I started lockdown with a great deal of highly unfounded optimism. I ended lockdown with a curious absence of it. Whatever happened?

First, there was the exam season, and what a slog it was! Unable to treat online exams differently from any other exam, I fell into the pattern of ‘revising’ nearly everyday. The problem with regularly revising, however, is that you start to become motivated and passionate about anything that does not involve revising. At one point, I had my starry eyes set on completing a music diploma. Unfortunately, I then found that that involved quite intensive practicing, so my estimations of the noble project quickly dropped. You will not hear me talking about that nowadays.

“I must admit that I didn’t entertain the possibility of having forgotten everything I ever learnt bar ′bonjour’ and ′thé s’il vous plaît’”

My second phase which met an untimely ending was, of course, the language one. Learning a new language will be the perfect project for lockdown, I agreed, along with everyone on social media who appeared to be learning about a minimum of three. I set my sights on French, having last learnt it in about year 8. I must admit that I didn’t entertain the possibility of having forgotten everything I ever learnt bar ’bonjour’ and ’thé s’il vous plaît’. 70 lessons in, and that’s about all my memory can muster. Oh, and ‘raison d’être’ which is a particular favourite of all lecturers ever. Safe to say, that was £22 not well spent.

My next phase was reading Agatha Christie. Her short, action-packed novels really added pace and excitement to the otherwise stagnant revision period. In fact, by one point, I probably - almost certainly - became more of an expert in Poirot’s investigation tactics than in my degree. I still maintain that that is not my problem though, as it is not my fault that Poirot is so interesting. That was quite a dangerous claim to make, as then the Miss Marple phase started. As you can imagine, it took me a while to get over this one.

After hours of entertainment provided by the marvellous Agatha Christie, I decided that I needed to start running again. Now, running isn’t exactly my favourite pastime. In fact, I think it’s positively awful. Alas, though, I am stubborn. So once I made up my mind to run, running it was. Fresh air can’t do me any harm, I thought innocently. How wrong I was. One week in, and I broke my rib. That was a little bit awkward. The damned injury slowed my pace and ability to run somewhat. Naturally, I dismissed all medical advice and started again a week later. I fear I am still suffering from the consequences.

With exams over, I had that age-old feeling of wondering what on earth I should do when work doesn’t exist. This is rather a depressing state as it reminds me of how unremarkable I must be. By this point, I had set my sights on writing second-rate articles like this. Journalism can’t be that bad after all, I told myself. Now apparently, writing articles requires a lot of editing (or at least in my case) as well as perseverance. This is all well and good, apart from when I’m tired, or after a nap (not that this happens often). Note that I haven’t given up on it yet, though.

“I have learnt my lesson though: long, ambitious and unachievable reading lists are the forte of Cambridge University, not mine”

On top of attempting articles - ‘attempting’ is the key word here - I set myself a very ambitious reading list. The main issue with ambitious reading lists is that they are never achieved. At all. This inevitably leaves one feeling disappointed and/or questioning the meaning of life. After the fast-pace of the murder mysteries, I found myself trying to adapt to the classics again. I have this peculiar sense of obligation to read them, whilst simultaneously possessing a complete lack of enthusiasm to do so. Madame Bovary really took it out of me, so that wasn’t the best start imaginable. In all, I reckon my reading pace has slowed by a good 50% this summer (based on absolutely no logical calculation whatsoever). I have learnt my lesson though: long, ambitious and unachievable reading lists are the forte of Cambridge University, not mine.

Now we are approaching September and the formidable prospect of a new term. I am trying to think of how I have spent my last six months or so, but am at quite a loss. I am sure that the effort has all been there, but the outcomes are somewhat lacking.

In a strange way, I like this.

We don’t always have to be doing things at 70 mph (that’s way too fast for me, by the way) and at any rate, it’s reserved for term time. Sometimes it is absolutely and utterly okay to just potter along. There’s plenty of time left for productivity, and no shortage of supervisors to check up on you if you dare to disagree with this statement. Undoubtedly, my carefully curated habits will continue to prosper until they meet an unwelcome end in October. In any case, I must at least complete my recent ‘learn-to-drive’ phase. Summer still has a lot of life yet, after all.