“It was the pipes, Sir.”

My shower is slowly turning into a bath. As in, the bottom of the shower is literally filling up with water every time any of us try to use it. It does drain away, eventually, so that it’s really very easy to ignore for an extended period of time. And that, to be honest, is probably the worst part. If, like me, you’re the kind of person who relies on steaming hot water to transform you into a rational human being every morning, and in your hazy state you forget all about it, you’ll end up flooding the bathroom.

It might seem obvious to you, but I honestly did not see that coming when I woke up yesterday. My image was a smooth transition from warm bed to warm shower to warm clothes to warm lecture hall. What happened involved using rolls of toilet paper to dry the carpet, catching my expensive shampoo before it floated into the kitchen and trekking to underbelly of the old queenslander I live in to find out once and for all what is clogging the pipes. All wearing my bath towel. While my roommate’s boyfriend laughed and ate avocado on toast, using my avocado. 

Which, let’s be honest, pretty much killed any enthusiasm I had for walking to uni, or, for that matter, attending at all that day. And that’s saying something. I know people who might go to ten lectures a term and still manage to pass, but personally it’s not something I can handle. If I miss one day, it’s possible that ten days later I’ll be sitting on the couch watching 30 Rock when I realise I forgot about going to class. Thank God high school’s over, and with it the need for bringing notes from parents to homeroom to explain your absence. Our school called them ‘misadventure notes.’ As though having tonsillitis and being physically too ill to do anything but watch cat fights between fat older women on Jerry Springer was an ‘adventure.’ Well. I suppose it was. My favourite was the woman who tackled her husband’s mistress into the audience. Then the audience joined in. Anyway, moral of the story is that I try not to miss class, and yesterday (I told myself), was no exception. Even though misadventure notes are out of the equation.

And now let me give you the best piece of advice I have to give: if it’s at all possible, live close to the university. It makes every part of life so much easier. When I was living on campus last year, my building was actually across the road from the uni. I was all “Big deal, walking wouldn’t have bothered me,” for about the first week. And then classes started, and I came to understand just how much my teachers were asking of me when they held lectures at 8am on Friday morning. It’s cruel and unnatural for someone my age to be forced to not only be awake, but to be actively learning at that age. Judging from the faces of everyone else in the class, I don’t think it’s something we are naturally capable of.

So being able to roll out of bed and walk like a zombie for 500 metres to class instead of catching 5 buses and a train to get there was as close to awesome as any of those mornings were ever going to get. You can miss your alarm and still wake up in time to make class. You don’t have to worry about bus and train timetables, or about falling asleep and missing your stop. You can spend an hour mopping up water from your flooded bathroom and still get there, even if you’re slightly damper and more irritable than you would have otherwise been.

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