As You Read This:

I am in an exam. Probably not caring how well I do, just thinking this: when I get out, I can go home, and have lunch, and then H and I will go into town, and I will do my very best not to spend money on silly things but instead buy the things I need – sensible spring shoes, that stay on with my orthoses in them, that look good with jeans, that will cope with a bit of rain, that will ultimately be comfortable as well as deeply, terrifyingly, sortedly stylish; and a big sloppy multicoloured cardigan number that looks and is incredibly warm but also deeply cool, to be worn under my coat, or as a cover-up, to slope around the house in, that makes me look as if I thought about what I put on, but not too hard.

As I write this I think my brain has actually calcified, so it’s for the best that I am occupied with packing rather than vainly trying to revise.

I’m very nearly certain (hello superstition, touch wood, whistle, fingers crossed, that mad if-you-see-a-lone-magpie dance/rhyme, all those) I’ll pass. But I’m still deeply nervous.

Wish me luck.

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