The poet W H Auden wrote something about time hurtling past like rabbits. The last few months have definitely whizzed by and yet, with less than 24 hours to go to the big day, time seems to be trundling along like a Dublin bus. It seems tomorrow will never come. Part of me just wants to get started; then there's another part that wants just one more day to finish studying. Everybody else still seems fairly calm.
Rumours that some are being drip-fed coffee in frantic attempts to study overnight have yet to be substantiated. Overall, nerves, if a little frayed, remain largely intact. Everybody is nervous, but I think we might need some nervous energy tomorrow. Of course, by now, the Leaving is almost the sole topic of conversation. If people aren't talking about what they've studied, they are stressing about what they haven't studied.
If people aren't talking in maths or physics formulae, they are inserting Macbeth quotations into every sentence, almost unconsciously. Macbeth is a great play, but after three years of studying it non-stop, I sometimes wish that the witches got hit by a stray bolt of lightening in the first scene. Some of that superstition is rubbing off on me. I am rapidly accumulating Leaving Cert mascots. My favourite is the free-flowing pen my grannie gave me which, she assures me, writes that fraction of a second faster than normal pens. During my Junior Cert, I became utterly convinced that listening to some slushy Celine Dion ballad before every exam was crucial to my success. I'm still searching for a lucky anthem for the Leaving. The End of the World as We Know It seems a tad melodramatic. I would pick that sunscreen song that is supposedly a replacement spirituality for our generation but it always makes me worry that I don't floss or stretch enough. Everything is Going to be Alright might be a good choice.
The main problem is that, apart from selecting lucky songs, I have nothing to do. We are repeatedly told not to study, to relax. After the last three weeks, however, studying is almost a reflex action. Stopping brings a terrible sense of guilt. My desk also looks very forlorn, without heaps of cascading books on top of it. Another problem is how to relax. I consider asking the Natural Law Party for a loan of one of their yogic flyers which will supposedly bring worldwide peace (I'm not sure what a yogic flier is, but it sounds impossibly impressive).
Instead I try Feng Shui. This is actually quite fun, mainly because it involves binning lots of study plans and photo-copy sheets, as I'm sure they're interefering with my spiritual wellbeing. I thought incense and scented candles might reduce me to a hallucinogenic state conducive to writing a creative English essay tomorrow, but all this wafting smoke gives me a headache. I'm beginning to feel like a piece of clutter in my newly Feng Shui'ed room, so I go for a brisk walk.
Everybody I bump into gives me a sympathetic so-you're-doing-your-Leaving-tomorrow-you-poor-thing look. I spend most of the walk worrying about not studying. Preparations are made. Easons' stationery department has been raided. Rows of gleaming blue biros and freshly-pared pencils fill up my desk. Numerous alarm clocks sit poised to wake me. All that remains is to do the exam. And come tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow . . . I'm not worried. I don't think the Leaving is the hardest thing we'll ever do - just perhaps the most tedious. If only tomorrow could creep a little bit faster.
