Diary of a finalist
I remember, long ago in the dim and distant past of my sun-drenched second year, overhearing a conversation amongst finalists that seemed part of a different world. One third year turned to another and said,
"We have to find you a place to work". They then spent the rest of the meal discussing the relative merits of various libraries. I smiled. What sad, sad creatures. This would never happen to me. Needless to say, it has.
My college library is frightening. People who started working a whole lot earlier than me have set up cosy little desks - files, piles of books, revision notes, cuddly toy mascots, good luck cards and notes from boyfriends. I bump into people I know, who've all become wild eyed and slightly unkempt, and have the same conversation with all of them - "How's it going?" "Badly, I'm SO screwed" "Me too. Only 30 days."
The economics faculty library is equally scary. Located in a glass box forty minutes' walk from where I live, the place swarms with my economics tutors. And with economists. Despite having studied economics for nearly five years now, I don't consider myself to be an economist. It's something to do with not being able to do any maths.
I just don't like the politics faculty library. And anyway, it's in George Street. Two excellent reasons to stay away. And so, if forced to pick a library, it has to be the PPE reading room. Not ideal, but it does at least have big desks, and enough interesting people for mild people watching, but not the full distraction of the alleged beauties of the Rad Cam (this is, incidentally, a myth. The ceilings are much more interesting). We can also compete with each other
- she's gone completely to the dogs, she's not even brushing her hair any more. He got there before me and is going to leave after me, the bastard. Another tragic thing about the life of a finalist is that this sort of behaviour takes the place of the once juicy gossip - no longer who's shagging whom, but who's reading what.
The PPE reading room is also perhaps the most mobile phone dependant place in Oxford , and this allows for a far more satisfying form of competition. We sit there, mobile phones on the desk in front of us, set to the discreet, but still clearly audible, vibrate. When one person's phone goes we all scrabble, only to look disappointed and sheepish when we realise ours is still silent, and that our friends have all abandoned us. The person with the phone call, meanwhile, struts out with a proud "I may be a finalist but I still have a life and friends" look on their face. I'm convinced it's always their mothers.
2nd May 2002