It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of a headcold and a motorcar must not be in want of a rail-based journey to his Psychology tute. Because, seriously, why would I (he? get with the program!) want to spend a period of time longer than that which I would spend actually at the tute sitting on a train, which would probably be travelling at a speed no greater than that of a moderately fit cyclist? Plus, walking to the station. Those ten minutes take it out of you. Basically, I just wanted to use the word “motorcar”. It makes me feel old-fashioned and reminds me ever so slightly of Toad of Toad Hall. You know the one.
It wasn’t even that great a tute, being a non-examinable time-waster consisting primarily of the tutor reading off a powerpoint (at least black type in Times New Roman on a white background beats yellow Comic Sans on… anything) and playing clips from Hollywood blockbusters that were about mental illness. It was pretty depressing. It was like they had put together a montage of “Things That Can Go Wrong” to celebrate the end of the semester. Depression, schizophrenia, Angelina Jolie, you name it.
I then drove home in my motorcar (heh) and did pretty much nothing for several hours (when you are sick, doing nothing is called resting, a Recuperative Activity which is good for the economy and fun for the whole family). It was not until the evening that I stirred from my repose (read: watching ALL SIX episodes of Garth Morengi’s Darkplace) and packed for the night’s stay at the uni. If you haven’t been followed The Greatest Story Ever Told… On This Blog, I had volunteered to sleep in the Psychology building with wires attached to my head (well, for a princely sum of cash and vodka- no, really!). Being immensely proud that I managed to fit everything I needed for the night and the following day into my satchel, I caught a taxi (whooo free taxi vouchers!) to the aforementioned university.
Upon my arrival, I signed many, many things and was given money (which seemed a fair swap), followed by a microwave dinner (which looked revolting but didn’t taste half bad). I was then scrubbed with an exfoliating cream, slathered with electroconductive gel and sticky-taped to various electrodes. Once I was adequately Science’d Up, I was plied with a mysterious concoction (orange juice with a 50% chance of five shots of vodka) and sent to bed.