Welcome to Number 26. The House of Procrastination.

Your deadline was three hours ago. The UL is closed. Sainsbury's is shut. You've already made yourself the most elaborate dinner you could muster (with procrasti-tastic ingredients that you've had to pedal all the way to Mill Road's oriental supermarket for) and you've had the obligatory digestion-friendly snooze. You've even engaged on a level of supreme meta-procrastination that allows you to waste time by writing about wasting time on some kooky Varsity blog. If you'd started this at the beginning of term – nay, even a week ago – all would have been well. The dread congeals in your stomach. Or maybe that's just the excessive amount of butter you've consumed from too many procrastinatory toast-trips. It's time.

It's really time.

First you're going to check Facebook for a bit, but then, It'll Really Be Time.

Okay, it's totally time.

 

Ellie. 10.04pm. Word count: 0. Begin new Word Document. Enable appearance of maximum page coverage: 130% spacing. Squeeze the margin. (Gotta make the most of that skinny word count.) Stare at the screen for about 20 minutes. Facebook One. Last. Time. Oh and HOW COULD I FORGET: coffee.

Adam. 10.33pm. Word count: 18. Running a little behind schedule, it’s true, but who knew spider vs. scorpion/centipede/millipede/other spider could be so diverting? From now on, though, it’s smooth sailing.

Ellie. 10.29pm. Word count: 8. Attempt to control caffeine-judders currently preventing use of hands. Realise I've left a key text in the library. Howl in despair. Consider turning to prayer for the first time in ten years.

Adam. 10.50pm. Word count: 16. How did I lose two words? I’m suffering a crisis of faith, but the discovery that any internet game can be played to, and seriously improved by, Mozart’s Queen of the Night aria is an undeniable boon to all mankind- and definitely more than makes up for the woeful state of my academic career.

Ellie. 11.18pm. Word count: 326. OKAY I'M WRITING, EVERYONE, I'M ACTUALLY WRITING. LOOK AT ME WRITING. It doesn't matter that my sentences have no semantic value.

Adam. 11.20pm. Word count: 210. Introduction finished. Great. That’s really half the way there! Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise. I’m just going to smugly shimmy down to the kitchen for a quick burst of coffee encouragement.

Adam. 11.55pm. Word count: 210. Dang. Ellie’s got 1500 words - and caught me stealing her Colombian blend.

Ellie. 11.56pm. Word count: 700. Just bumped into Adam stealing my coffee in the kitchen. Bastard. Lied about my word count to make him suffer for this unforgivable deed.

Adam. 12.46am. Word count: 850. It's great. I'm flying through this. Just a short Facebook break. Oh look, the girl who looks like the slug receptionist from Monsters, Inc. has been on holiday. I sup energy drink in smug procrastination haze.

Ellie. 1.25am. Word count: 1067. Plunging into the depths of caffeine low. Grim. Grim. Grim. I want to die. Grim. Any kind of existence must be better than this. Must. Struggle. On.

Adam. 1.37am. Word count: 1200. The last two paragraphs don’t seem to be in English and I am suffering shooting pains in both arms from the red bull and coffee cocktail. If it were in my left arm I would be worried... Or, are two arms worse than one? Oh hi amusing 1950s dating infomercial.

Ellie. 2.13am. Word count: 1318. Just went up to check on Adam. Passed out at his desk. Amateur.

Adam. 2.40am. Word count: 1700. Shit. I can't believe I fell asleep. All I need is a really long quote and I'm done. Are five hundred words too much? NO! Perfect. Finally, I've sent it and I can go back to twitching in my caffeine coma.

Ellie. 3.56am. Word count: 1804. It contains a measly number of words, it is grammatically despicable, and I lost track of my argument three hours ago. BUT IT'S FINISHED! Now the beatific, brain-addled bike-ride through the deserted streets of Cambridge for the smug hand in. At last: sweet slumber beckons.