missprint

Ah, look at me, grinning away there. This should be what my face looks like on May 15th when I officially finish university and hand in everything (including the Accursed Dissertation). However, due to extenuating circumstances (although technically they don't fall into the category of extenuating circumstances), it appears as though the above face is going to be put on hold for another three months or so.

To put it simply, today ranks amongst the All Time Top Five Worst Days of My Life. Normally, as an eternal (ly annoying) optimist, I would count myself fortunate not to have enough days to fill up this list. However, my usual cheery facade somewhat clashes with the constant stream of profanities that is currently running through my mind. The end of semester is never a good time for any student. I am sure you've all fallen victim to your own laziness/procrastination/disorganisation and have had to frantically rectify the situation by staying up all night, typing out whatever garbled semi-formed critical thought pops into your mind. I was quite resigned to the fact that I wasn't going to have much sleep this week. (Mainly because I knew that next week, I could sleep as much as I wanted to.) However, what I wasn't prepared for was a sweaty-palmed, blind panic on the sudden realisation that I wasn't going to make my deadline. I have never missed a deadline, so I guess it had to happen some time. Unfortunately, the "some time" happens to be during my final year.

Although my university is on the other side of the river, with the combination of my cunning and slightly reckless driving, I can usually make it door-to-door in half an hour. With deadlines however, I have learnt from past experience that leaving an extra hour or so ensures that I don't go ballistic with worry at all the potential disasters that could happen between Peckham and Beckton. So, although I was running a little later than intended, I still managed to leave my house at 2:30pm. I was quite pleased with myself, I had written a 4000 word essay in the space of approximately 12 hours and it had only taken me 10 minutes to get to the Rotherhithe tunnel. Oh yes, it was going to be one of those kind of days where I listen to ELO's Mr Blue Sky on repeat. All was going to plan until I got to the Rotherhithe Tunnel approach and was confronted with a large, shiny, slightly dented (no doubt from enranged young women), yellow signed: TUNNEL CLOSED. So it was back around the roundabout and I doubled back on myself, yet another 10 minutes. The other option open to me is the Blackwall tunnel and whilst usually I would be worried about the traffic, I reasoned that it was 2:50pm on a weekday, surely everyone was at work? The next hour and a half found me alternately sitting stationary in my car or zooming off to another route that I knew of.

By the time I arrived in Lewisham, the vague thought had formed in my mind that perhaps I should ditch my car and (god forbid) use the DLR. Weighing up the odds (and my monumental laziness/tiredness), I decided that perhaps sticking with my car was better. After all, at least in my car I could listen to this week's Pop Revival (Kylie's Body Language). Another 15 minutes elapse and it's now 3:40 and I am coming up to the Cutty Sark DLR station. It is at this point that I realise nothing I do will get me to university in time for the 4pm deadline. Very much like the child sent to the back of the class with the glitter glue and safety scissors, my damned optimistic streak piped up. I could still possibly make it to university for 4:15 and beg and plead and (perhaps) cry at the administrative staff. So, I continued driving.

A few minutes later, I realised that I had an appointment with my dissertation supervisor which I was already dreadfully late for. However, by this point I was already on the Blackwall Tunnel approach and there was no time to frantically scrabble around for me phone. Straight after coming out of the tunnel, I found myself sitting in stationary traffic again. So, I take the opportunity to call my supervisor. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a large white vehicle adorned with fluro go-faster stripes pull up slowly next to me.

Uh oh.

As casually as I can, I inch the car forwards and hope that the law enforcers on my right don't figure out my cunning plan.

Uh oh. I've been rumbled.

I throw caution to the wind and decide that the only thing for it is to slide down in my seat and attempt to let the phone drop to the floor.

What an amazing idea! They will never notice the hot pink shiny thing slithering down from my ear to the car seat. Just as I am about to claim my victory and outwit the law, I look down and notice that my phone has proceeded no further than 8 inches from my ear. Stupid breasts.

It is at this point that the policemen start beeping their horn and making the international sign for "Could you please roll down your window madam?" It is at this point that I decide that crying is definately the way forward.

"You're not really paying attention to the road, are you madam?"

So, it is with little more than a mumbled "NoI'mveryverysorry" and a rush of blood to the face that I speed off, in the hopes of making 4:15pm. But, today being the Worst Day Ever, that is rather foolish of me to think that anything will go right. I eventually arrive at university at 4:30pm, two whole hours after I left my house. Inevitably, the Student Enquiry Desk is closed, so I can't hand in my essay. My supervisor is nowhere to be seen. I'm having one of those, God-why-did-I-wear-this-in-public moments. I am convinced that were I not utterly exausted to the point of delirium, I would have collapsed in a heap in the university square.

It is at this point that I spot my supervisor smoking outside the bar and I head over. Upon sight of my crumpled and haggard visage, she has already guessed what has happened and is all embraces and sympathy. The way that the day has progressed so far, I brace myself for a full scale attack on my dissertation, all 10,000 words of it. Instead, perhaps because of today's events, I mercifully get what I want to hear. Declining offers of a drink, fearing that alcohol would truly tip me over the edge of the precipice of sanity that I am teetering on, I decide to make my way home. So here I am, back at home, after a further two hours in first gear.