Words TOM RANSLEY
I wake up on top of ‘Margaret Thatcher’. I peel the book from my face and place it on a photograph of ‘My Bed’. The desk is a mess of scattered notes taken from Tracey Emin’s ‘Strangeland’, and Shakespeare’s ‘Macbeth’. I feel terrible. My eyes are redraw- sore. My body aches. It seems as if my recent existence has been a hazy state of constant fatigue. I push back from the desk and lift myself off the chair. As I stand a gnawing pain scurries up my spine. It is 3am. There’s less than three hours until the alarm goes off. I walk to the bathroom. A blurred image stares out from the mirror. I feel haggard. Red ink has leaked onto my writing hand I try to wash it off. I give up on the stubborn stain and peel the dry contacts from my eyes. Its like they’ve been glued in. By the time I flick them into the bin my eyes are angry and blood shot. Welcome to the life of a Boat Race oarsman.
The alarm shrieks beside my skull; whirling dreams evaporate and reality drifts into view. I stop the alarm but the absent noise still resonates in my body and creates a wave of sickness. An icy bike ride, before the winter sun has risen, dispels the nausea. I get changed quickly and meet the team in the gym. I approach the ergo with all the joy of a condemned man. Ninety miserable minutes later I race out of the boathouse and head to my first lecture. As I leave I notice one team member looking particularly sullen.