The time is 07.30 and Fyse lies sprawled in bed, lost in blissful sleep. He is dead to the world and snores gently (he has a tendency to do that). Suddenly a radio bursts into life, loudly blaring in his ear. He stirs irritably and slowly regains consciousness, then lies in bed absorbing the morning news. It consists mainly of the latest atrocities from across the world.

At 07.45 his alarm clock sounds. He hits snooze, rolls over again and drifts back to sleep. At 08.00 another alarm sounds, this time from the opposite side of the room. Fyse finally accepts the inevitable and crawls out of bed toward the shower.

It has just turned 09.05 and the cycle racks outside the Physics department are full. Inside, the lecturer recaps previous work and introduces the day’s topic. The odd straggler disappears inside the door, and all is quiet outside. Around the corner comes a bicycle at high speed, skidding to a halt. Fyse dismounts and throws a lock hastily through a wheel, before tip-toeing carefully into the lecture theatre. He again forgets the over-eager door mechanism, and leaves it to slam behind him. He winces apologetically at the room in general.

The department canteen opens at 12.30 and is busy, the queue stretching to the door. Fyse, however, arrived early and is already seated, beaming at the full plate before him. A morning of lectures behind them, Fyse and friends make erudite and learned conversation, filtered through their fish and chips. They decide Charlie has now gone completely mental, and that there’ll probably never be a satisfactory explanation for that black smoke, let alone why they all ended up on island in the first place. Conversation switches to ‘Desperate Housewives’, then ‘House M.D.’ and then ‘Numb3rs’. They conclude they watch too much downloaded American television.

Leaving the Physics department, Fyse rides back into the centre of Cambridge and towards the biology labs. Scientists have a tendency to call anything a lab, and this one barely qualifies. It’s more of an office really, and Fyse settles himself down in front of a computer. Attached to the computer is a set of headphones, and through them comes the incessant sound of Reta casabeina, the North American bullfrog. Fyse spends the afternoon typing computer code intended to analyse the structure of the calls. At about 15.30 he begins to believe the bullfrogs are talking to him, but with well reasoned and logical argument he calmly explains to them why a murderous rampage would be counter-productive.

At 16.45 Fyse is on his bike once more, cycling rapidly out of town towards Homerton College. There is barely a week left until ‘Singing in the Rain’ opens, and Fyse is now spending upwards of 40 hours a week rehearsing. The evening begins with polishing the show’s big dance number and Fyse shows great enthusiasm, if slightly less than perfect execution. Flailing somewhat wildly, he has utterly unique and innovative technique. When the choreographer can stand no more, the director takes them next door to run dialogue. Fyse demonstrates a free and open interpretation of the American accent.

It is 22.30, and Fyse has finally arrived home again. He left his quiet sanctuary almost 14 hours ago, and now collapses into a chair, staring catatonically at the wall. With scarcely enough brain function left to maintain breathing, he scavenges for food and watches some television before retiring to bed, preparing to do it all again tomorrow. He can’t remember ever being so busy. This is why Fyse has not been blogging much of late…