Monday, 13 June 2011

No Longer A Student... Now Just A Pauper.

So, since my last blog I have handed in my dissertation, successfully (debatable) completed all my exams and am now free to take on the world, one £9,000 mistake at a time. My exams went as well as I could have hoped, given that I finished the first one in record time as the subject I had revised the shit out of didn't come up. I wrote down everything I knew about Seamus Heaney and Carol Ann Duffy, then spent the rest of the time wondering how better I could have spent my tuition fees. I almost didn't read through my exam before I left (I never see much point when I know I've done rubbish; it's like vomitting and then sifting through the sick to try and find a diamond). I did, though, and I'm glad as I discovered that throughout the entire thing I had been calling the novel by a completely different name. On hindsight, maybe I'd have got a better mark if I'd left it... The second one went marginally better - although, I'm not sure if it actually did, or if I just think that because at the time I was off my tits on cold and flu capsules... We shall see.
The relief of handing in my dissertation was dampened somewhat after I got an e-mail the day after is was due saying I was meant to submit a copy online, despite having handed two hard copies into the office, and asking the woman behind the desk whether I needed to submit it online, to which she replied no. Twice. I had only just stopped myself from inwardly screaming over the stress of the binding process. If you have ever bound something, you will know what I am talking about. I stupidly refused the option to pay more and have the library staff bind it for me - first mistake. I then spent FIFTEEN MINUTES trying to figure out how to work the machine, after which I got cocky and offered my expertise to the girl next to me who also looked like she was about to cry - second mistake. Turns out she had a different machine and the spiral binding ended up flying out at what seemed to be 100mph and hitting another innocent bystander in the face. It was embarrassing, but it definitely made the process more entertaining. I then cheered myself up by watching my friend carefully place her 30 page dissertation into the machine, sheet by sheet, and then watching her face drop as I pretended to offer my help and lifted the entire pile off again. I'll admit, it was mean, but I regret nothing. (By the way, I got a 2:1 in my dissertation, which I am now going to frame and hang around my neck for the rest of my life).
I have now completely finished my degree and am faced with the daunting prospect of growing up and moving back in with my mother. This means I can no longer refrain from emptying my bin by instead spraying it with body spray every time I walk past and I'll have to actually clean my bedding as opposed to every so often hoovering the dust off it. It would be nice to have a tidy room for a change though; I stood on a water bottle last week and for a split second the possibility that it was a rat genuinely went through my mind... I also discovered that I had done a cheeky sick in an empty Strongbow box on Friday night and then strategically hidden it from view under my desk, consequently creating a strange, yet oddly sensual, odor. This further leads me to the conclusion that I am not as respectable a person as I have been assuring myself I am my entire life and that finishing university is probably a good time to turn over a new, more sanitary leaf. I should probably stop being so lazy as well - I spent half an hour the other day attempting to lasso in my window so I didn't have to get out of bed and close it...
Moving back in with my mum has definite advantages, like the fact that she always has toilet roll, which means I won't have to repeat last week's upsetting experience of having to substitute it with babywipes (one of the stranger sensations of my adult life). I am not looking forward to moving back the city of tramps and murderers itself, though. I had a minor incident last week where for a split second I thought that there was a gang of chavs in Chester - a rare sight. As they got closer though I realised they were actually middle aged women from the local weight watchers group wearing matching Kappa tracksuits. Still frightening, but at least I came away with my wallet and skull both intact.

I did pay a quick visit to Bradford a few weeks ago, you know, just to ease myself in. I'd been out late the night before and as a result I was continually drifting into a sleep/daysleep on the coach. Usually this would be fine as I always put as much effort as possible into making sure no one sits next to me. However, no such luck this time and I ended up sitting next to a woman who looked about 90 and probably shouldn't have even been out of bed, nevermind riding her life away on a piss-stenched bus between Manchester and Bradford. As I was having one of my "daysleeps" as I like to call them (that state where you're asleep, but you're fully aware of your surroundings), I was dreaming of myself in the shower (you know you're bigheaded when that happens), and out of the corner of my eye I saw my shampoo falling in slow motion off the shelf. Instinctively, my arm shot out to save it, thus causing the old lady to have a very near heart attack and making me throw my bag on the floor in a panic. I apologised, but she still looked like she was having minor palpitations and I had to keep checking on her every ten minutes to make sure she hadn't... left us. I was thankful when she got off.
I didn't do much in Bradford except revise (the wrong topic) and go to the pub with my dad, which was fun - barring the night he thought it would be hilarious to do an impression of a very loud and obnoxious goat. It was not hilarious. He also spent a fair amount of time trying to jog my memory of the couple that used to teach me and Kezia gymnastics when we were younger. I struggled to remember because I left gymnastics after a short while as I wasn't, shall we say, a natural. Basically, whilst Kezia was doing cartwheels on the balance beam, I was straddling it like a sloth, trying to pluck up the courage to roll to one side or the other and plummet to the floor. The only thing I vividly remember about gymnastics was the week after I had decided to quit - my dad and Kezia came home from practice only to inform me that it had been someone's birthday and I had missed out on the buffet. You can imagine what news like that does to a fat kid. Actually, I think that may be one of the reasons I am so very fond of buffets today... The moral of the story? Don't take fatties to gymnastics.