Final Week Farewell from Flipside and Malbec!

So, we come to the last week of term. The library is saturated and the mood is bleak, similar to how I imagine Macbeth would feel if he knew the truth about his wife from the beginning (part-time English student reference, ‘lol’). The Bubble has recently asked ‘why is your science degree superior?’ Whilst there is nothing wrong with interdisciplinary competition and molecules can be tough, it does ignore the missing element: the ‘plight’ of the arts student.

Having six essays amounting to 16,000 words (plus 894,509 words of pointless notes) due in seven hours can be horrendous; the books are unavailable and recalling them is futile, the lecturer is not replying about your essay plan, TurnItIn has TurnedItselfOff, your footnotes are as disorganised as a piss-up outside a closed brewery, and, of course, you can’t miss the College Tennis AGM. Plus those blasted seminars. Yet, you have to ask… What the hell have I been doing for the first six weeks of term? Surely I could have done some work, just a little article here or there? Some minor organisational skills, time management, prioritising and work-life balance and I’d be taking an early holiday to Bermuda with six stupendous summatives. Oh well. Life goes on.

Flipside has taken an observational turn recently, with a lot focussed on the Durham deluge around us and not much else, which is perfectly understandable and produces some sterling work. It is also, however, why I have enjoyed writing and exploring the foreign but not too distant world of Malbec and his wife… Malbec. It is a surreal, Woody Allen inspired world that we all delve into occasionally. I think I just spend more time there than others. Below is the final instalment of 5 or 6!

Final Malbec!

… What could this all mean? Aside from the fact that Aldi have closed their confectionary aisle due to stock shortages. Was it a message? Should he check his voicemails more often? Perhaps it was a metaphor? After all his wife had been suggesting that he diet recently but Malbec had scorned the idea in favour of a game of darts using blunt pencils. He half expected Freud to jump out from behind a selection of samosas and give him a guided tour of his subconscious, paying particular attention his repression of guilt about eating during the Sabbath.

Before Malbec had time to ponder the situation and what it meant any more, and having no doubt that his case would soon appear in a textbook at Yale, there was an outrageous pop from Mrs Malbec’s direction.

Fearing the worst, his suspicions were confirmed as soon as he turned around. His wrist strap had indeed finally snapped off Mrs Malbec’s wrist and sent his watch tumbling through the air for as far as Malbec could see. He was now tired of seeing and would have preferred to be able only to taste and feel, but decided he would have difficulty attending Church. So once more, Malbec dashed off in order to catch his watch as it flew into the distance.

Nobody heard from Malbec for months. There were sightings in newspapers and the occasional press release by the local Rabbi. When Malbec was eventually seen on a dusty street in Mexico, he was representing a team of athletic runner beans in the 800m and had sponsorship deal with Rolex.

Thanks for reading, have a brilliant Easter!

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