Did I mention I love this guy?
This month he is in the middle of his final exams. Oh, I remember my finals with stingy clarity. The midnight hallucinations. The wearing of the same mouldy jumper for many days. The endless, plodding horror of exchanging one stack of notes for another, over and over again. Getting a head-swelling cold right in the middle of it, and covering my tiny exam desk with snotty tissues. Oh, and the extra head I grew on the third finger of my right hand.
I was not a nice person during my finals. It was not a nice time. I whinged and cried and threw things with abandon. I rained down curses on the heads of Marlowe and Wordsworth. I hated everybody. The day after I finished, I got up late, cycled into town, bought a celebrity magazine, read it and went back to sleep, and it was the best day of my life.
But oh, this Timothy of mine. He pulls all-nighters with nary a grimace, and wakes me up in the morning with porridge. He is never shouty. He is changing his clothes. Sometimes he has a Really Bad Day and, you know, snaps a bit when I ask him something stupid or pop in to show him another one of my t-shirts that doesn’t fit anymore.
It’s not that he’s unmoved by the stress, or that he doesn’t work hard – he isn’t, and he does. It’s just some people have the knack of showing grace under pressure. I don’t have it, but he has it in spades (he also has an impressive collection of spades, FYI).