We’ve all had it. You set your alarm from some ungodly hour, something like eight-thirty. You wolf your breakfast and set off feeling like you’re going to conquer the world simply because you’re out of the house before nine. Your intentions for the day are so perfect and full of hope they come close to Jesus’ intentions for mankind. OK, maybe that’s a little far. But you have very high hopes for the day’s work ahead.
But on arriving at the library you find absolutely no space. Why?
Hop out of bed and jump in the shower,
Neck the scalding, mouth-puck’ring sweet coffee.
Target; Bill Bryson, marching full power;
Work up a sweat, no mercy no stopping.
Burst through the doors, slapping through the glass gates.
Sprint to third floor, it’s packed full to bursting.
Every spots taken, there’s less than no space;
It’s then you realize the very worst thing.
Clearly now the early rise was in vain,
Despite your high hopes the joke is on you,
Unless you wash dignity down the drain,
Working regardless, cross-legged in the loo.
It’s deadline time and you can smell the fear.
There’s two weeks left to cram a whole year.