding my dissertation, which isn't done either and is keeping me from revising. Looking at it makes me feel slightly ill, so I'm retreating to this, my much-neglected blog, because I've managed to convince myself that it is a more acceptable form of procrastination that playing Bubble Shooter online. Of course, at least playing Bubble Shooter is a little less self-indulgent than the monologue I'm about to spew onto the internet, but if I categorise this as 'writing practice' then I feel marginally less like I'm wasting time.

The problem with my lack of motivation and organisation is that I can't reconcile myself to the fact that I have always been like this and probably always will be. If I could accept these facets of my personality and banish the nagging thoughts that I could do better, I could be content. But there will always be a part of me that wonders what kind of success I could have in various areas of my life if I could sort myself out and commit to things more thoroughly. This does not mean that I believe myself to be possessed of great potential, and only held back by laziness. Far from it. But if I worked harder, what could I achieve? What could we all do if we worked harder? Part of me (the lazy part) tells me that actually, I do work quite hard - last term, I wrote fourteen essays and read countless books, which isn't exactly lying around doing nothing all day. I could have done more, though. The bare minimum at my university still entails a massive workload, but it does leave plenty of room for further study. And I am surrounded by people who wouldn't dream of putting in any less than maximum effort into everything. It is not arrogance to wonder if I could get a First if I worked really, really hard, because probably most people in the university could, and the fact of the matter is that I can't work that hard. That's a failing that cancels out potential in any person.

This close to the end of my education, this kind of wonder about what I could be if I were not me is seeping into worries about my future. If I had picked another route, what could I have been? If I were at this moment already doing the absolute most I could to secure a job after my degree, what could I be? I don't exactly have a viable dream job at the moment, so I don't know if I will end up falling short of any ideal I might set out for myself. I do know what I'd do if I had the ability and the drive to make it happen. I would be an author. You may have noticed by these verbose ramblings that I like the sound of my own written voice, but I'm under no illusions that everyone else does. Just suppose, though, that there was a possibility that I could be a writer, and I let it go to waste because I wasn't committed enough. In an impossible universe in my head, Grace Brown is a well-known name. In reality, I recognise that it's not just my lack of motivation that means this dream will go unfulfilled, it's the fact that there are thousands of would-be writers, and the vast majority will never achieve any success. But I can't shake off the feeling that maybe - just maybe - if I fully dedicated myself to my ambition, and never stopped trying to improve and make it happen for myself, I could be something.

At what age do we abandon those dreams we know will probably never come to anything? At what stage in our lives must we finally come to the harsh realisation that we will never be a singer, a footballer, an actor, a fashion designer, an artist, or in my case an author? When do we abandon hopes of being the best and settle for mediocrity? Because some people never come to that realisation. And it's likely that most of them fail. Yet some of them succeed. We can't know if we are one of those people whose improbable ultimate goal is achievable. At some point, though, maybe we have to stop trying for our own sanity. People will tell you that the sky's the limit, etc. Maybe in actual fact, reality is the real limit. But then there will always be that niggling question: who could I have been if I had really tried?

Absolution from Kindle Guilt

I love libraries and I love books. I'm an English student, so this comes as no surprise - it's pretty much in the contract. While this degree may push the boundaries of my motivation for reading to the absolute maximum at times, I still retain my love for books as objects. I may not wish to actually read all the lovely books that line the shelves of the various libraries in Cambridge I flit in and out of, but I like the idea that I might read them. I like the smell of the pages, and the rows of coloured spines, and I like carefully sliding a book out of its place and opening it up. If I see a book on my reading list which is available both online and as a physical copy, I will always go and fetch the physical copy. Libraries are such quietly magical places, and I hate the idea of them becoming obsolete as the world digitalises itself.

So, guess who got a Kindle for Christmas?

It feels like the ultimate betrayal of my principles. Books are sacred and they are wonderful. There are so many things that I adore about actual books that are substituted for cold, emotionless digital features on the Kindle. The rustling swoosh of a turned page is replaced with a quiet click of the navigation buttons. The practice of spending hours happily arranging your book collection by period and genre (oh yes, I have done this) is replaced with menu options to instantly sort your list of titles by various criteria. The opinion-dividing practices of scribbling in the margin and folding over corners to remember your page or mark a favourite passage are done away with - the Kindle kindly remembers your place and has a neat little function which allows you to electronically underline passages, as well as make notes (although in practice, the Kindle 4's lack of a physical keyboard makes typing, which must be done using an on-screen keyboard and tracker buttons, a pain in the arse). I still cannot quite convince myself that this clever little device quite lives up to the emotional fulfilment of having a real, physical book with pages.

And yet I am absolutely in love with my new toy. It may not be quite the timeless symbol of literature that a book is, but it is beautiful in its own way. It is sleek, compact and light. The display is crisp and clear. The lovely black-and-white images that act as a screensaver - photographs of typewriter keys, newspapers, fountain pens and pencils - marry the aesthetically pleasing nature of physical writing and reading tools with the technology of this newest development in the way we consume literature. And not all of the things I love about books are entirely lost. Father Christmas also brought me a gorgeous (and rather overpriced) leather cover to protect my Kindle, which serves two purposes: it gives me an actual cover to open up when I want to read, and it has a nice leathery smell which somewhat mitigates the loss of the smell of paper.

It has also given me back something I haven't indulged in for quite some time: the joy of reading for pleasure. For less than a pound each, I downloaded Emma and The Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes; I also got eleven other classic novels for free. On Christmas Day, I couldn't keep away from Emma, and the feeling of being absorbed in a book is something I thought my degree had pretty much destroyed - I seem to have spent a lot of my time in Cambridge struggling through difficult books that I neither enjoy nor understand (though that's a topic for another post - I will not taint this exposition on the wonder of reading with the woes of reading things I hate). The Kindle both makes me feel obliged to read for pleasure to get the most out of it, which is not an unpleasant obligation at all, and makes reading quite novel and exciting again.

The one major drawback is not to do with the Kindle itself, it's to do with the reaction of others. People I have shown it to have mainly fallen into two camps: the 'Oh I have one too, isn't it wonderful' camp, and the 'Oh I prefer real books' camp. Members of the latter camp pick it up, inspect it, comment on the cleverness of the device, and then say, 'But it's not a real book, is it? I prefer a real book'. Now, I know I've just expressed similar doubts myself, but oh, the smugness of some people! It's as though not possessing a Kindle allows you a sort of moral superiority, while Kindle owners are looked down upon for contributing to the destruction of the book. Darkly, people mutter about the evils of new technology. Well, no longer will I stand for this traditionalist snobbery - it's time for me to say my self-righteous piece! Which consists mainly of two points: firstly, I read a shedload of actual, physical books. My course demands it. I cannot reference from my Kindle, as it has no page numbers, so I will continue to read books - far more than the average person. I refuse to be accused, therefore, of allowing the book to die. And secondly, no matter my attachment to the book as an entity, at the end of the day reading is reading. I will get as much mental improvement out of reading a book on the Kindle as from reading it in paper form. And if the Kindle has even the slightest chance of making reading cool, I am all for it. The reading is the important part. We're all accustomed to taking our gadgets everywhere we go - phones, iPods, laptops - so if the Kindle inserts reading into the gadget world and makes it something we can't go without, then that is a brilliant thing. So let us make peace, traditionalists - let Kindle users and book readers join hands and be united in revelling in the written word, in whatever medium we choose to consume it!

Mini adventures on tiny wheels

My hometown is not flat enough. The clue’s in the name, really: ‘Solihull’ derives from ‘soily hill’, so there had to be at least one of them kicking around. It’s hardly a mountain range of a town, but certainly less convenient for my newly-acquired hobby than Cambridge is – a town so flat that a certain bridge is often referred to as its steepest gradient. Still, I had in mind one suitable park, so last Saturday I set off with my parents, armed with knee pads, elbow pads, helmet, and my beautiful shiny roller blades.

Anyone who knows me will know that I’m a complete klutz. I can’t pour water without the risk of it spilling everywhere. I drop things all the time. I trip over. Even I could work out, therefore, that putting the klutz on wheels wasn’t the greatest idea ever. But I am stubborn, and I was determined to have those skates. Besides, I remembered skating as a child on my bright pink Barbie skates, and it being quite easy, so I envisaged gliding effortlessly around town, breezing past my friends who would obviously be ultra impressed. Not so. When the skates arrived, just over two months ago, I realised that it was rather difficult and bloody hard work when you’re no longer an eight-year-old with boundless energy and confidence. Still, with a little practice and the right super-smooth cycle paths, I flatter myself I was beginning to look almost competent by the end of term.

But I was a bit out of practice on Saturday. On arrival, the pads were ditched immediately. It’s one thing zooming (or stumbling) along fully kitted out in safety gear when I’m in Cambridge, where everyone knows I’m a weirdo, and quite another doing the same thing in the town where I grew up, where there’s the distinct possibility that I might run into someone who knew me in times where I was vaguely (and unsuccessfully) aiming to be on the periphery of this thing called ‘cool’. I’m no expert in coolness, but I gather that looking like you’re taking something too seriously is a definite no-no, and I decided that knee and elbow pads indicated seriousness. I kept the helmet, though. Head injuries are quite a lot less appealing than looking like a bit of an idiot.

When I was very much younger, my family used to all go out to this very same park every now and again on a sunny day. My brother and I would whiz off ahead on our bikes or scooters or perhaps even roller blades on occasion, and then return every now and again just to make sure our parents weren’t too far behind. Saturday was like a blast from the past in this respect, only instead of my parents anxiously keeping an eye on their high-spirited kids, they were attempting to dissociate themselves from their dorky, roller-blading nineteen-year-old daughter. Every now and again my dad, being a self-proclaimed expert on everything, was unable to resist calling out some critique of my technique: “You’re picking up your right foot too much!” or “Bend your knees more!” I'd like to see him try.

I was doing fine until we reached The Big Slope, the one we used to hurtle down at breakneck speed as kids – presumably on things that had brakes as opposed to roller blades, which have a chunk of plastic attached to the back of the boot that is supposed to slow you down when lowered to the ground. As I am only too aware, when you’re speeding down a slope at what feels like a hundred miles an hour, balancing on one skate in order to engage the brake on the other is not really an option. I found this out when I found the one steep slope in Cambridge, far out of the town, and ended up throwing myself to the ground to avoid running headlong into a fence. This was before I bought the elbow and knee pads, and I still have the remains of the scrapes. Naturally, I’m now rather wary of anything that looks even remotely like a slope, so this time I made my descent in a very undignified manner, clinging on to the railing alongside the path like a beginner, trying to stop my feet escaping from underneath me while my dad scorned my cowardice. I thought this would prevent any further falls, but no – half an hour later, I attempted too sharp a turn on perfectly flat ground and ended up on the floor, much to my embarrassment.

While it was a pleasant afternoon out, it didn’t quite match up to my Cambridge excursions. Not only was I uneasy about meeting people it was once important to try to be cool in front of, it was a too-familiar territory and there were too many people. When I first bought the skates, my mother couldn’t understand why I would take up something that nobody else did, but that was a definite part of the appeal. I like the solitude of exploring Cambridge on little wheels. Finding a long stretch of even cycle path is a joy. When out once with no other aim than following a long path to its end, I was intrigued to discover the Cambridge University Laundry Farm – who knew there was one? I never did reach the end of the path: it looped round an island and ran alongside the M11, which I deemed a tad unsafe for further exploration. Another time I found hundreds of wild rabbits and a science laboratory. I would never have explored these areas of Cambridge if I hadn't been out skating in search of smooth paths.

But perhaps there are hidden gems like this in Solihull. First on my To Do list is learning how to stop properly, and then the town shall be my roller blading oyster. And hopefully my backside won't be meeting the pavement again any time soon.

A little bit of despair at casual prejudice

The conversations that ensue when my grandparents visit our house normally consist mostly of retelling the various sagas that have taken place in both their lives and my parents’ lives since we last saw them. Last Sunday’s visit’s selection comprised The Saga Of Our Faulty Car, The Saga Of Their Complicated Freeview Installation and The Saga Of Grandpa’s Infected Tooth. Not riveting tales, but they pass the time.

You don’t really learn much about people by listening to them explain to you how difficult it is to get ITV in the evenings in their area if one doesn’t have a satellite dish, and how one cannot record on one channel and watch another. It’s the throwaway comments, sometimes, that tell you so much more. Talk of evening television turned to talk of TV chefs, and during discussion of one in particular (I don’t recall which one), my grandpa casually remarked:

“I’m sure he’s a homosexual, which always puts me off the food.”

Conversation moved on. I like to think I wasn’t the only one thinking “Whoa, hold it right there. What? That is not okay!” But it’s a distinct possibility that I was, and that’s a disheartening thought.

My homophobia radar is rather sensitive, after all. This is the girl who spent several years of her life being particularly confused about where she sat on the sliding scale of sexuality. When the possibility that you might be gay is one you daily turn over in your mind, sentences that begin, “I’m not homophobic, but…” are crushing. These are friends who have known you for years, and yet those kinds of statements make you think that if they knew the feelings you’ve been hiding, they would turn away from you. Is it better to be liked for your half-truth of a personality you present, or disliked for who you really are? I asked myself this question repeatedly. “If they don’t want to know me because I like girls, they’re not worth knowing”, I told myself. But the prospect of losing the friends I loved was too awful to bear, so I didn’t say anything.

I hope I would have developed a deep-seated revulsion to homophobia without this experience. I feel fairly certain I would have. But sometimes an issue needs to come within your personal bubble for you to properly consider it. So many people seem to just accept that alternative sexualities are wrong or not normal without even giving any serious thought to the matter. Perhaps if they found out that a close friend or relative were gay, they would have to confront the issue in their mind, and would realise that it doesn’t matter a bit. Earlier this year, I finally told two friends that I was bisexual, something I only eventually worked out after coming to university and finding The Boyfriend, and do you know what? It didn’t bother them at all. And one of those friends had been the “I’m not homophobic, but…” type at one point. Maybe it's easier for both them and I that I'm in a relationship with a guy now. I'm not a 'threat'. But I hope that wasn't a factor in their acceptance.

What about my grandpa? Should I have said something? Forced him to consider the issue by informing him that his own granddaughter partially swings that abhorred way? He’s in his eighties; ought I to just shrug off this problem of an ingrained prejudice that probably a large percentage of the older generation have? Possibly. I imagine it’s far too late to change the mind of someone who’s always believed that being gay is in some way perverted, and I suppose I really just feel sad for those who belong to that generation and had to hide who they really were or face discrimination. Hope, I like to think, lies in the younger generation, who will be taught that love is never wrong, and everyone has the right to love whomever they choose.

Yet I fear that this message isn’t getting through. Possibly, it isn’t even being delivered. This was brought home to me lately when hanging out with two of my younger cousins. Somehow, we got onto the subject of homosexuality. And lo and behold, one of them came out with the classic line, “I’m not homophobic, I just don’t really like lesbians or gay people”.

“Why?” I asked. “And that is homophobic, you know.”

“I just think it’s weird.”

“Why is that?”

“Just…” And she shuddered, as if the very thought was repulsive.

I got a couple of lame reasons out of her. All the gay people she knows aren’t very nice. Lesbians are all like men. Bisexual people? That’s ‘weird’ too. I tried reasoning: that sexuality has nothing to do with being nice or not, that not all lesbians are like men and you can’t generalise like that (and would it be a problem if they were?) and that maybe one of her best friends was a lesbian without her knowing. Maybe even she would one day fall for a girl, I suggested. She scoffed at that suggestion.

“Why does it matter?” I asked. “Shouldn’t people be able to love whoever they want to love?”

“Well, yeah…” She looked like she didn’t really know what to say to that. “Yeah, they should… I just don’t like it.”

There were a few moments of silence. Then, the inevitable:

“Are you a lesbian?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Are you bi?”

Pause.

“Maybe.”

And I couldn’t even admit it outright. Even though I’d been trying to tell her that being of an alternative sexuality was nothing to be ashamed of, I was reluctant to tell her the truth. Why, when I’ve now made up my mind to be open about this in the belief that it’s the best way to make people think, is it still so hard to just say it? I’m pretty sure she understood my ‘Maybe’ to mean yes, and in all fairness to her, she didn’t act any differently around me afterwards. Which gives me hope that perhaps that really is often all it takes to begin to change someone’s mind: to put that issue right into their world and make it something they then have to confront.

I couldn’t be angry with her for her unthinking intolerance, because it was the most basic kind of stereotypical thinking, and the most unfortunately natural kind of aversion to anything different. No, I was not angry, then, but frustrated. My cousin is about fourteen, and I can’t understand why schools are not adequately addressing the issue. Possibly they feel they have to tiptoe around the subject of alternative sexuality in case they are seen as encouraging it (which is ridiculous; you can’t ‘make’ somebody gay) or in case they offend those whose religions teach them that homosexuality is wrong.  And of course, offending religious people is much worse than allowing an environment to develop in which people are bullied for their sexuality, or have to suffer hiding who they are. I genuinely don’t understand the stupidity of the world sometimes. Why don't people think?

For once, I don’t apologise for the lengthiness of this post. It’s something that needs to be said. And yes, it's been said before many times, but as long as there are still far too many people not listening, I will continue to say it.

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.

"I give myself such good advice, but I very seldom follow it"

Sang Alice, as she looked around Wonderland and it dawned upon her that she had brought this plight upon herself.

As a general rule, I see in the New Year surrounded by my immediate family plus my auntie, uncle and cousins, having spent the evening indulging in ridiculous pursuits and quite possibly wearing fancy dress. This New Year was no different, except for the fact that I added The Boyfriend into the equation. Inviting him along was brave to the point of insanity, and as I watched him sitting at the dinner table sporting a zebra-print cowboy hat and valiantly attempting a Wild West accent for his part in our Western-themed murder mystery, I realised two things:

1) My family must appear utterly mental to outsiders.
2) The Boyfriend definitely deserves a whole shower of gold stars for not running away as fast as he could.

Mixing people together whom I usually see separately causes me some degree of agitation, so with the success of this new combination of Boyfriend + Extended Family to worry over, it was not until the following day that I let my thoughts turn to that tiresome convention of making New Year's Resolutions.

Now, nobody's more of a fan of a fresh start than I. New beginnings mean the possibility of creating a perfect track record in whatever it is that I am attempting, and being a failed perfectionnist, that appeals. The problem is in the 'failed' part of 'failed perfectionnist': if I am unable to maintain perfection, I abandon the attempt altogether, finding blotted near-perfection far more painful than not trying. Thus if I am endeavouring to spend the entire evening working, and I find myself distracted by wasting time on the internet, I tell myself I might as well give up for the day and try again tomorrow, when I can have another fresh start. Moderation, balance and compromise are not congruous with an all-or-nothing personality.

Therefore when I break all my New Year's Resolutions, which I always do, I then want to wait until the next opportunity for starting over presents itself, and the right time inevitably never comes. This irritating facet of my character combines particularly catastrophically with an extreme weakness of will, and results in me never getting anything done. Resolutions are, for this reason, fairly pointless.

But, here we are again at the start of the year, and of course the old rush of optimism returns to me. This, I say to myself, could be the year where I change drastically. Perhaps I'll suddenly find myself full of motivation, and able to deal with failures as small set-backs as opposed to inconquerable, project-destroying obstacles. Hmm. Actually, I'm unable to fool myself any more.

Nevertheless, I present the usual list, containing the same resolutions I've made for years and have never achieved.

1. I will be more organised.
Yep, that old gem. Both predicatable and highly improbable. The Queen of Disorganisation, I am fairly sure, is not likely to change any time soon, and I can vow to use my wall planner and academic diary as much as I like - it's not going to happen.

2. I will stop procrastinating.
Another laughable goal. I dream of the day when I complete essays well before they're due in, and am able to concentrate for hours at a time. As I dream of this, my time drains away and I realise my essay is going to be a huge rush again. In fact, I just remembered that I was going to spend this afternoon reading and am now blogging. Best scratch this resolution off the list.

3. I will keep my room tidy.
I'm surveying it right now. Mission failed.

4. I will eat more healthily and get more exercise.
What, with the menu in Hall at college containing chips as an option every day? And with the selection of chocolate being positioned right by the till? And with everywhere I need to get to being less than five minute's walk away? Yeah.

5. I will stop biting my nails and the surrounding skin.
I'm currently just about managing this one. When the stress of work returns at the start of Lent Term, my fingers will undoubtedly unconsciously find their way into my mouth, and that'll be the end of that. In fact, my new supervisor for Paper 4 (English Literature and its contexts, 1830-Present) just emailed me, and I can feel my teeth itching to tear at skin and keratin already.

Welcome to 2011: the year where Lemonie will be exactly the same as she always has been. Happy New Year!