Whenever my brother and I walk into a room, a combined four metres of awkward height and similar fashion sense, we prepare ourselves for a sort of ritualistic questioning from anyone who’s never met us before. What precedes this is the look people give the two of us: a person’s eyes will flicker over one of us, in the nonchalant sort of way one usually looks at a stranger, and then, in what they think will be a continuation of mundane room observation, they will look at the other one of us. And then, something in their brain explodes, as they question whether they’ve had one two many drinks or what was really in the double chocolate brownies. Their head will move from side to side, looking at one, then the other and back again,eyes darting between us, as they begin to comprehend: twins. Suddenly people seem to get excited, as questions rush through their heads.

Unfortunately, a lot of these questions make it out of people’s mouths. On the one level, there are the classics: “Do you feel pain if the other one is hit in the face?”, “Have you ever switched places?”, “Are you telepathic?” These ones are easy to reply to (the odd, completely fabricated anecdote is always good) or the trick of both picking 638 as a number between one and a thousand. Then there are the questions that we answer the same everytime: no, we can’t send messages to each other by thought; yes, it means we were born on the same day; and no, we have never ever switched girlfriends (I mean come on, that’s a horrible thing to do).

Last week, however, I was asked an original question which shook me to my core in a sort of existential way. A friend asked me,“How do you know that you were originallyHugo? Surely at the beginning, two identical looking newborns, you would have inadver- tently switched around, and unless you had badges or something. Surely your parents couldn’t tell, maybe you started life as Patrick?” This freaked me out – my brother’s name could have been mine. Maybe it was only at three, five or even 12 months down the line where I sort of settled on Hugo, finally stopping the ambiguous period of identity swapping. In my pursuit of an answer to the question, I brought it up during the holidays when my mum was looking through baby photos. “Mum”, I asked, “Which one is me?”, picking up the one of us as newborns. She didn’t hesitate; pointing to one of the two tiny little babies in a tiny little cot, she says, “That’s you”. To be frank, I didn’t believe her. My mum isn’t even 100 percent with my name today – she called me Scrabble last week, who is our cat, who is dead, so I viewed h her certainty with suspicion.

Twins have obviously interested people for a long time. Greek and Roman mythology is littered with litters of twins and triplets, from Castor and Pollux to Apollo and Artemis, and this is mirrored in the many twins in films today, from The Man in the Iron Mask to the timeless Parent Trap to Legend. There are actually really cool things about twins that most people don’t know, and no, it’s not telepathy. Most twins, for example, speak their own language during formative infant years. What sounds like babble is communication, which is why twins take longer to learn their mother tongue than non-twins. There have been several experiments done on twins separated at birth which have resulted in some surprising findings.The ‘Jim twins’ were separated at birth, but on meeting for the first time aged 39, they had both married women called Betty, named their sons James Alan, named their dogs Fido, drank the same beer and owned Chevrolet cars. Spooky, right? Mybrother and I imagine that scenario sometimes. The two of us, separated at birth, seeing each other in a train station or somewhere, doing a slow-mo run and comparing lives.

I was really interested about what life would be like at uni, by myself, with my brother on a gap year, as the longest we had been apart in our lives before October 2015 was 10 days. In some ways, it’s nice to walk into a room and have eyes pass idly by, but, thinking of my brother now, teaching orphans in the middle of a Peruvian jungle, I’m certain that he, like me, misses the absurdity of entering a room together.

Week Four, Hilary. Half way through and I have absolutely no concept of whether it’s gone incredibly fast or incredibly slow. I think it was fast, no matter how many days those 9am lectures seemed to last. Now, we all know that life as an Oxford student is one of high demand, high pressure, and high caffeine. Sometimes we think we’re handling everything quite reasonably; there’s one fewer essay this week, I’ve done more reading, etc. But then again, there will inevitably be these moments when we sit back, take our minds out of work and back into the real world, and think, “Wow…I need to get my shit together.” You realise, no matter where you look – be it your work, social, or general life-life – there will always be shit that needs to be reigned in, shackled up and pulled back together again.

There’s always the usual, boring domestic stuff that needs sorting out: there’s too much washing up, too much mould, there are never enough mugs in the world and the clothes now live on the chair as opposed to in the wardrobe. However, the latest of my increasingly frequent ‘I Need to Get My Shit Together’ moments occurred earlier this week (or maybe it was two weeks ago; time is definitely one thing on the list that still needs sorting.) I was getting some work done in the library, let’s say ‘the other day,’ when I underwent the most remarkable epiphany. I had left my computer for a mere 30 seconds, in the hands of a very trustworthy and not-at-all-mischievous friend, to retrieve some ‘thrilling’ book or other from a nearby shelf. It was upon my return that I saw it. You see, instead of my half-written, half-researched, half-arsed essay laboured across my screen, there was a very clear, font-size 72, message: EITHNE NEEDS TO GET HER SHIT TOGETHER. Now, as to where this could have come from I have absolutely no idea. Why, all who looked upon it could not fathom its origin; my work-pal could hardly speak through curious fits of strange giggles. Curiouser and curiouser. Still, there’s no need to venture too far down the rabbit hole in search of answers. The message was incredibly accurate. Sadly, dear reader, I do need to get my proverbial ‘shit’ together. This is coming to you from a frightened student who is currently writing this very article in her college library, unwashed and unshaven, ferociously fighting off not one, but two moths that keep flying into her face (I’m pretty sure those who have noticed my mad arm movements have assumed I’ve gone essay-crisis bonkers. Not half wrong, mind you). And to be honest, this pretty much sums up the state of my mind: lots of flailing without really achieving any- thing. Maybe it would be better to give some context, maybe if I were to explain some events that have led up to this point.

Now, I’m one of those people who needs something or someone to ground me. Be it an activity over the course of a month, or even just a cup of tea in the wee hours with someone who makes me smile. Being never short of opportunities for the latter, this week I made the bold choice that I would branch out into the former. This grand undertaking lead me to an audition room for an up-and-coming student play that I shall leave nameless. Hav- ing had plenty of audition experience and a sadly small amount of success, the fear of it has rather worn thin. Nevertheless, I made my arrangements to be as well prepared as possible. I abstained from a Saturday night’s drinking (a heart-wrenching endeavour on bop night) and felt gloriously ‘cleansed’ the following morn- ing in a way that I have never felt before. But as always, this served as a valuable lesson in watching the shit we think we’ve got together slowly unravel. To avoid any extended detail, I’ll summarise: lines were forgotten, people were spat on, and through a combination of a slippery floor and inadvisable footwear, I somehow ended up on my bum at the director’s knees. Not the way that was meant to go.

To turn back time, the week started with a lesson in getting the ‘academic shit’ together, which ultimately led to another of these valuable lessons. A week of perpetual slacking kicked off in the underground bunker of a seminar room, devoid of nature’s light or any light except the glare of laptop screens and fluorescent hospital lighting. Although propped up by the warm familiarity of friends and copious amounts of tea, there is no escape from the inevitable realisation that (from an English student’s viewpoint anyway) I simply haven’t read enough books. Not only do I not know enough alternative literature (or at least alternative to me) to sound interesting in my degree, I have also not read enough of the impeccably famous and ingenious. This is where that ever-elusive concept of Oxford-time really starts eating away at the limits of your shit-ordering abilities. We’re all here in this amazing place, bristling with intelligence, excitement and opportunity, but taking a moment to try and mentally grasp how much there is of it can be truly quite terrifying. I say terrifying, but really it’s just that oh-so familiar feeling of ‘Where do I start?’, ‘Where do I go first?’, ‘Am I even good enough to try?’. But I guess that’s just it: there’s always too much shit. Nothing’s ever enough to straddle confidence in a degree, or your life, entirely. No matter where you are, there’s always more that needs to be done, and even more that you want to do outside of that.

The other day, at the beginning of a crew date at Arzoo’s, one of the girls asked if they had any vegan plates. At this, the bemused waiter replied “Vegan? What’s that, no meat? No nothing…?” I felt a surge of admiration for the staff of Arzoo’s. Not that I really have a problem with vegans – if you want to live off lentils and kale I wont stop you – just please don’t make me eat them. I was therefore very disappointed at the prospect of Meat-Free Mondays. As Paul McCartney’s veganistic lovechild, you strive to raise awareness about the detrimental environ- mental impact of eating meat.

It can’t be said that you’re not popular, though. Most of the colleges in Oxford love you. But I’m not convinced. I can’t help but feel that the driving force behind its promotion is not eco- logical. Instead, it is a reaction of the sidelined, one-option-in-hall vegetarians and vegans, who would do anything to close the abattoirs of England and outlaw Cumberland sausages.

A compromise would have been possible – two meat options one day, two vegetarian the next – but things have spiralled out of control now. The audacity of trying to deny people not only bacon but also chicken, beef, lamb and fish means the two sides cannot be reconciled. Thanks to you, you malicious meat-sucker, friendships will be tested, but so long as there isn’t a Gluten Free Fridays campaign, I’m sure we will all break bread together in the near future.

If you and your army of enraged vegetarians and vegans was really so concerned with the environment then there are many places to begin before condemning steak tartare. To begin with, the Chemistry Faculty, who are proudly sponsored by BP. In my humble opinion, tackling the University’s close affiliations with oil companies is a more worthwhile pursuit than imposing chickpea curry on innocent hungry undergrads. Buy a bike, go litter picking, use a bag-for-life, but for God’s sake, do not force me to eat a quinoa salad. Undoubtedly, the worst thing about you is that you are on a Monday. It is universally accepted that Monday is the worst day of the week, so why make it worse by taking away meat? I’m sure people would be more accepting of the campaign if it was on Thursday or Friday; then we could struggle through one hungry day and gorge themselves on foie gras at the weekend. I know alliteration is pleasant on the ear but I will not support a campaign that is based on it.

It was one thing for Jamie Oliver to take away our Turkey Twizzlers, but it is another to deny access to meat for hundreds of students. Where does it end? In five years there will be no choices, just one meal served everyday, for every meal, for everyone.