Finals of a Diarist...
Standing round a barbecue with the parents of my friend, St Annes New Man, I heard a physicist describe his recently ended finals as a "steady diet of physics and masturbation". I would concur with this although as yet I have not managed to do much revision. However, I am now preparing myself for the inevitable, buying stationary and post-it notes to make war on history, and digging in for the final offensive. (See you in Berlin, chaps.) Reading lists are forming and it turns out that there are all sorts of books on history that I was quite innocent of. I'm starting to suspect that there are some people who actually make a living out of the subject and are not simply honing their knowledge for particular Trivial Pursuits questions.
However, as my tutors unexpectedly announced, finals preparation is more about a state of mind, of alertness. Sorted-Graduate told me the key to revision was relaxation. This is the man who claims his First came from intense weeks of waking at two and taking absinthe. His friends don't seem to remember this but then perhaps they were failing to adhere to their relaxation timetables as rigorously as he was. I am sure if I ever was in his position I too would convince myself that weeks of consciousness expansion in the middle of the Parks is a good idea.
I took the point, though, and this weekend I headed for Newquay with Working Class Hero to escape house sexual politics, his law degree, and, if I'm honest, the temptation to colour in my revision time table with luminous paints and see if it looks any different through 3D glasses. St Annes New Man didn't come, as, he explained sagely, he didn't want to use up all his dosser tokens at once. We travelled by night and woke up in a different world. Travelling down those rails was like a journey to the earliest beginnings of the earth, when vegetation rioted through disused sidings and the trees were kings.
Well all right, we got drunk. The next time you find yourself hung-over before you get to bed, and the burn of a misjudged curry turning your insides into alien bodies struggling to free themselves, be happy that you are not in a backward facing seat on the Great Western. By the time Cornwall had arrived behind me, my semi-conscious dribblings had soaked my clothes and would certainly have flooded the carriage were I not woken by Working Class Hero taking a photo. One for the album, he said. This is certainly not what Sorted-Graduate had in mind.
That evening, quite unexpectedly, my ex-girlfriend's friend, Dances with Stethoscopes arrives in town. We had been wandering round pubs where regulars stared and signs behind the bar pronounced that "If you have not been invited you better have a bloody good reason for being here." We now eloped to get caned like fourteen year olds on the edge of the cliffs, but a mist had descended, it was utterly black, and Dances with Stethoscopes wanted to visit night clubs that targeted the 12-15 and 45-60 age groups.
The next day was perfect. The clocks went forward, the mist lifted partially and let the sunshine through in prisms over Fistral Beach. On the hills, even the doomed sheep looked happy. The wet suit is not the most commodious of outfits, but then even leg warmers are in fashion these days, and in Newquay men and women stroll out of their houses like black amphibians, carrying boards, and walk into the sea. We followed via a hire shop, and went down to the waves.
Working Class Hero and myself are not yet converts and seem more likely to drown. It did us good, and not just because the cold water might have stopped us properly following the physicist's revision tips. Maybe we should go next weekend says Working Class Hero as he contemplates land law and lawyers' ethics (the fun bit). He now wants to take up the Guitar...
26th Apr 2001