Four years, one failed attempt, countless unread novels, and an unhealthy quantity of cigarette ends and Merlot bottles later, it seems somewhat shocking to still be in the same place I was receiving A Level results in the sweaty summer of 2006. Mummy and Daddy coupled with the pressure from a back-water Cornish school formed the inspiration that I, like all my contemporaries, would become a world leader or write a book that held the answer to world debt. That perhaps we wouldn't spend our lives making Pasties, or campaigning to re-open the tin mines to become miners but instead move on to greater heights. I just wanted to be a teacher.
Imagine my surprise, following three years of diligence and a false start somewhere across the Welsh border, that I still don't understand the semi colon. Furthermore, after studying literary theory, The Enlightenment and the finer points of Feminism, I still can't spell Rousseau, don't understand post-structuralism, and certainly have no understanding of women.
Admittedly the false start posed quite a problem, the notion of being grouped with four welsh men in a freshers flat, has probably been transformed into an equivalent pornographic film by this stage- another missed opportunity. Nevertheless, the idea of starting again, of abandoning the safety of convention, defying familial expectation is never easy. Leaving education is about as easy as abandoning a child in a supermarket- everyone judges you and no-one thinks it is a good idea. Sometimes you just have to do it. And, somewhat like that metaphorical child i abandoned by the deli in Morrisons, I have never really looked back to see a screaming face, but stepped into a new era of choice that lead to a somewhat tearful return to a different University 11 months later.
Of course University isn't all about Education, they put it on the front of the prospectus, (particularly if you go to a polytechnic). I've had more than my fair share of compromising situations, house traumas involving more than anyone's portion off sanitary towels, and a hangover for at least 80% of my seminars. But somehow, perhaps throughout the three year hangover and horrific flashbacks, i've learnt a few more valuable lessons that i shall begin to divulge whenever i am not too hungover to see a keyboard.
