The Year Ends In March. Apparently.

(technically, that’s two sentences in one title!)

With Earth lurching steadily and ever-grumpily towards Spring, the number of invites to Freshers’ events on Facebook mercifully dwindling, and the tragic realisation that I need to do things like find a flat for next year and start giving a shit about my exams, you’d be forgiven for thinking it’s March-going-on-April. But no. It’s like July or some shit because literally everything is ending.

There’s no more dodgeball, either at UCL or at the league we’ve played in all year; there’s no more handball; there’ll be no more Savage publications to write for; I’ve had my last seminar, lecture and tutorial of my first year of university; and the weather still isn’t decent enough to see a frakking solar eclipse.

It’s always been weird to me that the academic year in the UK doesn’t match up with the calendar one; I suppose with the current system we get Summer and it’s pleasant weather as an end-of-year reward of sorts, an idea which totally alienates those of us that quite like the misery of climate and frequency of punk gigs that November brings. So now to introduce another chronological bit of faffery into the equation – the year ends in December, July and March all at the same time because reasons – it’s all a bit much really.

It also puts a lot of emphasis on the revision I’m about (in like two weeks) to start; I’ll have something like a solid month and a half to get more than 40% in a series of exams, when I was already hitting 60s in September when I’d been studying one text for a week. Obviously, the poor Medics are chained to their lab instruments collecting data that’s probably wrong and prone to literally go down the drain at any given point, and Mechanical Engineering students probably have to build fully-operational Megazords in a fortnight out of eggboxes, duct tape and used bits of chewing gum for adhesives, so they need the time. And while I’ll spend as much time working as I need to, that fact that I have only nine hours of exams, and 44 days to prepare for them, means I can honestly do 44 practice papers, start to finish, before any of my exams even begin. 44 practice papers! On like twenty texts, if that! To me, the overall time : revision time ratio seems a bit off; one literally cannot do that much work based on such limited subject matter for that much time (I know from experience with rote-learning A-level syllabuses).

But I’m doing a degree with six contact hours a week, where I’m getting better at dodgeball than I am at writing, and I get to learn Old Icelandic on the side, so I’m not going to complain. It’s annoying that I can’t play handball, and especially that I might not see the people from some of these societies until September, but it’s just that – an annoyance. And considering this blog is whiny, self-important bitching at least 75% of the time, I of all people should be well-equipped to put up with minor inconveniences in my oh-so-difficult life.


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