I am carrying a small fridge down five flights of spiral, stone stairs. It is leaking something I hope is only water, but has the distinct whiff of tequila/cheap cider about it. Every few paces I stop to catch my breath, relieve the weight from what is most definitely now, at 16 weeks, a slightly protruding bump, and let my nausea pass.
Already, I have lugged 12 boxes of assorted student paraphernalia down said spiral stairs, across two quadrangles, through a Porter’s Lodge, past gabbling groups of pale students in various stages of hangover, and half way down the street, before attempting to cram it all into the car. Most of it has fallen out onto the pavement several times, while far posher...