It is the last week of term, and I’ve spent much of it in the medical school where we have had arranged for us a programme of revision lectures.
The only selling point of this week is that I’ve been able to wear jeans.
In the beginning, I was really optimistic about it all — and, given that I specifically chose what was then a PBL medical school because I was done with back-to-back didactic lectures after having spent three years mostly falling asleep in them, it is almost unheard of for me to be optimistic about a week that contains back-to-back didactic lectures. It looked from the timetable as if we were going to have a crash course in what we ought to have learned over the last five years. I looked forward to it.
The moment when it all came crashing down was on Tuesday, when a consultant fiddled with his computer and made some vague noises about the lecture he had been asked to give having a very broad remit and then said, “I haven’t read your curriculum. Do you guys have exams coming up or something?”
It was one of those moments where there is suddenly a total disconnect between your brain and your mouth, tact and decorum are dispensed with, and, as two hundred and odd of my colleagues looked at him in stunned silence, my forehead met my desk and I yelled, very audibly,
“WE HAVE FINALS!”
My flatmate, whose eardrums had the misfortune to be sitting beside me, is presently bemoaning the fact that she has already sent in my Famous Last Words to the yearbook committee.