100 Things Not To Do Before You Die

I have just booked a room-with-a-view (of the nearby bustling motorway) in one of England's many suicidal, peri-metropolitan commuter towns. There, in the dark, dreary and deafeningly silent confines of my loney lodgings, I shall count down the seconds of Friday night until the appointed time of 'the Great Exam'. My only companion through those long, painful hours - 'till at long last the Saturday sun burns up the hazy gloom of an autumnal morning and I make my way to the crumbling District General - will be this ever-present, expanding sense of dread that gnaws at my entrails like a pack of hungry rats. Well, that and a litre bottle of cheap gin.

Wish me luck.