There was a moment, a couple of months ago, where I found myself sitting in a deserted, chillingly cold library, accompanied only be the whir of surrounding computers, the soft, soporific patter of fat city raindrops falling on the faceless windows, and a teetering pile of lecture notes, ready to be written up. None of these things were obvious to me, as I turned page after page of well thumbed textbooks, created brightly coloured diagrams of enzyme mechanisms of action and learnt the time it takes for the average lipid to pass through the cytosol of a bacterium from one end to another. Every few pages I’d quietly slip a rough, salty oatcake from it’s packet and snap a piece into my mouth to prevent the inevitable mid afternoon stomach rumbles.
I think it was at this point that I realised that something wasn’t right. The humble, boring oatcake seemed like a damning metaphor for how I was living. I was eating crackers as a form of subsistence, but they weren’t providing my body with sustenance. Just as, I realised, following this programme had just become something that I woke up to do in the morning; it wasn’t making me happy. I’ve been battling with this for months, and now, finally, I’ve made the decision to make a change. Although, now, my reason to wake up in the morning has gone, I’m using this time out to heal and recover. To fill my time with things that enrich me, by bringing flavour and excitement to my days.