Coincidence? I think not.

Irony o'clock. Today, on my way to my lecture, entitled 'Thatcher and the miner's strikes of the 1980s', I had to cross a picket line, full of people angrily protesting against public pay cuts. Some things never change.

Debaterama

Debate competitions are a rum affair: self-confessed nerds gather to discuss nerdy topics during the day, and in the evening, they attempt to have fun. Somewhat startlingly, the Cambridge IV involved more of the latter than you would normally expect, with the inevitable result being a bunch of lightweight and drunken debaters tottering around town.

One of those, whose name will not be mentioned, was 'crashed' at mine. The problem was not that he turned up at 3am (despite being fully aware of the requisite 8am wake-up next day). Nor did it matter that he gobbled up the remnants of my birthday cake. It was the fact that, at 5am, he decided to take a call from Mitt Romney's campaign secretary on ichat. It was that, in addition to his sleeping bag, he wanted 3 pillows, and an extra sleeping bag. It was that in the morning, he wanted a shower. And a towel. Even without that crucial item, he still persisted, valiantly using his clean shirts to absorb the moisture. It was that, following this episode, he then needed a dry shirt since all his others were sopping wet from his shower.

Others have variously described these tales as 'hilarious' and, 'classic'. I would invite all of these people to crash this person in future.

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.

Training in the art of patience.

The perils of public transport, or a lack thereof. Last night, I wanted to get to Mill Hill; seemingly, the more urgent it became, the less TFL (the organisation responsible for Transparently Failing London) cared.

Cricklewood, seven o'clock, minus the http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6nvKN_H4e-I melodrama. Stood on the platform, I waited well over an hour for my Luton-bound train. At first, delays were explained by a 'shortage of supply chains', no doubt a piece of meaningless jargon designed to placate soon-to-be angry passengers. It does raise the question, though: what, exactly are they supplying the trains with? Is there a war - one that I know nothing about - being waged as I write this? (If warfare is to be fought this way in future, it might not be such a bad thing). Either way, I am envisioning mid-station refuelling of the type undergone by over-priced transatlantic fighter craft, soon to be scrapped by the government, of course. Before long, excuses had morphed into the equally-tedious, 'a train has broken down on the line'. Now don't get me wrong: both of those excuses, taken together, are possible, notwithstanding their sheer dullness. They are the TFL equivalent of 'sorry sir, but my dog ate it'. If excuses were rated according to creativity, or some other less addled and wearisome metric (and believe me, that shouldn't be too hard), then perhaps passengers would more readily cut train operators some slack. After all, we're only human...robots.

But it didn't end there. I mentioned that I waited for an hour. What I omitted was that the train never came. 15 minutes from every ETA, TFL would proffer another predictably jargonised excuse, delaying the train by another 10 minutes. Eventually, after an hour of this tantalising game, just when I was about to give up hope, they dashed it for me: the train was cancelled. So I walked towards West Hampstead, seeking an express train along the same line. Alas, this was also cancelled.

Plan C involved ditching trains and turning to those bastions of reliability, buses. I caught one towards Golders Green. Sadly, this method was also doomed because, at the first set of make-shift traffic lights, two buses entered head on and were soon stuck. Rather than wait for some painful siamese-style extrication, I walked the rest. The tube to collindale, followed by another bus and a short sprint ended an eventful, if stressful, journey to somewhere, with hindsight, I wished I hadn't gone.

For once, I cannot blame this on the failings of politicians. Humans must, sometimes, be afforded margin for error. In fact, we, the public would benefit from a more patient demeanour. It could cure the chronic short-termism that cripples political judgement; it could lend politicians more scope and opportunity to prove their worth, rather than turfing them out after a single slip-up; it could help us to watch public policy borne out instead of screeching at the sound of reform or cuts. Patience, in short, is a virtue. Get it now.