The car park morphed into a grey unfriendly landscape as I made my way unwillingly towards what felt like the end of the world. Yes, this was results day, or rather judgement day. A day when eighteen year olds everywhere can either achieve a place in a university of prestige and beauty and thrive on their excitement, relief and pride, or descend into a pit of irrevocable despair to which all Jeremy Kyle contestants are condemned.
Okay, okay, that is not what happens to people who don’t get a place in university, but it is definitely what it feels like when they hand you that brightly coloured piece of paper with black bold lettering (I assume this is a technique used to pacify the already dishevelled, sleep deprived, mentally fragile kids that are teetering on the edge of adulthood).
So now you’ve got your grades. You walk through crowds of tears, sighs, laughter, sounds of high pitched joy and deep groans of disappointment. Teachers are frantically running from student to student, congratulating, commiserating, and ensuring no nooses are being knotted. There’s that little lamb of a student in the corner, staring into those angry, angular letters he never expected to see. But it’s not the end; he can be brought back from the brink and ushered towards that life-saver named clearing.
So now the future is bright, a life of poverty awaits the beautiful characters of the future and it is now time for me to revel in a night of flowers and Moet. (I am betting that I am highly disappointed as I don’t even like champagne) but celebrations are celebrations and mine, and others’ months of sheer hard work has led up to those bold, beautiful letters on that brightly coloured paper and that alone deserves some form of glass clinking.
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