Don't torment me with pastries

I have discovered a new hobby. It involves going to Sainsbury's, putting whatever essentials I need in my basket and then wandering up and down the chocolate aisle or bakery section for a further, excruciating ten minutes. I pick up 1kg chocolate bars, and I put 1kg chocolate bars back down. Sometimes, I go as far as to put them in my basket and walk away, only to return them to the shelf 1 minute later, as the horror of what might have happened if I had proceeded to the checkout with a whole kilo of chocolate starts to sink in. I gaze at the Green and Blacks, at least knowing that there are additional financial incentives to avoid it, and then turn away, smugly. This time, I have won.

I can look at the varieties of biscuits, knowing that I don't really want them anyway - although a box of Cadbury's fingers might not go amiss, it's not something that I've been craving. Those Fox's creams do look amazing but also extortionately priced. Just think, you're paying well over a pound for crispy, fatty, sugary things that crumble everywhere and clog up your arteries. Maybe. Besides the biscuits, the cereal bars. I've had enough cereal bars to last me a lifetime, and I've only stopped eating most varieties recently, since I realised just how high the sugar content was. The cereals bars can be passed by. I might as well just have cereal.

Now I come it, I might not have cereal. The sugar levels of most cereals are sky high, and in a bit to tackle my muesli addiction (this is a genuine problem I've been having), I'm refusing to buy anymore boxes until after the boat race. The varieties of granola are also insanely tempting, especially when the Jordan's is only £2 for a kilo. On the other hand, I'm fairly sure I got through about 5 kilos last term which might go some way to explaining why I wasn't really losing much weight, so it's probably best to avoid that.

Finally, I reach the pastry. The beautiful pastries. The croissant, the pain au chocolat, the maple and pecan twist, the cinnamon swirl... The smell from the bakery wafts through the airs and I can imagine biting into the wonderfully flaky exterior to be greeted with the soft, sweet, still warm inner layers... Maybe this could be a treat day. I mean, I know my last treat day was only two days ago and I'm going to formal tonight but maybe... 

No.

I am reserving pastries for that all important post-race indulgence. I haven't eaten a pastry since the start of January, and as much as absence does make the heart grow fonder, I've gone too long without to change my ways now.

I will not give in to pastries. Not today.

P.S. If you're going to watch the Boat Races on 30th March - bring me pastries :)

Caius Library: A (weird) Love Story

When I was in year 12, 5 girls from my year group were given the chance to have a tour around a Cambridge college. Our names had been picked out of a hat, and I had got lucky. Although I had never heard of 'Gonville and Caius' before (pronounced, in my mind, Gonville and Cai-us), it sounded very posh, very grand and pretty exciting. Plus there would be a free lunch (even before I started rowing I would do anything for free food).

I can vaguely remember sitting through a generic 'arts' taster session, listening to a talk about which A-levels to do, how many you needed, how to choose a college, being shown round a student room by a genuine real life student, but, above all else, I remember seeing the library.

At that age (it was only three years ago, but at least let me try to sound nostalgic...) I had little interest in sports or physical pursuits. I had great dreams of a spending my university years absorbed in academia, where I would stay in a library all day long, reading books about history to my heart's content, with ancient tomes stacked up either side of me. I was a bit weird for a seventeen year old.

As soon as I stepped into Caius library for the first time, it struck me. How amazing would it be to study here? I thought to myself, Look at all these books! And the ceiling! And the stained glass! And the wooden desks! And the lamps! And the books! I think it's fair to say I was pretty awestruck, Wouldn't it be absolutely incredible? Then there's that other voice, Yeah. But you'd have to get into Cambridge first, and, well, you're not really good enough for that, are you? but still How amazing.

Still listening to that nagging doubt, but deciding that I might as well try applying anyway, I went through all the application process, expecting to get a rejection letter every step of the way, right up until A level results day. Fortunately, that silly little voice was wrong (or the admissions staff were, but it's too late now!) and finally I could spend my first couple of terms alternately getting drunk, staying in the library until midnight, occasionally learning how to row, and generally living in a blissful state of Cambridge life with only the odd essay crisis to get in the way.

Such a nice library

That's why I felt kind of ashamed when, about two weeks ago, it finally dawned on me that I'd spent the first term of my second year as far away from the library as possible. There had been the occasional venture in to grab a few books that I honestly did intend to read, but just couldn't find it in myself to commit to spending time working. I was doing minimal studying anyway, and as far as I was concerned, I might as well do minimal studying somewhere other people couldn't judge me. But then the realisation hit me.  I am so lucky to be where I am, and I'd forgotten it. Somehow, I needed to regain the same sense of awe and wonder that had got me that first time walking into the library.

I've been finding it again on Thursday evenings. On an average Thursday, by the time first hall is over, I'm pretty tired. I've been up since 5, got a train to Ely, rowed around Ely, got a train back, sprinted to a 9am lecture, spent the day attempting to make a start with my weekly reading, had a long afternoon training session and then gone straight to hall with just enough time for a shower in between. It seems like an odd time, then, to go to the library and make an attempt at productivity.

It's perfect. My legs are aching so much that by the time I reach a seat in the galleries (next to the British social history section), I can't bear the thought of walking back down. If I've been watt-biking, my poor lightweight, de-padded rear is so saddle sore that I'm not likely to fall asleep in the slightly uncomfortable wooden chairs. Additionally, I'm spurred on by my rediscovered delight in the surroundings. I'm falling in love with the library again.

Genuine work being done

There are piles of books either side of me, a notebook with pages and pages full of my diligent scribbles that might pass off as academically useful notes if viewed in the right light. My iPod is playing relaxing music, and my mind is focused on whatever might have been happening to society in the 1920s. Then it dawns on me. This is it. This is what I dreamed about before I even knew for certain. AND I'm wearing university rowing stash.  

So, thank you Caius library, I hope I'm doing seventeen-year-old me proud.  

Weird, Seventeen-year-old me, for purposes of comparison.

Twenty year old me, still weird, but now in the library of seventeen year old me's dreams...

*I did actually write this in Caius library, but fear not, I was only taking a short break from my intensive Thursday evening of study*

*sorry about the weird*

*not really sorry*