Welcome, welcome one and all to the column that you never knew you needed. The column that will cure your boredom and fuel your procrastination. It will bring a smile to your face and add a metaphorical pep to your step. A chronicle of love and of loss, of fear, and of friendship. It has the keen wit of a Shakespearean classic, and the epic breadth of Homer’s Odyssey. Oh, and most importantly, this column is entirely about me.

“My ego is merely a result of gifted and talented programmes and excessive ambition – like the rest of you”

“Who be-eth this mysterious figure thou doth speak of?” I hear you cry (there’s that Shakespearean wit I mentioned) and you are right to do so! It must seem very self-centered to want to write a column that entirely revolves around my own life; I am aware of that. Fear not, dear reader – I am no hero. No BNOC, no tripos topper, not even a humble club rep. I am your bog standard, plain and simple Cambridge student. My ego is merely a result of gifted and talented programmes and excessive ambition – like the rest of you. I have no reputation to uphold (I study education), which places me in the perfect position for your entertainment. I’m free to share every mishap, mortifying confession, and spectacular failure that befalls your average Cambridge student.

If you relate to my confessions – great! We can both feel better about our lives. If you don’t relate then it must be assumed you are a better person than me, and I give you full permission to laugh/cry/feel infinitely better about yourself.

When I talk about ‘Cambridge Confessions’, I am not alluding to your average, light-hearted, tipsy mishap. Sure, falling down the stairs in Mash might have been embarrassing for you, but it’s not a ‘replay it over and over again before you go to sleep each night’ sort of confession. As a third year, I have had my fair share of mortifying experiences, and that given we’ve only known each other since the top of the page, it feels only right to start our relationship by sharing some of my absolute worst.

Potato Gate

You know that bag of potatoes that’s been sitting in your cupboard untouched since the start of term? No? Maybe it’s just me, but I always overestimate my potato consumption. One night last term, around week 5, I found myself low on food, energy, and common sense – a treacherous trio in the cooking world. In my delirious state, I decided to boil the whole bag of potatoes under the logic that I wouldn’t eat them if I didn’t cook them. What I hadn’t considered was that by the time I’d cooked the potatoes, I had no energy to cook anything else. This led to what we now lovingly call ‘Potato Gate’ – a delicious gourmet meal of potato three ways. What started as laughter turned to tears as I suffered through my concoction. 6/10 would not recommend unless you really like potatoes and have self-destructive tendencies.

“That was not my chair, nor my decorations and it was definitely not me asleep in bed”

Breaking and Entering

One night last year, I got back from the library around 4am (I am an extreme procrastinator). On arriving at my room, it dawned on me that I had completely forgotten about my laundry sitting (still damp) in the dryer. Despite the early hour, I ventured into the night to retrieve it. For context, my laundry room was in the basement of the staircase next door – a staircase identical to mine. Collecting my clothes, I made my way back up the stairs; I opened the door to my room, expecting to dump the clothes and collapse into bed, when to my horror I realised that I had not opened my door at all. That was not my chair, nor my decorations and it was definitely not me asleep in bed. I was in the wrong room. Rationally, I assumed I had opened the wrong door and tried again, this time double-checking the room number. I cannot explain in words how panicked I was when once again I opened the door to someone else’s room. Had I entered a parallel universe? Had my college moved me out within the time it took to collect my laundry? Had I finally lost it? After a minute of existential crisis, it dawned on me that I had never re-entered my own staircase. Carrying a lot of shame and the symptoms of a heart attack, I staggered back to my room, taking note of the poor soul whose room I had broken into to send my most sincere apologies to.

There you have it, two of my lowest Cambridge moments for you to enjoy. I feel like this has brought us closer. Don’t you? Now, I did say this was a weekly column, but there is an issue: not even I can experience enough embarrassment to fill an article a week. How about I make you a proposal, my dear readers. I’ve told you all about me (and don’t worry, that won’t stop!), how about you share some confessions of your own? Get some stuff off your chest, you know? I’m all ears.

If you’d like to send in your own anonymous confession, follow this link and you may be featured in the next edition!