A week of hardcore exam prep, six packs of post-it notes, essay writing of speedy proportions, to the extent of my little finger of the right hand coming away all shiny-and-worn-down-almost-to-the-bone-like, and finally, finally, I have the internet set up in my room. The timing could be better, for Richard II and Henry V must be read by tomorrow morning. Some dude is flying in from Paris, said our Director of Studies, to give you a class on the Bard, and then he is flying back. I disguised a little incredulous laugh behind Henry IV Part Two (not his actual body because obviously he is dead.) Then, said he, he will fly back to Cambridge to pick up your essays, six pm on the dot, the next day pick half-formed ideas from your brain and tease your incoherencies into something resembling academic language, possibly grill you to the point of tears, and then he leaves for Paris again.

 

It is exam term for everyone but English and History first years, only for some reason the scientists never shout abuse at the historians. Across the courtyards blows tumbleweed. In between exams a porter came to where we sat on the grass, and demanded silence, pointing at the QUIET EXAMS sign. We ARE the exam, A told him, and he mumbled sheepishly into his beard and left. The senior tutor sends emails about sacrificing Facebook profiles, having them voluntarily held hostage. Also we have our very own flasher. He stands in a well-lit room opposite Churchill wearing nothing, when it starts getting dark.