The lecture drags us through the morning, stretching itself out like a lazy housecat and making only minor painful increments of progress. In his own well meant way, the professor with a sedating monotonous voice tries to explain to us the finer details of quantitative research and its relevance to the healthcare sector. Meanwhile, over two hundred pairs of eyes glaze over in unison. It truly is a study in itself – this great defence mechanism all students possess, shielding them from the obligatory PowerPoint presentation projected on the clinical white wall like a vomit stain.

The room seems starved of oxygen and my head and eyes ache from sleep deprivation. A fun night was had, but never again.

With at least some intention of taking the lecture seriously, I half-heartedly scrawl poor shorthand of the points I believe to be important. I list each item of perceived significance with arrows that fly like swallows towards each word on the page, an asterisk for unrelated points . . . or was it for a new list? Of course any stressed information, I marked with NB . . . but what is NB? Why NB? What the hell is NB anyway?

And “stressed”? I do not believe the professor himself even knows the meaning of the word. How could he with a voice like that? No volume, no rising or falling intonation, not even a variation in rhythm or any detectable sense of urgency which would convince me that he even had a pulse.

A room full of nursing students, and nobody thinks to check this man’s vital signs. What the hell?

This is how we learn, right?

I know very little about pregnancy and going into labour, but surely it feels something like waiting for this lecture to be over.

Finally, my favourite part,

“Are there any questions?”

The bell excuses us and we exit the theatre like somebody in the foyer needs resuscitation.