My University career

Yesterday, I went to the first induction day of my 'creative writing' BA at University. I was looking forward to it, though feeling some anxiety, mainly about the fact that I am virtually geriatric.

I arrived early, despite the fact I ended up driving about half a mile down this farm track before realising, it was, in fact, just a farm track. Since there was nowhere to turn around, I was forced to back the entire way, which cricked my neck into an uncomfortable position and started the pounding headache which had been developing since I got up (at 5am!).

Having found where I should be, I lurked outside with a group of anxious looking youngsters, well, practically babies in fact, and resisted the urge to clutch them to my breast, with a kindly 'there, there, you'll be fine'. I knew exactly how they felt; even though I have been through several degrees, everytime I go for another one, I feel the same. A bit like childbirth really. I guess we all feel that in new situations. Unless you're a complete arrogant, pompous bastard.

But wait - they weren't showing any visible signs of stress at all, just chatting to each other, looking relaxed, laughing even! They were full of optimism, setting out on their first real journey as adults.

It was actually me, the sad loner old person, who was feeling the stress. In ten minutes they had made friends, while I hovered round the edge, not knowing a way in.

It quickly became obvious that a part time course involved much more work than my full time BA had involved several centuries ago. Back in the old days you could swan in for the odd lecture and your seminar. I even had a day time job when I was at Uni back then.

The chat from the student union representatives, made my temple positively pound with stress. They were extolling the virtues of the publishing and broadcasting suites. As a luddite, I try to avoid anything which involves computers, especially complicated things like photoshop. They professed it was all fantastically easy to learn, but I am sure they had never been challenged to teach a chimpanzee like me. This kind of thing is best left to the young. When my interactive whiteboard arrived at school, I nearly had a nervous breakdown and had to get some four year old to show me how to work it.

The lecturers, who rather self consciously introduced themselves, seemed rather nice, with a sense of humour and not, thank God, too dauntingly young (ie young enough to be my son) although there were a couple for whom this might have been possible.

Alarm bells began ringing even at the thought of the induction week. It alone required me to come in every day, for something vitally important. Back in the old days, induction week had meant getting drunk every night and going to parties. It didn't mean actually finding out about your course, getting 'taster' sessions, and learning how to use the library and computer suite as well.

I had already arranged several shifts at the pub, plus there was a funeral I didn't want to miss. The seed of doubt having been sown, I began to work myself into a sort of quiet hysteria, with tears bubbling just below the surface, waiting for someone to unleash with a kind word or gesture. What I wanted was to get the hell out of there.

As I drove home, between my bouts of weeping and self flagellation (I would never get anything published now. I am actually crap at writing and, worse still, a failure who gives up easily. Lash, lash) I began to realise that the commute alone would stress me out, just when I had arranged my life to be as stress free as possible.

I put aside the dramatic histrionics and decided to defer until the next year. I immediately felt better and rewarded my decision making skills with a glass of wine.

So, my university career began at 9.30am. It ended at 12.30am.