When malnutrition sets in, and the prospect of mummy’s stew is preferable to a pot-noodle and a TP night out, it is certain that reading week is upon us.
This pause in our studies offers a chance for reflection on our bad behaviours, lack of work ethic, and feeble gastronomic efforts: an opportunity to flee home and raid the pantry in an attempt to recoup from the trials and tribulations of first term. Rumours of mayonnaise pasta and ketchup crumpets are soon to be silenced by the hum of the slow cooker and a roaring fire.
Freshers, unversed in the bliss of reading week, will soon forget its promise of academic retribution, instead using the respite to catch up on all matters unrelated to first term’s lack of work.
Momentarily, it will seem as though domestic normality has been restored: an undisturbed night’s sleep, fresh linens, and home-cooking. That is, until the scent of the Crockpot draws further away and reading week’s end reunites us with the beige supper characteristic of a student day. The quest to return an academic weapon is quickly forgotten after the first missed lecture and the resumption of pesto pasta monotony; academic rebirth can wait until next term.
