Green by Nick Earls Page A

LEAST OF ALL—1984
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    E xams. E nd of fourth year.
    Two things I’ve learned in the last day and a half. One: if your eyes shut while you’re walking, you can fall onto the road. Two: shaving does not improve the concentration, at least, not beyond the moment you finish shaving.
    The problem: neither of these things constitutes epidemiology. Neither makes me more comfortable with generating P values, or more acquainted with the subtleties of metanalysis. All I know is that metanalysis has the word ‘anal’ in the middle and that hasn’t been funny since three-thirty this morning. But the pre-dawn hours are desperate, everyone knows that.
    I’m losing it. Four years (eight semesters) into this degree and losing it. So far, a total modest kind of success story, but that’s about to change.
    I am at the stage of believing that milkshakes become fascinating if you add a banana. Of telling myself I can have a toilet break after every even-numbered page as a reward for work well done. Of believing that twanging a rubber band against my wrist can keep me awake and make me pass this exam. Even though, as you slip into inappropriate sleep, the first thing you don’t do is twang and you end up just cutting off the blood supply to your hand.
    I tell my mother it’s not working, nothing’s working any more and she says, ‘Maybe you need a break, Philby.’
    So I go right off at her, of course. Does she want me to fail?
    Eight minutes ago I went to the toilet. What does she think this is? I’ve got plenty of breaks built into the routine. It’s the bits in between that are killing me.
    And she says, ‘That’s quite a welt you’ve got on your wrist, Philby,’ and she confiscates the rubber band. ‘Now,’ she says, knowing that I don’t take confiscation lightly, ‘I’m going to make you a nice savoury-mince jaffle. And a milkshake.’
    With the promise of an added banana, she gets the truce she wants and I don’t have to go off at her about the rubber band. Besides, I’ve got plenty more in my room.
    â€˜Can I call this a meal?’
    â€˜Yes, you can,’ she says, ‘if it helps.’
    â€˜It helps, I get fifteen minutes for meals.’
    I’m sure the others aren’t having these problems. I tell myself that to get me going while I eat the first half of my savoury-mince jaffle. I tell myself there’s a high probability (P<0.05) that the others aren’t having these problems. That they’re cruising with this stats stuff. Declining intrusive offers of jaffles so that they can squeeze in a few more analyses of variance (if there is such a thing) before tomorrow’s exam.
    But even that doesn’t help. I can’t scare myself any more with other people’s study habits. I can’t scare myself with the thought of a supp in the holidays, ’cause I’m expecting it now. Expecting it ever since three-thirty a.m..
    I’m gone. Four years, eight semesters and very nearly two-thirds of the way through this degree and I’ve hit the wall and slid down it like old fruit.
    Frank Green comes over. I ask him how he’s going with the epidemiology.
    Frank Green says he has an all-over tan, baby. Frank Green has been to the gym. Combed his hair, far too much. Bought groceries, made lasagna for eight (and eaten five portions overnight), washed and fiddled with his old Valiant so thoroughly you’d have to call it detailed.
    â€˜Definition of perfect,’ he says as he shows me over it. ‘Definition of way-fucking perfect, baby.’
    As he shows me the customised driver’s seat, runs his hands over the brand-new bed of beads in a way that looks far too close to genuine affection. And he drives with three gonks now, on different parts of the dashboard, and seven hanging airfresheners, since, he says, six proved insufficient to distract his sinuses from their