A theory of relativity

With every passing day, I undergo another rite of passage. Today saw my first essay crisis - two essays due in 24 hours, plus reading (of up to 37 books).

So far, so bad; at least for the casual onlooker. My personal coping strategy was to ignore the spectre of essay deadlines. First, I went clubbing at cindies (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lrnJFPsymtk), returning only at 3am, semi-drunk and buzzing. So I worked. And worked. Until 10am. Waking up at 5 the following afternoon, I set straight to work. By 8pm, two essays of an acceptably-high calibre were completed.

Paradoxically, these deadlines have enhanced my social life. In my first two weeks (after the joy of fresher's weekend), I spent most of my time in the library, since there was no upper limit on the amount of work that could be done. Diminished returns apply, of course, but with a 30 book reading list, it's hard to stop reading, particularly when it all seems interesting. Well done me, then, for not capitulating.

Mathmos or weirdos?

Lunchtime is generally supposed to be a relaxing experience, a brief interlude in an otherwise hectic existence. Not here.

For some reason (probably that I have no friends), I seated myself on a table with six mathematicians, affectionately referred to as 'Mathmos' here at Cambridge. For another (equally inexplicable reason) I swapped numbers with one of them. As it turned out, our numbers were fairly similar; mine begins, 07817 and his, 07857. The relevant detail is that we had five of the same digits in corresponding place on our numbers. Jokingly, I said, 'what are the chances?'

Normally, at this point, the response matches the stupidity of the question. Being instructed to **** off, I feel, would not have been unduly harsh. But no. Instead what followed was a detailed, self-absorbed, twenty-something minute-long calculation of the probabilities of this outcome. Meanwhile, I was still seated at the table as words (cf divided by four...factored to the power of three...) flew over my head.

Turns out it was one in 253. So I'm not so special after all

Social Contract

Yes mummy, I've changed my socks. And my underpants. And my shirt. I promise to do laundry. And to eat healthily. And to not contract deadly diseases. Or to have any sexual contact.

Above is a transcript from a recent telephone conversation with my concerned, Jewish mother. Naturally, I lied through my teeth. In truth, I am a smelly diseased wreck who has impregnated more people than Genghis Khan. I wish.

Seriously, though, I plan to wash, albeit as infrequently as I can reasonably get away with.

A new dawn

Soaked in sunshine, packed with excited freshers - both awkward and friendly, often at the same time - and preceded by its reputation, Robinson College and Cambridge itself has been hard to fault. So far.

Thanks must go to my parents. Not only have they valiantly contended with my obnoxious company for nearly 19 years, but they ferried me (and my excessive belongings) all the way to university. Helping to unpack seemed, at the time, a bit much, though retrospectively, this has saved vast amounts of time. Hence I am full of grate. The other half of the thank you, though, is more of a jibe directed at Robin's (my dad) dropping-off antics. You see, on arrival, perched on the bed, there was a box, a sort of Fresher's pack. Inside was the usual itinerary, replete with zillions of sign-up forms and enough admin to satisfy the department of health and safety. Condoms were also included, much to the amusement of Robin who volunteered (or maybe threatened) to put a needle through the packet. Actions and consequences was my response. That, and laughter at what it would cost him.

Of course, there's the work. At first, it seemed innocuous enough: 1 essay, 2000 words, 2 weeks, 10 books. Now, though, two essays later, it amounts to some 6000 words and 30 volumes - to be completed within the same time frame. A challenge, to be sure, and one I relish for the time-being.

Until next time, goodbye.