Monday morning rolls around promptly, after a Saturday spent mainly hiding under my duvet and drinking copious amounts of tea to wash away my Friday-induced hangover, and a Sunday trying to draft an essay on the therapeutic uses of calcium channel blockers (and nursing the remnants of the aforementioned hangover).
Seriously, I am never going to drink 'Resting Witch Face' ever again.
My poor lab-coat is now sporting a number of large pink patches and a very distinctive meat-cleaver design across the back, despite me putting it through three hot wash-cycles yesterday and depleting an entire term's worth of laundry pound coins in the process. I had plans to use this coat in future years at clinical school; a plan which now has to be axed, thanks to Alice in Wonderland's 'doodle'.
Permanent markers should be banned.
It's a quarter to nine by the time I've cycled from college to the lecture theatre and found somewhere to lock up my bike. I just hope that Judith has secured our seats before some inconsiderate wanker steals them again.
The relief when I barge through the lecture theatre door is immense; Judith is sitting exactly where she should be, and the row in front is empty, ready for Leonard and Yoshi to occupy it.
I feel SO much more zen when everyone is in their rightful place.
"Morning, Jude," I say jauntily, as I swing into my seat. "How was your weekend?"
"It was great, thanks. I did Cambridge Parkrun on Saturday morning as usual, went to The Baron of Beef pub on Saturday night, and then cycled to Ely and back with the triathlon club on Sunday morning."
The woman is a machine, seriously. She does so much exercise that her resting heart rate is low enough to practically be a flat line. It gave our physiology laboratory supervisor quite a turn last year during practical experiments.
"I don't know how you do it, Jude. Just thinking about doing any exercise after a night of drinking makes me want to vomit."
Who am I kidding? Thinking about exercise on its own makes me want to vomit.
"I didn't drink that much, just two pints," she laughs. "How did your weekend go?"
"Well, Saturday was a write-off," I reply, "but Friday's Halloween night was amazing fun and well-worth it. Although I think a few people might be getting fined for damaging College property."
"Oh, what happened?"
"Well, someone had decorated the blades to look like broomsticks. I mean, it was a rather cute idea, if only the brooms had stayed on the wall, but unfortunately, some guys decided to take them down and zoom around as though they were actual witches on broomsticks," I laugh. "It was going reasonably well until they started using them to joust with, and one of the paddles got broken."
"Oh whoops. That won't be cheap to fix."
"No. I expect a few people will lose their room deposit over it. Hey, Lenny's here! Wonder how his Friday night went?"
Judith and I are extremely keen to hear about Leonard and Saffron's night out and we pounce on Leonard the second he sits down.
"Hey Lenny, how was your romantic date on Friday with Saff?"
"It was not a date!" Leonard squeaks in protest. "Anyway, we weren't alone; Saff's college friend Martha joined us, then Al, Orla, and a few people from Pembroke turned up too. It was fun. Ask Saff."
"Really?" I ask, turning to look at Saffron who is just sitting down next to me.
She shrugs. "Friday? Yeah, it was, actually. I had a great time and Martha did too. I didn't stop laughing for most of the evening."
"Is he still a cold, dead fish?" I mutter quietly to her, willing her to roast him in a vicious fashion.
"Al? Actually, he was okay," she replies, much to my surprise and disappointment. "He was pretty generous with his spending - bought several rounds - and he definitely warmed up after a beer or two. I think he's more of a harmless, tropical fish like Nemo instead."
"You know that clown fish are actually quite aggressive, unpleasant little fuckers, right?" I reply, annoyed at this glowing account.
Saffron just laughs.
"Oh, fuck off," I groan, my heart sinking into my shoes, as Judith and I read the list that has just been pinned to the large notice-board outside the lecture theatre.
Both of us had just gone to get a can of coke from the vending machine during the break between the second and third lectures. On our way back, we spotted a guy putting up some new information on the board under the 'Part IB medics' section and naturally, we had to investigate.
"What's up?"
"Look at that list and tell me what you see."
"Can't you just tell me instead of forcing me to work it out for myself?" Judith replies drily. "Honestly, Sunny. It's a 'neurobiology project' list and all I see is lots of names. I'm only really interested in mine, which is in group D9 with Ellie from the triathlon club and six other people I don't know."
"Look more carefully, Jude."
She glowers at me. "I'm scrutinising it. It still looks like vertical rows of names arranged in groups. Is it supposed to be one of those 3-D puzzles that'll turn into a picture if I stare at it for long enough?"
"You're not funny," I chide. "Focus on the B6 column."
"Well, I see Abbott, K.; Chandrakumar, S; Derbil, M; Kemble, T.A; Ogilvie, I; Potter, A.S; Quansah, V; Singh, L.G…"
"Exactly, Jude. Now do you see?"
"I'm sorry, Sunny, I just don't understand. What are you getting at?" Judith asks, looking back at me in exasperation.
Fuck me, she can be slow sometimes.
"Judith, Look! Potter, A.S? Potter, Ass. Hmm. Ass Potter. Think that might have to be his new name from now on."
"Ass Potter - oh! Potter - that's Al, isn't it? Oh. That's unfortunate."
"Unfortunate?" I squeak. "I'm cursed!"
"No, I meant the new name you've just bestowed upon him. Ass Potter. You can't call him that!"
"I bloody can," I retort, annoyed that she's not siding with me.
I'm beginning to think that I'm jinxed in some way. How is it even possible or fair that, out of approximately three hundred and thirty medical students arranged across forty groups, I've ended up in exactly the same small group of eight as that pain-in-the-arse know-it-all, Al?
Seriously, it's like the Universe has invisibly chained me to my own insufferable, malevolent spirit.
This, the fifth week of Michaelmas term at Cambridge University, is as full-on as it's possible to get in terms of studying. "Week five blues" is a well-known phenomenon in Cambridge and beyond. Someone even wrote a Huffington Post article about it once. The fact that a British University stresses students out so much that the United States of America gets to hear about it is definitely not something to be proud of, but some even treat 'week five' like a rite of passage.
There are a number of enjoyable ways to spend a Friday afternoon after this excruciating, weep-inducing week of studious toil, but this inaugural, hour-long meeting of the B6 neurobiology group is not one of them.
We sit in silence on grey plastic chairs around a rectangular table in a cold, white seminar room, armed with large sheets of paper and semi-permanent markers. We eye each other surreptitiously, as though we are in a board meeting on an episode of The Apprentice, except in this one, nobody can be arsed to fight for survival.
Even though Al hasn't particularly got on my tits this week, I choose to pretend he's not sitting almost opposite me. I don't want to display any encouraging body language that may be misinterpreted as a need for solidarity in this room of strangers. I'd rather take my chance with all these complete unknowns.
Eventually, a bulky blond guy breaks the silence. "Perhaps we should decide on a chairperson?"
A red-haired girl with a snub nose and designer glasses pipes up in response. "That's a good idea, but maybe we could all introduce ourselves first?" Without waiting for any of us to agree or disagree, she continues. "I'm Isabella Ogilvie, but I answer to Bella or Belly, and I'm from Robinson college. Next?"
Bella-or-Belly looks pointedly at a skinny, mousey-haired boy next to her, who jumps and stares at her like a rabbit caught in headlights, before inaudibly murmuring his name and college. From that moment on, Rabbit-boy seems hugely reluctant to make eye contact with any of us.
"Next?"
"Al Potter from Pembroke college," says Al, carelessly lounging in his chair and looking decidedly disinterested in the whole affair.
"Veronica Quansah from Christ's. Ronnie for short," says a tall Black girl, who I vaguely recognise from biochemistry practicals last year.
A dark-haired man with extremely prominent eyebrows introduces himself as Milas Derbil from Wolfson College. I'm guessing from the sprinkling of grey in his hair that he's a few years older than the rest of us.
My heart rate increases two-fold as I realise I'm next. "I'm Sunita Chandrakumar from St John's. Most people call me Sunny," I say in a rush, glad to get it over with.
"Kevin Abbott, Catz," says the blond guy, who had suggested appointing a chairperson several minutes ago.
"Lemar Singh, Corpus Christi college," says a boy with enormous side-burns and a strong Birmingham accent.
"So shall we appoint a chair, then?" Bella says, as though it was her idea all along.
Bulky blonde Catz-boy glances at her for a moment, then picks up a pencil and begins idly doodling something on one of the large sheets of paper we've been provided with.
"Yeah, all right," says Side-burns with a shrug. "Does anyone want to be the chair?"
I curl up in my seat and make myself as inconspicuous as possible, as three hands go up in the air. One is, unsurprisingly, Bella's. The other two candidates are Catz-boy and Milas.
"Should we put it to the vote?" Bella says brightly.
Personally, I don't see the point in voting for a chairperson yet; how the fuck do we know who we're voting for? However, just about everyone else is vaguely nodding in agreement. Everyone else apart from Al, that is. He's still looking bored.
"All in favour of me, raise your hands," says Bella expectantly, looking around at us all.
Nothing happens for a moment, then Milas slowly raises his hand.
"I don't think the candidates should get to vote," says Catz-boy loudly.
Milas lowers his hand and looks sheepish.
Bella looks as though she's fighting some kind of internal battle or suffering from a nasty attack of heartburn. She glares at Catz-boy as though he's a particularly irritating bluebottle who needs to be introduced to an electric fly-swatter.
"If you want to vote for me, now's your chance," says Catz-boy languidly.
Rabbit-boy puts up his hand. His gaze is still fixed on the table.
"One," says Catz-boy. "So that's one for me, none for Bella and there's just Milas left to stand. Any takers for Milas?"
Veronica puts her hand up, but no-one else does.
"Aren't the rest of you going to vote?" Bella asks in exasperation.
"Honestly? I don't know who to vote for," shrugs Side-burns, and I nod in agreement.
"Well, what a complete waste of time," says Bella, folding her arms mutinously.
We seem to have reached a weird sort of stalemate and we sit in silence again until the door to our seminar room suddenly swings open and a blonde-haired woman marches in carrying an A4 sheet of paper.
"Group B6?"
We all briefly mutter in the affirmative.
"Hello to you all, and thank you for attending today's seminar. My name is Dr Charlotte Buhl, and I'm one of the course organisers. I expect you're all wondering what on earth is going on?"
There's a vague collective laugh and a few people nod.
"Let me enlighten you. We've introduced this group presentation session into the timetable at the suggestion of previous years, who felt that the clinical content of the pre-clinical course could be improved upon."
Dr Buhl strolls up and down the seminar room, waving her hands expressively as she talks.
"Small-group teaching will feature quite heavily in your clinical years, and you will be expected to participate in discussions and projects with colleagues who you may not be familiar with. This short course is designed to simulate that experience. You have all selected yourselves at random to form this particular group."
I glance around the strangers sitting at this table. Veronica catches my eye and we smile half-heartedly at each other
"The aim of this project is to create a poster and give a talk on a disease which affects the nervous system. As we clinicians didn't really want to risk having to listen to eighty identical talks on Alzheimer's disease, we've taken the liberty of assigning a different disease or condition to each group. No-one else will be giving a talk on your subject matter."
Dr Buhl peruses her sheet of paper.
"Okay, B6, you have been assigned the topic of Huntington's disease. What does anyone know about this condition?" Dr Buhl asks pleasantly, her blue eyes sweeping over us all. "I think you may have covered some of the details last year during your biochemistry lectures, if I recall correctly?"
Bella puts her straight hand up. "Huntington's is caused by a mutation in the HTT gene. The faulty coding sequence of DNA contains an abnormally high number of CAG repeats," she says confidently.
"Excellent. Anyone else like to add anything?"
"It's an autosomal dominant trait," offers Side-burns.
"Correct. Who can give me another fact about Huntington's?"
"The disease doesn't appear until later on in life, which means it may have already been passed on to the next generation before a person realises they are a sufferer and therefore a carrier," drawls Al.
"Good. Can anyone tell me the main clinical features of the disease?"
We look at each other blankly. Al looks like he is about to say something and starts to put his hand up again, but appears to change his mind at the last second and runs his fingers through his hair instead.
Bloody know-it-all. I'm glad he's decided to keep his trap shut for once, instead of showing off like he usually does.
"Nobody have anything to say on the clinical features of the disease?" Dr Buhl looks around at us all again expectantly, then smiles. "That's okay. The purpose of your group presentation will be to focus on the neurological aspects of Huntington's, and there's plenty for you to research on the subject. I'd strongly recommend you select a chairperson to co-ordinate the project, and you'll also need to decide who is going to present the information in a talk at the end of the course. If no-one wants to lead this group or give the talk, I have a bunch of straws to draw from so that people can be assigned at random."
Dr Buhl reaches into the pocket of her white coat and pulls out some thin, orange-coloured drinking straws, the sort that accompany small containers of juice. I wonder how many Capri-Suns she had to consume to put us through this torture?
"Okay. Firstly, is there anyone in this group who would like to act as chairperson?"
Rather predictably, Bella-or-Belly sticks her hand up. I sneak a furtive glance at Catz-boy to see whether he'll challenge her, but his hands remain firmly on his lap.
Dr Buhl smiles. "That was nice and straightforward. Thank you for volunteering. May I take your name and college for our records?"
"Isabella Ogilvie of Robinson college," Bella-or-Belly announces proudly.
"Great. Isabella, you will be responsible for managing and co-ordinating this project, which will include organising meetings and distributing tasks. Next up for grabs is the role of presenter - who would like that one?"
She looks around at us all sitting mutely in a circle, our gazes averted.
"Funny how no-one ever wants to give the talk," she laughs lightly. "Does anyone have a problem with speaking in public?"
Now's my chance to put my hand up. Except…I can't. I don't want to look like a complete chicken in front of Al, or Bella, or Catz-boy, or any of the others in this room who I'm finding slightly intimidating.
Let's face it; the chances of me drawing the wrong damn straw are one in eight. Twelve point five percent. Long odds.
I keep my hand down and pretend I'm as nonplussed as the rest of them.
"Okay. Let's draw straws for it then, shall we?"
Dr Buhl walks around our table, offering the bundle of straws. I pull one out and hold my breath in anticipation. It's an orange straw, just like everyone else's.
Except it's not, I realise, as I glance around the table. It's shorter than everyone else's straw. Much shorter.
There's a horrible churning sensation in my abdomen, and my hands seem to have turned to ice, as the terrible realisation dawns on me. I feel like I'm sinking in to my own personal Hell.
This is the short straw. And I've drawn it.
I'm the presenter. I'm the FUCKING PRESENTER.
What's worse is that Dr Buhl gave me the opportunity to do something about it a minute ago and I stupidly chose not to. She was handing it to me on a fucking plate!
Why didn't I take it?
Because I'm stupid, that's why.
I can hardly make a fuss about my predicament now, can I? What the Hell can I say? "Oh yeah, Dr Buhl, I just remembered I don't like talking in front of people. It sort of slipped my mind a minute ago."
I'm such a fucking idiot.
With a brain that is about to explode with horror.
Did I mention that I have a massive phobia of public speaking?
It's been an issue since I was four years old, when I (along with a number of other kids) got called onto the stage during my home town's Christmas pantomime, and a stranger in a costume thrust a microphone under my nose. I was suddenly struck dumb with terror. All I could do was stand mutely on the theatre stage and stare out at the endless audience of faces in front of me, until my Mum took pity on me and whisked me off the stage, to a round of applause and jeers.
Ever since that defining moment in my life, I've had this colossal fear of facing crowds. As I'm reliving this personal nightmare of a small petrified me staring wide-eyed into a million pairs of eyes, all of which are staring back, I feel a slight waft of breeze and I'm jerked back to the present moment.
"Excuse me? Can I take your name and college, please?" Dr Buhl says impatiently, waving a piece of paper in front of my face. Judging by her tone and action, it's obviously not the first time she's asking me this question.
"Sorry, yeah," I reply, flushed and dry-throated. I hastily attempt to compose myself. "Sunita Chandrakumar from St John's."
Dr Buhl looks at her list and smiles as she places a tick by my name. "Excellent. Your role will be to present the information in a ten-minute talk to the rest of Group B on the last Friday of November. You are allowed a little leeway either side of ten minutes, but, be warned, your group will be penalised if your talk is under nine minutes or over eleven minutes." She smiles again, showing even white teeth and unusually large canines. I'm almost positive she can smell my fear and she's relishing it. "I very much look forward to listening to what you have to say on Huntington's disease."
I play the words over in my head.
Rest of Group B.
That's over eighty students in total.
There'll probably be clinicians present. Who will all know far more about Huntington's disease than I'll ever be able to cram into my brain between now and the end of November. They'll ask difficult questions. They'll nudge each other and joke about my lack of knowledge. They might - oh horrors - shove a microphone under my nose and expect me to fucking say my name into it.
Whilst all eyes feast pitilessly upon my terrified soul.
And a laughing supervisor bays for my blood in the background.
Holy fuck.
"I think that's everything," says Dr Buhl smoothly. "If anyone needs to contact me prior to the presentation, my contact email is listed on the front page of your handbook."
With a smile and a waft of her immaculate white coat, Dr Buhl departs the room.
I can't look anyone in the eye. I have to get out of here now before I crumble, because the collapse is is not far away; I can feel my knees shaking, tears forming in my eyes and my chest beginning to tighten.
I throw myself out of my plastic chair and make straight for the door.
"Sunita? Can I have your email address before you go, please?" The confident tones of Bella ring across the room.
For fuck's sake.
I nod, turn back to the table and rapidly scribble my email down on a piece of paper, then bolt for the door again.
"Sunita?"
I stop in my tracks. What now?
"We're planning to meet here at the same time next week. Can you make it then?
"Next Friday's fine," I choke out, before making a successful bid for freedom and charging into the safety of the nearest toilet where I can process this panic attack in private.
Can this term get any worse?