I’m writing this with the alarming awareness that term starts tomorrow. How on earth has it happened that term is now actually happening? I was operating on the assumption that December would never end so that I would be freed from deadlines and real work forever. But alas, term, once again, has won the upper hand. And I’m not too pleased about it. As I now have three essays due quite soon which I have not yet begun (I’m still in the “thinking about doing it” phase), I thought that it’s about time I write an article. At least this way my procrastination is productive. Right?

*One day later*

Unfortunately, the much-dreaded term has now started because I somehow managed to find a way to procrastinate writing this article for 24 hours (message me for tips). And after one day of attempted essay reading, I can safely say I’m now ready for the next holiday. The term “holiday” is generous, though, as Cambridge seems to love making sure that there is always work we can be doing. Joy. So, instead of thinking about the future and my degree (a formidable thought), I am going to think about the past.

We’ve had a few weeks of very indecisive snow up north which can’t quite decide whether to come or go. This was all fun and games until the roads got treacherous and my house became even colder. In the bygone “fun and games” stage, though, I managed to channel my artistic talents into building a snowman. How could I not when the snow was simply beckoning to me? Sadly, however, the poor creature met an untimely death as my little six-year-old brother decided he could use its body to build the perfect “igloo”. I tried (and failed) to conceal a grimace when he proudly asked me to come and look at said igloo carved out of the heartless destruction and sacrifice of my very own snowman. No, I’m not petty. Why?

Beyond snowman building which requires *serious* craftsmanship, I’ve been reading a little recently. Don’t worry though, I’m not talking about the works of Plato or Dante – absolutely not – I couldn’t if I tried. I’m more one for a good murder mystery and a cup of tea (followed by nightmares and horrifying visions of serial killers coming to dinner). Annoyingly, I’m finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on reading at the moment. Sitting still for longer than a chapter or two is becoming too big of an ask, and I can’t even blame it on the serial killers lurking around my room.

I’ve spent a lot of time outside lately. This is not of my own volition (I’ve wanted to use that phrase for so long) but, rather, because the pandemic has decreed that it be so. I’ve spent so much time outside, in fact, that I’m beginning to seriously question whether having friends is worth the hypothermia. By this point, I’m afraid to say that it is a very close call. On a merrier note, I’ve started scrapbooking. I didn’t fancy going for one of the more common lockdown “projects” like learning ten new languages or setting up a multi-million pound business or flying to the moon, so I opted for something more modest. Thus far, I haven’t filled in a single page. The plan is, however, that inspiration will hit and then I’ll become an unstoppable scrapbooking force. Genius takes time, after all.

On the topic of sleep (or lack thereof), I’ve had my room painted recently. Of course, I haven’t painted it myself because that would be a disaster, and not one that I’m willing to create. The result is that my room is now pink, yellow and green. This may strike you as the colour palette of a five-year-old. If so, you’re not wrong. But I absolutely love it. Maturity, who’s she? Instead of doing my work, I can just stare at the bright yellow walls until my eyes blur. When I’m not doing that (staring at my wall, that is), I can be found scrolling through online shops looking at pottery mugs or patchwork blankets (which I never buy) because my aesthetic is a collab of a 50- and a five-year-old. I might set up an influencer account soon….

I think it’s safe to say that this holiday has not exactly been one for the books: my scrapbook is looking bare, my essays are not written and my energy is curiously absent. But on the bright side, I do have colourful walls. So, if all else falls apart, which is frankly on the agenda for me, then at least it will do so in a multicoloured room.