Directed by Alexander Payne.
4 out of 5 stars

For once, George Clooney is not charming. His latest role has none of the slickness of Ocean’s Eleven, the award-winning intensity of Syriana, or the furriness of Fantastic Mr Fox. Here he is Matt King, a Honolulu-based lawyer and sole trustee of 25,000 acres of land. He is a powerful man, and he is also remarkably boring.

Boring is a recurring theme in The Descendants. The opening narration by Clooney introduces the Hawaiian setting in an unusually humdrum light. King laments the expectation that inhabitants are “sipping Mai Tais, shaking our hips and catching waves…do they think we’re immune to life?”, whilst the cinematography by Phedon Papamichael (brilliant name) focuses on the reality of traffic jams, skyscrapers, and dull grey skies.

These humdrum surroundings contribute to the overall power of this film, which presents a tale of terrible family anguish in an authentic, un-dramatic, and very un-Hollywood fashion. When his wife Elizabeth is left comatose by a boating accident, the previously detached King must repair his relationships with his two daughters amidst revelations of his wife’s infidelity. On his daughters’ encouragement, King seeks out Elizabeth’s secret lover, albeit with the characteristically dull intention of informing him of Elizabeth’s imminent death, rather than punching him. On a few occasions, King’s un-lively character does leak out into the film itself, and The Descendants sometimes moves a little too slowly.

But such flaws are hardly noticeable when the evolving relationship between King and his two daughters is so powerful and nuanced to rightly bring the film a bunch of Oscar nominations. These central characters are beautifully shaped by Alexander Payne’s script – adapted from the Kaui Hart Hemming novel of the same name – and are wonderfully portrayed.

Peekaboo!

Clooney gets the balance just right between King’s detached and dull veneer and his fragile internal feelings. This character seems genuine precisely because he reacts in an un-clichéd manner: he appears unconcerned when sitting at his wife’s hospital bed, and unapologetic when his daughter is accused of bullying a classmate.

We witness first-hand the detachment that left Elizabeth seeking emotional satisfaction with another man, but we still maintain sympathy for him. Brief cracks in his vacant veneer show King’s true emotions, as he begins his re-entry into family life: a shocking rant at his comatose wife, a cheeky kiss with a married woman, and an emotional goodbye that may or may not (ahem) have left me a little teary.

The young actors portraying King’s daughters are similarly impressive. Shailene Woodley is funny and charming and portrays 17-year-old Alexandra as most teenagers really are: rude, hostile to adult authority, and consistently accompanied by a stoned boyfriend. (What? You didn’t have one at 17?) There is no overblown coming-of-age: Alexandra shows moments of maturity, but she remains the corrupter of her innocent but hilariously rude 10-year-old sister (Amara Miller).

Woodley is also the focus of the film’s finest scene: a brilliant underwater shot of her bursting into tears at the bottom of a swimming pool. Like the film as a whole, it presents overwhelming and conflicting emotions that are only sometimes brought to the surface, but does so in a creative, slightly quirky, and very genuine manner. The Descendants certainly has its flaws, but I have seen few films that are so convincingly human.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=CWHNXJ1K4yA

I can’t believe my luck.

In a darkened room in the Cambridge Union, Simon Callow is regaling me with Shakespeare.

Callow being Shakespeare

I am private audience, first to Mark Antony’s funeral oration, then to Hamlet’s ‘To be or not to be’. Callow is visibly moved by the latter. ‘Everything in our life is there. It’s existence or non-existence. Here we are for a very brief time upon the earth, this universe of emotions – and then it’s gone…’

In the just-premiered Acts of Godfrey, Callow plays God, and this isn’t so far removed from his place in theatre. Callow is our archbishop of acting, keeping it alive as religion in the twenty-first century. Now Callow is rhapsodising – in that low, rapturous, unmistakably fruity whisper – about Olivier:

‘If I could get Laurence Olivier back up on stage to give one of his great performances, then I’d pay a very, very large sum of money. Because there was nothing quite like that experience. It was like total war on the audience. You use military metaphors with Olivier. But Charles Laughton fits the later thoughts I’m having about acting. Laughton was a flamboyant figure, but he was always trying for simplicity. And, of course, we all know the total genius of The Hunchback of Notre Dame is how gentle and quiet the performance is. Underneath all that physical horror, it’s very simple – very, very simple…’

Callow as God

Simplicity isn’t something we necessarily associate with Callow’s acting. I’m more inclined to think of his performances as the dramatic equivalent of his waistcoats in Four Weddings and a Funeral. But following his sombre one-man production of A Christmas Carol, Callow may have changed for good:

‘This is all to do with my discovery some years ago of the secret of acting. I distilled it for myself in a phrase: acting is thinking the thoughts of another human being. The energy of thought is the thing that above all animates a theatre. When you connect utterly and completely with a thought, the audience falls very still, because they’re really, really listening.’

A Christmas Callow

‘It’s revolutionary for me because I was an actor who put great store on physical energy. I had such a lot of it. As a young actor, I had almost uncontrollably large amounts of it. I could hardly do enough, because I just wanted to fill every second on the stage with some fantastic invention, some use of my body, some transformation of myself. Which I think was a very good instinct for a young actor. But perhaps it’s only when you’re a little older that it’s possible to appreciate this sort of thing that I’m talking about. Or indeed to do it.’

Callow is currently preparing to take his one-man show Being Shakespeare to Broadway. He looks forward to a future of more classical work – ‘a Callow King Lear is something devoutly to be wished’ – but remains committed to a present steeped in and enriched by his heroes of the past. 2012 is an important year for Callow: the bicentennial of Charles Dickens. I ask Callow which Dickens novel he would recommend to newcomers:

‘I’m inclined to say The Pickwick Papers because it was the first book of Dickens’s that I read, and because it’s so exuberant and funny and generous and innocent. The intellectual thought police at the time didn’t admire it very much. It’s very ramshackle and all hurled together, but that of course is one of the things that makes it so postmodern now. It doesn’t care about unity of plot at all – it’s all over the place, like some mad cartoon…’

Callow has a new book out on Dickens this year, Charles Dickens and the Great Theatre of the World. He encourages me, ‘good boy’ that I am, to give it a subtle plug.

Callow’s zest for life and art – there is no meaningful separation – is truly inspiring. It has certainly been a guiding light in my own interests in acting and writing. Before I leave, I mention Love is Where it Falls, Callow’s account of his friendship with the play agent Peggy Ramsay. A glance at the book is sufficient to erase Callow’s undeserved ‘luvvie’ image. When I thank Callow for writing it, he becomes pensive once again.

‘There’s a phrase that I read recently, in a painting by Dürer: “we must live for the spirit; everything else belongs to death.” One must always go towards the inner richness of experience, and therefore the positive, and convert the negative, which is death, into life…’

Simon Callow will be discussing Dickens at the Arts Theatre this month. James Swanton will be playing The Hunchback of Notre Dame at the Corpus Playroom March 6th-10th.

Facebook has already made us into amateur photographers, would-be philosophers, enlightened critics and
sophisticated party planners – but now it seeks to make us immortal.

Some believe the new Facebook Timelines have made us even more vulnerable to the data hunter gatherers out there. But in reality, nothing much has changed. Yes, our information has been organized in a much more coherent and accessible manner but it was all there before.

Boo, hiss, etc. 

It is fair to say that we are no more vulnerable now than we were before the advent of Timelines (a.k.a Doomsday). The new system dutifully tracks your entire life from your birth, through the difficult teen years, in and out of university, past marriage, then retirement, until presumably, death.

The promotional video for Timelines itself looks like an advertisement for the latest Sims instalment, and is coupled with the nauseating tagline, “Tell Your Life Story” – despite the fact that, in real life, this phrase is usually preceded by the words “please don’t”.

Interestingly, Facebook purposefully released Timelines in beta form almost a year before its launch, so that programmers, bloggers and industry experts could get used to it and swell the tide of inevitable “Plz Bring Back Old Facebook!!!!!” groups.  So what now?

Gone are the days where one would rustle though their attic in search of treasure, only to find a horde of lost family photo albums. From now on, if you run into an old school friend that you’ve fallen out of touch with, it’s no longer a fortuitous chance to reconnect– it’s because one of you purposefully decided not to continue your friendship, probably out of dislike. Awkward encounters, therefore, are on the rise.

Facebook also filed for its IPO yesterday morning and Facebook Timelines has become mandatory for all users. Clearly, Facebook is trying to prove to its potential shareholders that it has longevity; that, with its massive demographic expansion, the opportunities are limitless.

Indeed, Facebook intends to be with us forever, from cradle to the grave.

Some people claim they’ve never done it, and normally, they’re liars.

The traditional Walk of Shame doesn’t have to be an imminent fate at University, but having a back-up plan of action never hurt anyone. For those of you as dedicated to Wednesdays at Cindies as you are to completing your degree: here’s how to deal with it when you’ve done the dirty deed.

a classy get-away isn’t always on the cards…

1. Realise where you are and get out fast.

Preferably whilst they’re still sleeping. Locate your pants from behind the toaster and make sure you have both wallet and phone. Stealth is the key; you don’t want to meet any smirking flatmates, especially if you can’t remember what you said, did or screamed. If any awkward social situations do arise, then fake identities are a great invention if you’re sober enough to think on the spot. Remember, mobile numbers always have 11 digits, and your best friend will never know if their name is the first to plop out of your mouth.

2. Now onto the walk of shame.

Boys, you’re at an advantage because the more dressed up you are, the better your disguise as a 9-5 commuter. Girls: that sequined dress isn’t so inconspicuous. But, why be embarrassed? Shuffling along looking at the floor is no way to deflect judgement; you have to own it! Stride on with confidence. You might have been shagging the arse off Brad Pitt all night for all the public know. A little self-belief and you’ll have those squares green with envy at your wild, youthful ways.

Brad knows no such shame as he chooses to do his walk in the nuddy

3. Sexual cleansing.

When safely back at home, the third thing to do is to wash away all that impurity in the shower. Scrub all that scrubber away! Rub-a-dub-dub!

4. Now. What to tell your friends…

Aim for something really bland. ‘Yeah, they were nice, they do economics’ is pretty boring and might not invite further questioning. They were probably too busy dancing to the Friends theme tune and didn’t notice you slip off in the first place.

5. Get checked.

Serious one, guys and girls: if you didn’t use a condom, then give yourself a slap on the wrist from The Tab! You can get STI checks at Clinic 1A at Addenbrookes- or try the NHS Sexual Health website to find the nearest clinic to your college. GUM clinics and most JCR Welfare teams give out condoms (and lube) for free, or you can bulk-buy 144 for just £12.50 from CUSU if you reckon you’ll be rutting maniacally and just don’t have the time or cash to keep popping out for 3 Durex at a time.

You saw it first here on The Tab…

6. Repent.

The great thing about Jesus is that he forgives anyone who is truly sorry, so all you have to do is to remember a few snapshots of your night (if you can) to evoke a feeling of genuine remorse. And, you know, belief in a deity might provide a useful crutch whilst you wait for those all-important STD results. Until then, make an earnest resolution to finish this week’s reading list, take up lacrosse, and see a play! In a few hours you’ll be so immersed in your new life the dirty feeling will be banished. That is, until…

7. You bump into them unexpectedly.

This is the only point at which having pulled a maths geek or member of the Tolkein Society can possibly be a good thing. However, if you’re unfortunate enough to have picked someone that regularly leaves their house, then don’t drop all your books in the corridor like a twat. Cool, calm and collected isn’t a clichéd phrase for nothing. Smile nonchalantly and say, ‘Hey there, hows it going?’. Don’t bother to listen to their response, but nod and walk off like you have somewhere purposeful to go.

Keep it cool…

8. Finally: Look on the bright side.

It’s ok! You didn’t kill anyone and your genitals are probably still intact. When you’re 40 and wound up with kids, you won’t be regretting a misspent youth with some solemn childhood sweetheart- you’ll be savvy, sagacious, and totally mid-life crisis free!

So, there you have it: sorting out the shameful shag, from start to finish.

The temptation to break out of Cambridge meant empty spaces on the netball court last week. Murray Edwards and Newnham were the biggest winners in week 2 as they were able to sustain their good start to the season. They were also able to take an advantage as league champions Jesus’ were forced to concede their match. It has already given the chasing pack a sniff of glory.

Murray Edwards 27-Downing 12

The Muz girls took the opportunity to display their title credentials, producing a confident display against Downing. Unlike many of the other teams, Muz had the luxury of a full squad to pick from. Their attack in particular was on shooting form allowing the girls to build a strong lead. The signs look good for Murray Edwards this term with some real strength in depth in their team typified by a strong debut by Lucy McMahon. In fairness, Downing were one of the sides who struggled to produce a full team as many had decided to make the bid to escape the country rather than stay on Cambridge’s courts. They started positively, however, with Emma Potter offering some stern resistance. Unfortunantly, their lack of options were further compounded by an Abi Calver’s injury which resulted in another reshuffle.

Queens’ 12 – Newnham  13

Queens’-Newnham provided the most competitive fixture of the weekend, both teams showing they are ready for the long haul. Newnham were just able to edge past the Greens in a hard-fought and fast-paced match. In such conditions, Newnham were able to take the important upper hand early on as a slow start from Queens’ meant they’re able to build a three goal lead in the first quarter. Queens’ though did fight back – good defensive pressure and determined attack meant they were able to draw level. But some excellent Newnham shooting meant they were just able to keep their noses in front.

Emma 14-5 Catz

Emma took the spoils home as the two newcomers faced each other in Division one for the first time. Again, Emma were able to take advantage of more Jailbreak hopefuls as Catz could only turn out three of their regulars resulting in a lot of changes on court. It meant Emma could avenge their narrow defeat last term when both teams were chasing for promotion. Victory was built around defensive work with their GK Anna Nicholas showing some excellent form after returning  from injury. Emma will thus be satisfied with their first victory in Division One as avoiding the drop will be a priority.

Photographs by Sarah Sheldon

West Road Concert Hall, 2-4th February, 7.30. £15, £10.

A new opera by Barnaby Martin (composer) and Rupert Cabbell-Manners (librettist), based on the novel by Thomas Hardy.

2 out of 5 stars

Producing any opera is a huge undertaking. But producing a student-written opera, without the support of the Cambridge University Opera Society, is an even bigger one. The chutzpah Barnaby Martin has shown in forming his own opera company, raising funds and producing a full length opera is remarkable.

It is therefore a shame I feel compelled to give it a negative review, but it really wasn’t very good. The opera’s central problem was that its three hours contained no truly interesting musical or dramatic elements. The result was boredom.

Photographs by Lucy Scovell

This mediocrity was made all the more frustrating by the presence of such fantastic singers. Amy Lyddon was absolutely outstanding as Bathsheba. The strength of her voice and the conviction of her acting brought presence and seriousness to her role. Her stage presence, excellent diction and strong projection ensured that she was one of the few singers never to be lost under the weight of the orchestration.

She was supported by an admirable roster of admirers. Gwilym Bowen’s sinister Sergeant Troy impressively brought out the violence that underpins his charm, bringing an edge that his vocal lines otherwise lacked. Jonathan Hyde was an excellently sympathetic Gabriel Oak. His stoical charm was underpinned by a beautiful higher register and strong projection. He was so assured, I almost couldn’t believe it when the programme informed me that he is a first year.

The secondary characters were also a strong bunch. Laurence Williams caught the character of Boldwood well, although his voice and diction was often lost under the orchestration – a common difficulty in almost all young basses. Rachel Ambrose-Evans only really had a single moment to make Fanny Robin shine as a character, which she grasped admirably – her beautifully clear voice was well suited to her character’s innocence. Helen Daniels was an eminently capable Liddy with a stage presence that outstripped the significance of her role.

The successes of the cast was in spite of the material. Despite its gauche orchestration, Barnaby Martin’s score was reasonably accomplished. But it was really incredibly dull. Stylistically, it felt like a film music version of Vaughan Williams. The cheesy, anachronistic style was not to my taste, but more crucially, it failed to ever pick up any steam. The brevity of each musical unit was such that no musical narrative ever formed. In an opera of three hours, this is a real failing. The cheesiest material was actually Martin’s strongest suit. It was the oddly incongruous local dissonances that threw the piece off-kilter. The benefit of kitsch is its potential for fantastic melodic content – a benefit that Martin too rarely exploited.

Ultimately, I may have forgiven the opera its musical failings if it had cohered dramatically. But where the music was mediocre, the libretto was down-right bad. The opera’s fundamental problem was trying to condense a complex, 500 page novel into a stage work. The first forty minutes were genuinely incomprehensible - the scenes whipped by at such a speed that I found myself reaching for my programme again and again.

Whilst the pacing improved, it was still too complex a plot for any of the characters to sufficiently develop. Despite good acting, I found myself unable to care about any of the characters on stage. Their difficulties were compounded by poor direction. The constant use of the chorus was distracting enough, but the blocking was terrible – it all felt deeply unnatural and confusing. The set added to the crowding of the stage. The impressively constructed house was too rigid a form to be much used, resulting in almost all the action occurring in a five meter gap between the house and the hillock.

I could go on with criticisms, but it leaves me with a sick taste in my mouth. The fundamental message is that this opera is too bad to be worth seeing. It seems a horrible message to deliver, given the quality of the cast. More than anything, this opera represents a tragically wasted opportunity.

Perhaps if you are a massive fan of the cast, and of ITV-period-drama style cheese, it may be worth seeing. Otherwise, I’d recommend you save your tenner for another night.

1.10pm, Tuesday 31st January, West Road Concert Hall, Free (Donations to CUMS)

4 out of 5 stars

At one o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon I can normally be spotted power walking down the length of West Road, the memory of the morning’s lectures abandoned in the faculty building to make way for my sole midday purpose: lunchtime.

This particular Tuesday, however, I found myself making a detour (much to my stomach’s anguish) to the West Road Concert Hall to attend my first Lunchtime Concert, a weekly event held by the university’s Musical Society which showcases the finest talent Cambridge has to offer. And all for a small money donation.

This week was the piano performance of Fitzwilliam student Lliam Paterson, treating the audience to a programme of diverse pieces belonging to Hindemith, Leighton and Bach. A personable performer, Lliam introduced his concert by giving some background information about Kenneth Leighton, the 20th century composer whose works made up half of the concert. The fifty minutes that followed were pleasantly understated, the large stage inhabited only by Lliam, his trusty page-turner and a sleek Steinway.

The inclusion of Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in G major was a curious choice to be sandwiched in between what was otherwise a Hindemith and Leighton-based concert, suggesting that perhaps it was chosen to attract the more fair-weather culture vultures (such as myself) who need a familiar name to draw them in. You know what to expect with Bach, and Lliam’s performance of the Prelude and Fugue did not disappoint. As with all of the pieces during his performance, he remained composed throughout, the technicalities of the music only being revealed by the flicker of his eyes glancing at the sheet-music and the frequent swoop of his page-turner’s arm to get to the next note in time.

Of the more unfamiliar works, Leighton’s Conflicts: Fantasy on Two Themes was a definite highlight with, as its title suggests, violent changes in tempo and emotion a key feature. An audience member sat nearby could not help but tap out the temperamental rhythm changes as they occurred, which to me summed up the beauty of these lunchtime concerts. The audience members want to be there. Rather than being a group made up of a couple of the performer’s friends who were guilt-tripped into attending, the Lunchtime Concerts are attracting an appreciative audience of all ages and backgrounds which clearly shows their developing reputation. Despite this, the Concert Hall seemed disappointingly empty. Whilst this provides an intimate setting and the feel of a well kept secret, the talent of the performers means that they deserve a larger audience still.

I walked out of the concert feeling calm and stress-free: I’d made a good choice. It was definitely worth sacrificing a lunchtime for – and that’s not something I say very often.

Next week the CUCO Wind Ensemble will be performing Mozart’s ‘Gran Partita’.

Since the 1960s sex has been synonymous with music. It is one of our most enjoyable and actively engaged in activities (45 million of us are having sex on earth at any given time) and it’s no surprise that artists can’t stop talking about it.

Since Lil Jon’s direct approach to referencing his genitalia would not have got past the standard and practises division of major record companies in the past, artists instead used the guise of innuendo to discuss their favourite pastime. One of the most famous of these songs was The Lemon Song, recorded in 1969 by the legendary rockers Led Zeppelin. Robert Plant famously prays for a certain female to ‘squeeze me, babe, ’till the juice runs down my leg’, obviously referring to his special blend of homemade lemonade.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=5tHHRpAzGcM

Robert Plant’s Lemonade

However, it wasn’t just men who were getting all the lyrical action. Two years prior to Led Zep’s Lemon Song Aretha Franklin released (You Make Me Feel Like a) Natural Woman. If it had been more honestly titled it would have been called something along the lines ofYou Make Me Orgasm Frequently. This became one of her most famous songs and was a soulful contribution to the on-going female sexual revolution at the time.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=dEWuAcMWDLY

Aretha’s Orgasms

The birth of MTV radically changed the way music was presented and led to the rise of the music video. Unsurprisingly it wasn’t long until musicians were pushing the boundaries of what was ‘acceptable’ for television. In 1981 Madonna’s Like a Virgin caused controversy on both sides of the Atlantic as millions of teenage girls proceeded to significantly shorten their skirts. No doubt this was much to the delight of teenage boys everywhere.

However it was Duran Duran’s Girls on Film that caused the most problems, or depending on your point of view, the most happiness. Uncensored, it contained extensive scenes of naked mud wrestling and was subsequently banned by the BBC. Unsurprisingly it massively boosted the sales of their eponymous debut album.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=T18K-BcZZb4

Girls On Film

In 1997 the Prodigy released a drug-fuelled sex-crammed explosion of controversy for their 12^th single ‘Smack my Bitch Up’. It was labelled ‘misogynistic’ by critics around the world for its portrayal of a particularly eventful night out, despite the oddly though provoking twist at the end. The song inevitably became a worldwide hit.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tf1KaRjOg9g

The Prodigy Smacking Some Bitches

Fast forward to the present and we are overwhelmed with sex in our music. The pop charts are constantly saturated with half naked men and women spouting out generic turd-musical sex has become a tad dull. Artists are as forgetful as a film starring Vin Diesel and sex is constantly used to over-compensate substandard popular music. I am however more than slightly in love with a certain Harlem based rapper who made the BBC Sound of 2012. A woman who knows exactly what she wants, and has no problem demanding it in the most explicit of ways. Enjoy.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=i3Jv9fNPjgk

Azealia Banks- 212 ft. Lazy Jay

“What I often see is that people are scared of fashion – because they’re frightened or insecure so they put it down…”

So speaks fashion’s ice queen Anna Wintour in the opening scene of The September Issue,  sat in the back of a Mercedes, her eyes hidden behind the inevitable Prada sunglasses. To me, a 20 year old student on a tight budget, the scene means nothing.

Your style in this woman’s hands?

The idea that fashion is elitist partly depends on how you define ‘fashion’. Of course, to be en vogue it is crucial to deck yourself head to toe in Louis V’s fetish-wear, or McQueen’s impossibly high heel-less heels, right? Wrong! With the fashion world increasingly projecting through the computer screen into our rooms, or on the go via smartphone apps, your front row seat (read: library chair) at the latest shows is a mouse-click away.

Blogs, look-books, video tutorials and more are accessible to everyone. Wintour has said that the girl on the street is the most inspiring thing in fashion. And she’s right – we create trends. Who’s to say what’s in or out if no one will buy the product? New fashion is less about the status and more about individual style.

This elitism also depends on whether you give one about what Rodarte, Phillip Lim or any other designer is sending down their catwalks for this Fall. It could be argued that interest feeds elitism. Why are we in Cambridge, arguably an elitist institution? Because we care about our studies, are passionate about our subject and are interested in learning more (well, in most cases).

Translated into a fashion sense, those who are at the top, who do define the trends and who can make or break the career of any young fashionista are those who have eaten, slept and breathed fashion for their entire lives. Casual nepotism just doesn’t cut it anymore.

And does it really matter to you? As a fashion worshipper I do care; but if you don’t, then whether the industry is elitist shouldn’t matter. But for those of us dying to be the editor of Vogue (pick me, pick meeeee) what is the answer? Until now money, privilege and connections were the key to the  sartorial lock. But at last it’s about individuality, flare and style. And it’s fucking exciting!

One of the first things that my Director of Studies said to me was that you have to think of Cambridge as an asylum. Although we all like to joke about that guy who lives on your staircase who you’ve only ever seen once, for some this can become an absolute reality. And that’s exactly what happened to me this time last year.

My first term in Cambridge started out fine. I got all of my work done, went to lectures, and generally had a great time. Things got a bit stressful towards the end of term: I had to pull the occasional all-nighter and missed a deadline or two, but there was no cause for serious concern.

The problems began when I came back after Christmas. I had felt ill during the vacation and anticipated being able to do all of my holiday work in the couple of days before term started, and so I found myself starting Lent already behind on work.

After a week or two I started to feel very unwell. There were no particular symptoms, I was just exceptionally tired. I missed just about every lecture and class because I simply couldn’t get out of bed. Even when I made a real effort to get an early night I would still end up just lying in bed all day until choir in the early evening. It was as if I was living in a kind of fog where everything just merged into one single twilight zone. I didn’t differentiate between days, weeks, or months; I was just stumbling around in the darkness. The problem was that I was dreaming a lot and therefore not sleeping properly. (When you dream, your body and brain aren’t actually resting. It’s only in deep sleep that all the proper recuperation can happen.)  As a result, I was just getting increasingly more tired as time went by.

Things only got worse as term went on. I didn’t write a single essay or go to class for 5 weeks, which made me start to panic. I realised that I had to try to get back on track, but whenever I tried this I just ended up becoming incredibly anxious – I would have panic attacks and fits of rage where I would punch walls or hurt myself because of my inability to do anything meaningful. I ended up completely unable to sleep because as soon as I tried to switch my mind off, it just kept taking me to that dark, angry place where I was incapable of working and I became terrified of where my thoughts would go. I had to keep my mind occupied, so I would stay up all night watching films or television, anything to keep me awake until I could no longer keep my eyes open. I wasn’t eating either; I completely lost my appetite and was getting by most days on a paltry ham sandwich. Even that one meal wasn’t pleasant though – eating anything at all just made me feel unwell.

I had to get help. I spoke to my Director of Studies, who advised me to see the college nurse, the University Counselling Service and my GP, where I was diagnosed with severe depression and given medication for my sleep problems. But one day I woke up feeling so weak that I knew I couldn’t carry on. I spoke to my tutor and DoS again and we all agreed that degrading was the best option for me. I needed letters from my GP and tutor explaining my position and the college took care of the rest.

At home I spoke to my parents, who were very understanding. I started to see a counsellor who lived nearby and things improved very quickly; the medication finally got me back into a good sleeping pattern and after a decent amount of therapy it seemed I had properly broken the cycle. I’ve been back in Cambridge for over a term now and although there’s the occasional moment when I feel a bit down, I know how to cope. The problem I had a year ago was that I had no idea about depression and so I failed to spot the symptoms. It’s not a question of just curing depression and living happily ever after. It’s about being self-aware and promoting your own happiness in whichever way is best for you. If you take that brief moment to assess where you are emotionally then there’s no reason why you can’t flourish in this exciting and challenging place.