"Though Patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod"

Good old Bill. He knew what he was talking about.

My mare is seriously being put to the test at the moment. Life is a very hectic business, and I sometimes wonder if birth should have a disclaimer attached. "WARNING: Life may become seriously complicated, and could prove harmful to your wellbeing!"

At some point during September 2009, I told myself I would have an easy, no-nonsense, focussed year, and finish university in perfect balance. What folly! I've ended my time an unstable, overworked, under-nourished, nervous wreck. And there's still one month to go!

On the 28th of May 2010, I will take my last ever writen exam. On the 25th of June, I will receive the results of all of the year's assessments, and discover which class of degree I have worked for. Finally, on the 23rd of July, I will (hopefully) graduate from the University of Sussex with a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature and Spanish. It will be all over.

The plan was simple. Do no plays. Get a job, work minimum shifts in order to prop up my shakey finances, and study bloody hard. The plan was simple. Life, on the other hand, is not. I did plays and even applied for drama school, with all its associated stress. I found one (dreadful) job, which paid peanuts, and lasted a week. I've studied, but not "bloody hard". How could I have done so?

I think I have an obssessive compulsion for making my life more complicated, and taking more on than I can handle. I haven't learnt my lesson from the last eight months; oh no. I've gone and done it again. Even now, with two-and-a-half weeks to hand in 10,000 words on English Renaissance theatre, and a month to revise about as much on 20th Century Spanish Culture and History as is possible, I have decided to do yet another play; and I am still in the thick of the audition process with quite a few drama schools (discretion - and a cheeky penchant for suspense - forbids me to disclose which). What the hell is wrong with me! As my actress friend said to me on the phone, the other month, it's all a bit "f@*king insane!"

But I love it. I'm a masochist, you see. Not in the sexual sense (although never say never), but in the original sense. I take pleasure in having so much to do merely because it enables me to engage in a sport for which the British would surely win Olympic Gold if it existed: moaning. Although, in my case, I genuinely love doing everything that I'm doing. The intensity of it all is keeping me going. Added to that is the perverse pleasure of arriving home at 11pm (which frequently happens) and whingeing about how long my day has been, how tired I am, and how I wish I had fewer responsibilities and more free time on my hands. Except I don't. I love to say these things. It makes me feel like there is actually a life to complain about. I am, after all, hoping to become an actor, and actors usually spend long periods of time unemployed. I should be pleased I'm this busy at all. I'm just going to keep on at it. It's only another couple of months.

Come on Patience, get plodding...