I'm late.

As I step off the train and into the traffic, I know that there is little chance of me getting to my class within the required 10 minutes. Nevertheless, I hurry on, routinely lugging my bag over my shoulder and driving forward into the dysfunctional maze that is the path to my institution. A maze that is littered with sleep-deprived students disembarking on the same journey, and whom I am desperately trying to overtake. Their faces tell the same story: late nights, oversleep, and a dreaded work load.

The sun is hot. Too hot for this time of day and I hate myself for wearing black - this is sure to be a setback in my race against time (I should have worn the yellow one... oh god, why didn't I wear the yellow one?). I glance at the variety of colour in front of me. A Hawaiian shirt stares back, attached to a striding body in khaki's and oh-so-cool sunglasses. I think you're in the wrong suburb, I muse. Cool Guy keeps striding, and in turn blocking any available space to pass him. I stay where I am, annoyed but calm.

As I meditate on the alternative fashion choices I could have more suitably made, my contemplative state is most unwantingly disturbed by the over-confident sound of a mid-40s truck driver screaming "hey sweetie!", followed by the classic stereotypical whistle. I cringe. Cool Guy turns slowly, grinning "So do you reckon that one was for me or you?". Oh, it's you baby.

9:50am

I take the opportunity to speed past him, but it is all in vain, as I know what struggle awaits me. The Hill is unbeatable; all unfortunate students who have come before it's muddy path will vouch for this statement. Of course, I'll get to the top... but not before a painful and time-consuming course of obstacles.

I start up The Hill, already feeling the weight of my textbooks and the burning of the sun on my skin. Slushy grass, cluttered rocks, and an assortment of fallen branches meet me at every step. I hate this uni, I mutter under my breath, as I glance at my watch and squeal on effect. My trouble has barely begun though; in front of me lies a pool of deep mud, spread metres across the path. My shoulders slump and I lay my hands on my hips, mapping out a plan of attack. I look down at my $180 Diesels. I'm sorry, I cry, but I'm late! Who ever said splashing in puddles was fun...

With my newly deformed shoes and jeans, I push on up The Hill, aggravated and increasingly annoyed, taking every opportunity to release my frustrations onto those around me. Who cares, I tell myself, they're just business students. They need to experience other's feelings of contempt. I mean, looks at them with their perfectly combed hair and their stupid briefcases and- OH SHIT!! THE BUS!!

I see it now, pulling up to the stop, knowing that the next one will not be for another 15 minutes. Knowing that I still have 2 minutes of Hill-climbing to overcome. Please, I plead, please hold on! My heart beats in correspondence with my pace- louder, faster, more frantic. And for a while it seems as though I may make it. The bus is sitting there, unmoving, stable, it's doors open, welcoming. I will make it! I rejoice, I am SAVED! Oh great bus, LORD of all means of transport, I could KISS you!!!

And then the doors close.

And then it starts to pull away.

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