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It occurs to me that there is a misunderstanding that I might have to clear up. A few people lately have been doing the ten-things-I-assume-you-know-about-me meme, which I have done in the past. But this is not ten things, this is one thing. I am a finalist. This means that in five weeks from now, I have Finals. When I use that word, it has a capital F. It is not like, as I have been explaining more than once recently, the American concept with the same name, which does not have a capital F.
The reason for the initial capital is this. A lot of Oxford degrees - certainly the "classic" arts degrees, English Literature, History, Greats, etc., and to my sorrow, PPE as well - operate off a truly spectacular system of assessment. At the end of my first year, I took my Prelims. They weren't particularly important. Three exams, which I had to pass, or else be chucked out everyone's favourite institution of higher learning. The pass mark was, um, 40%. Don't laugh, I nearly failed my Economics. I got two firsts and a third, which gave me a perfectly average 2:1, and everyone went home happy, including the department of economics on the grounds that they didn't have to teach me any more.
But it was Balliol who told me my marks for my Prelims; the University itself didn't actually record them. All it wanted to know was if I'd passed or not, and once it'd found out that I had, that was that. And that is the sum total of assessment that I have ever had while here. Since then, I have been reading for my degree for two years. I have - ostensibly - done eight papers, five philosophy and three politics, I have written many essays and gone to, oh, nearly fifty tutes, and the occasional class, and every so often I've even dragged myself out of bed for a lecture.
And now I have Finals. Eight three-hour exams in a seven-day period, and these by themselves will dictate my degree. They are now five weeks away. This, just so it's entirely clear, is why I am crazy. This is why a great deal of my friends are crazy. These are the things you do, when you're a finalist:
(Note: not all these are me. I'm not saying none of them are me...)
-Eat a lot of pick 'n' mix. Also ice-cream. And raspberries. And vanilla fudge. And Maryland cookies. And cheese. And drink a lot of tea. And peppermint tea. And coffee. And more peppermint tea.
-Swear, copiously, at anyone who gets between you and any of the above.
-Have conversations like this over breakfast:
"I had a dream last night."
"Yeah?"
"It had a monster with enormous pointy teeth."
"...yeah?"
"Um. I think it was the Second Public Examination monster. Um. Is that wrong?"
-In something of a dreamy-eyed daze, decide that you really do love your subject, but after days of very dry articles and frantic memorisation of propositions, you probably will lose sight of this fact; consequently, it seems a good idea to print off Plato, "philosophy begins with wonder" and stick it to your door.
-Paint your toenails. A lot. As in, a lot. As in more than you did when you were twelve.
-Get very drunk, and cheerful, and merry, and gain an irrational compulsion to phone one of your friends in particular at three in the morning and sing Happy Birthday to them, even though their birthday was four months ago, and having sung it once, launch into it again but break off halfway to say, "Oh, I found a blueberry!"
-Discover that said friend is reduced to choking, tearful, hysterical laughter at the words "happy birthday" or "blueberry" or indeed "a million a thousand three four". Take advantage of this almost-Pavlovian reaction wherever possible.
-On a quiet night of revision, go out to college to print something, leaving your best friend and your boyfriend peaceful with their books and papers, and at the threshold, say, almost absent-mindedly, "I'll be back in a bit, don't seduce or traumatise him whie I'm gone."
(Be unaware that you'd left a tube of lipgloss out - 17; cherry - below the mirror.)
And when you get back, half an hour later.... yeah.
-Say things like:
"There is a significant lack of pandas failing to copulate in the Middle East."
"Truly, America is a land of opportunity. You can get chocolate-chip pancake and sausage. On a stick."
"The first recorded example of sexual spanking in art! Oh, isn't that exciting!"
-Do odd things to your hair. Bonus points if you look like a) an Asiatic Pippi Longstocking or b) an escapee from a kibbutz. Double-plus bonus points for volunteering your curls to a sixties lesbian fancy-dress costume.
-On a quiet afternoon, go out to college to print something, leaving two finalists behind busy with their books and papers. Say, almost absent-mindedly on the threshold, "I'll be back in a bit, no trauma while I'm gone."
Get back half an hour later and take two bemused seconds to notice they've swapped clothes.
Notice with further interest that four hours pass before they swap back, and the wrong one still looks like he's escaped from a kibbutz.
-Discover, to your lasting horror, that there is no year zero; that you've been misusing "deontological" your whole life; that there is such a thing as a nonce word; that "nonce word" is a nonce word; that the British Museum station was haunted by the ghost of an Egyptian mummy; that you might be a geek; that you might also spend too much time on Wikipedia.
-Notice that, in possibly a similar frame of mind, your next-door neighbour has, in a dreamy-eyed daze, stuck a piece of paper that says "philosophy begins with wonder" to her door. Procure a piece of paper of your own and stick it to your own door with the words: "bacteriology begins with an unhealthy fascination with yoghurt."
-Sleeeeep.
Yes, sleep is good. I go and sleep now. Not crazy really.
The reason for the initial capital is this. A lot of Oxford degrees - certainly the "classic" arts degrees, English Literature, History, Greats, etc., and to my sorrow, PPE as well - operate off a truly spectacular system of assessment. At the end of my first year, I took my Prelims. They weren't particularly important. Three exams, which I had to pass, or else be chucked out everyone's favourite institution of higher learning. The pass mark was, um, 40%. Don't laugh, I nearly failed my Economics. I got two firsts and a third, which gave me a perfectly average 2:1, and everyone went home happy, including the department of economics on the grounds that they didn't have to teach me any more.
But it was Balliol who told me my marks for my Prelims; the University itself didn't actually record them. All it wanted to know was if I'd passed or not, and once it'd found out that I had, that was that. And that is the sum total of assessment that I have ever had while here. Since then, I have been reading for my degree for two years. I have - ostensibly - done eight papers, five philosophy and three politics, I have written many essays and gone to, oh, nearly fifty tutes, and the occasional class, and every so often I've even dragged myself out of bed for a lecture.
And now I have Finals. Eight three-hour exams in a seven-day period, and these by themselves will dictate my degree. They are now five weeks away. This, just so it's entirely clear, is why I am crazy. This is why a great deal of my friends are crazy. These are the things you do, when you're a finalist:
(Note: not all these are me. I'm not saying none of them are me...)
-Eat a lot of pick 'n' mix. Also ice-cream. And raspberries. And vanilla fudge. And Maryland cookies. And cheese. And drink a lot of tea. And peppermint tea. And coffee. And more peppermint tea.
-Swear, copiously, at anyone who gets between you and any of the above.
-Have conversations like this over breakfast:
"I had a dream last night."
"Yeah?"
"It had a monster with enormous pointy teeth."
"...yeah?"
"Um. I think it was the Second Public Examination monster. Um. Is that wrong?"
-In something of a dreamy-eyed daze, decide that you really do love your subject, but after days of very dry articles and frantic memorisation of propositions, you probably will lose sight of this fact; consequently, it seems a good idea to print off Plato, "philosophy begins with wonder" and stick it to your door.
-Paint your toenails. A lot. As in, a lot. As in more than you did when you were twelve.
-Get very drunk, and cheerful, and merry, and gain an irrational compulsion to phone one of your friends in particular at three in the morning and sing Happy Birthday to them, even though their birthday was four months ago, and having sung it once, launch into it again but break off halfway to say, "Oh, I found a blueberry!"
-Discover that said friend is reduced to choking, tearful, hysterical laughter at the words "happy birthday" or "blueberry" or indeed "a million a thousand three four". Take advantage of this almost-Pavlovian reaction wherever possible.
-On a quiet night of revision, go out to college to print something, leaving your best friend and your boyfriend peaceful with their books and papers, and at the threshold, say, almost absent-mindedly, "I'll be back in a bit, don't seduce or traumatise him whie I'm gone."
(Be unaware that you'd left a tube of lipgloss out - 17; cherry - below the mirror.)
And when you get back, half an hour later.... yeah.
-Say things like:
"There is a significant lack of pandas failing to copulate in the Middle East."
"Truly, America is a land of opportunity. You can get chocolate-chip pancake and sausage. On a stick."
"The first recorded example of sexual spanking in art! Oh, isn't that exciting!"
-Do odd things to your hair. Bonus points if you look like a) an Asiatic Pippi Longstocking or b) an escapee from a kibbutz. Double-plus bonus points for volunteering your curls to a sixties lesbian fancy-dress costume.
-On a quiet afternoon, go out to college to print something, leaving two finalists behind busy with their books and papers. Say, almost absent-mindedly on the threshold, "I'll be back in a bit, no trauma while I'm gone."
Get back half an hour later and take two bemused seconds to notice they've swapped clothes.
Notice with further interest that four hours pass before they swap back, and the wrong one still looks like he's escaped from a kibbutz.
-Discover, to your lasting horror, that there is no year zero; that you've been misusing "deontological" your whole life; that there is such a thing as a nonce word; that "nonce word" is a nonce word; that the British Museum station was haunted by the ghost of an Egyptian mummy; that you might be a geek; that you might also spend too much time on Wikipedia.
-Notice that, in possibly a similar frame of mind, your next-door neighbour has, in a dreamy-eyed daze, stuck a piece of paper that says "philosophy begins with wonder" to her door. Procure a piece of paper of your own and stick it to your own door with the words: "bacteriology begins with an unhealthy fascination with yoghurt."
-Sleeeeep.
Yes, sleep is good. I go and sleep now. Not crazy really.
