Final year.

It's here. The looming summer is over with. So, with sour, miserable faces and wool-clad limbs, we brace the onset of northern autumn and of our final year as degree students. 

It's supposed to be great? Who said that.  Today is my second *technical* day as a third year. (I'm only actually in three days a week, but shh.) Reading lists have been doled out, schedules explained and deadlines highlighted in luminous colours in our diaries and planners. This year matters. This year determines your future. These are the kind of supposedly motivational statements that will be thrown at us from lecturers for the next 20 weeks or so. So, yes I'm majorly stressing out. 

Also, this week, after a really hasty decision, I'm having an impromptu birthday party on Friday to celebrate my turning 21, albeit five days premature. We have food to make, a room to decorate, hair and make up to be done, outfits to be planned, taxis to book, a cake to collect, balloons to blow up, and the rest of the room to pay for. Oh, and fit uni in, and all the work that comes with it, round the troops up and achieve all of this and be at the venue before 7pm on Friday night for the celebrations to start. Excitement is brewing but stress is too. My skin is breaking out, the slight furrow between my eyebrows is becoming more evident by the hour, and I'm feeling drained. All I want is someone to greet me off the bus I'm currently falling asleep on, carry my heavy bags filled with uni books, fetch me a good cup of coffee and run me a lovely hot bath. 

Tomorrow, I have a day off. Thank god for small mercies.