Grey's Journal:

Procrastination!

 January 3rd, 2005
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Is it hypocritical for a trainee teacher to advise his students to do their work ahead of the deadline while simultaneously leaving his own school work until the last minute?  Hypothetically, of course.

As the first semester of King's College drew to a close, there was only one thing on the mind of the trainee teachers: The SER, a 5,000 word research paper about our placement school.  It is, as far as I can tell, one of the only pieces of work for King's College that will be graded.  Not passing means not getting qualified to teach.

When this paper was first assigned months ago, in an unusual flurry of good behavior, I wrote eight hundred words.  I then used this minimal accomplishment as an excuse to work no more.  Whenever I thought about starting again, I'd remember those eight hundred words and give myself a congratulatory pat on the back and a break from the work I had not yet begun.

And so it went until the last weekend before the Monday morning due date.  Zornitsa flew to Barcelona that weekend which I thought would be to my advantage.

When she attended London Metropolitan, I served as a tremendous distraction for her when her own work was due.  We'd either stay up late, drink vodka, get into wrestling matches on the floor, or all three -- anything not to do her work.  I thought I would use her as a distraction with my own work looming and assumed that without Zornitsa around a weekend of productivity would naturally follow.

Not so.

I woke up early Saturday to get a start on the paper.  But, before work could be done, I needed to make myself an elaborate breakfast. I find that whenever work needs to be done I am constantly hungry, specifically for whatever will require me to leave the house.  As I had cereal, bread, oatmeal, milk, orange juice but not eggs, eggs were the only thing that would satisfy me.

Once I acquired the ingredients and prepared an elaborate three course breakfast I realized that it would have been a shame to ruin it by working while eating, so I flipped on my computer to watch an episode of South Park.  Just one, I promised, as a reward for getting up early.

Episodes of South Park (and Family Guy and The Daily Show) are the devil's tools of procrastination.  At twenty minutes each, no single episode feels like a waste of time and it's easy to say `just one more' ad infinitum.  Or at least until 6:30 PM, when it's clearly too late to start any real work.

When I awoke Sunday my SER.tex file revealed that, contrary to my irrational hopes, the homework fairies had not added 4,200 words to my paper, despite the open bottle of Pepsi and half-eaten pizza I had left out as in incentive for them.  I was in Big Trouble, but rather than buckle down and work my way out of the situation, I sought escapism.

All was fair game in my efforts at self-distraction.  I downloaded episodes of the 1960's cult TV show The Prisoner, not because I really wanted to watch them, but because they were convenient.  When Zornitsa's DVD of Sex and the City came in the mail, I expressed great interest in the life of successful, single, thirty-something, Manhattan women.  If, as happened to one of my friends also at King's College, the extended edition of The Return of the King with endless hours of behind the scenes footage had arrived on my door, all hope would have been lost.

As it were, my day would have been spent completely watching large beach balls attack secret agents and Samantha's sexual escapades had not Zornitsa returned from Barcelona and saved me from myself Sunday night.

``How's your paper coming, Grey?''

``Fine, fine...  I better get back to work on it though.''

While I originally thought Zornitsa would be a distraction, I realized that she was actually a work motivator.  Once she sat in our main room across from me, I cranked on the paper from six to midnight.

I woke up at 5 AM on Monday morning to give what I intended to be minor cosmetic changes to my paper but instead discovered it was a horrible Frankensteinian mess of sown together sections that needed massive surgery and a bolt of electricity to be brought to life.  But it was too late for that now: I needed to get to central London.

For weeks, when I printed my journals for corrections, the message appeared that the ink cartridge was empty, an obvious lie as my document came out with crisp text.  I assumed this was really a message from the printers corporate masters demanding more money -- a demand I did not intend to give into until absolutely necessary.  Especially since black printer ink is priced as though it were a rare and precious commodity. So, I ignored the message and my printer punished me by refusing to print the first important thing I asked it to.

Straight to google to find places that would print my paper in the wee hours of the morning.  There it was, my savior: Kinko's 144 The Strand, open 24 hours a day 7 days a week across the river from King's College.  On an early train into Charing Cross, with a new unfamiliar group of grumpy commuters, I smiled knowing that I now lived in a place where one could attend to business at any time.

I felt that way right until I got to Kinko's; lights off, door locked, no indication when it would open.  Perhaps I was mistaken, but I thought that 7 was one of the 24 hours in a day.  I shook my fist at the empty building and swore an oath that Kinko's would never again receive my business for lying to me.

I hurried across the Waterloo Bridge to the King's College campus.  The library was closed, but there was a small computer room open with a dodgy-looking-wonky-printing-ten-year-old laserjet.  It would have to do.  I logged on and clicked print.

For long, long moments, the printer didn't do anything before finally displaying warming up and making hopeful noises.  Then it printed the page:
User: WAG278

Document: Printed on LP401

Account Debited: £1.50


Then nothing.

It had clearly not printed my paper, only a page telling me it had and stealing a pound and a half for its efforts.  I checked I was in the right room and tried again, receiving the same page but now with the additional message that my account was out of money.

Panic.

It was 8 AM, the opening time for handing in the paper.  Unlike my college experience in the States, at King's College and in London Metropolitan, papers are not handed into the professors but into the school directly, where they are then sent off to external examiners to be triple graded.  There is no talking the professor into letting you hand it in late.

I went downstairs to the office to try and explain my situation, but someone was already ahead of me handing in his paper.

``You sure are early,'' said the man collecting papers in the office.

``Well, actually,'' he said ``I finished this two weeks ago.  We just weren't allowed to hand it in early.  I also went 2,000 words over the 5,000 word suggestion, is that OK?''

I almost murdered him out of envy.

When I got to the office window and told the man collecting the papers what happened, he looked worried.

``You'll have to figure out something, the deadline is 9 AM.''  The official school policy is that handing a paper in late is the same as missing an exam: instant, non-negotiable failure.

I walked in aimless, worried circles before remembering passing a Ryman Stationery on The Strand with a sign saying that they offered `business services' starting at 8:30.  I went back across Waterloo Bridge hoping that business services included printing.

The lights were on at Ryman, but the door was locked with no sign of anyone inside, but on my way to the Ryman I passed the Kinko's -- which was now open.  Casting aside the oath I swore not yet an hour ago I ran inside and, my face all smiles and brightness, asked if they could do a printing, binding job right away.

They were fast and efficient, something I secretly hoped they wouldn't be -- I wanted to punish myself for giving up on my oath so quickly.

With my paper printed and bound, I ran across Waterloo Bridge for the third time that morning and made it to the King's College office at 8:57.

It was only after the ordeal was done that I remembered the quality of the paper I had just handed in.  I spent my Christmas break, repeating over and over in my mind, just let me pass...

Just let me pass...




Update 2005/01/28:  I passed : )









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