London is a stressful place when it’s hot, and when there are deadlines burning up the rear.
What is it, a gene thing? My perpetual inability to grasp the concept of deadlines has probably shaved years off my life while I endure countless sleepless nights, unhealthy amounts of caffeine and frantic hair pulling. And there’s always glue involved, or a printer break- down. Yes ALWAYS a printer break-down usually in synchronisation that the t.v programmes keeping my sanity alive begin to ‘sign’ in the bottom corner and the birds begin to tweet tauntingly.
I had thought that in handing in my final dissertation after an ultimate 'double all-nighter' spent in club 24hr computer cluster with a life time supply of lucozade and carb, while fellow students slept under their desks or had mini freak outs as the printers decided to go mental, I was packing in my constant struggle with this nightmare, but no. I’m a self punisher. First thing I do after university? Sign up for an interior design course involving projects and more deadlines.
On Monday I give in the final interior design project in a swift handover to the adult education supervisor. It all seems a bit easy. I make a motion to take it back from the man, he looks at me confused and stumbles away. I’m just apprehensive to believe this is the end of it all. Because let's face it, it probably isn't.
The day that had seamlessly blended in from the night before had started quite badly. There I found myself again an hour away from the finish line, elbow deep in papers, ink, print outs, god knows what, and somehow I had to put it all together to form a legible 20 component project, and satisfy my perfectionist ocd. Irritated and gradually more and more stressed at anyone who dares make social contact with me, including the cat who decides to sit right on top of my sticky work, I’m hot, covered in glue, wearing clothes from two days running, and seeing spots, and it doesn’t help that our new neighbours have decided to call in the builders for the past two weeks day long incessant drilling.
Hours later it’s all over, I begin to feel very weird indeed. Drunk, almost. I’m due to attend a barbeque that night, but pass out on the bed instead and sleep right through.
I’d love to be organised, I’d love to be one of these Mary Poppins types who manage to keep it all together and still find the time to paint their toenails. I’m just not.
