All rights reserved
2015 Ian Lees
ISBN: 978-1-4835589-1-2
Contents
WHY WORK?
It was the moment wed been aspiring to for three years. Aspiring in the undergraduate sense of sitting around on our backsides, doing sod all. Sometimes even in the library.
The great thing about university, wed been told, is not just that it's a chance to gain a real education and widen ones horizons, but that it's also a golden opportunity to meet like-minded people. And right enough, most of my friends were just like me. In the pubs at lunchtime, we held forth on the great themes we should have been studying, and at night we strutted awkwardly in dark corners of clubs trying to attract like-minded females. In the few lectures we did attend, we made risible efforts to avoid posing as the keenest minds of our generation.
University, it transpired, wasnt all it was cracked up to be, so the final exam was as good a reason as any wed had in three years for beginning a real knees-up before lunchtime.
The exam omens were good. Firstly, my alarm woke me up on time. Secondly, my memory of how I was going to answer the questions that were going to come up remained intact. I hadnt cheated, Im far too cowardly for that, much to the detriment of my global academic achievement. Its just that when they ask the same five or six questions for twenty years consecutively, as clues go, its a biggy. Thirdly, I didnt have anything that could properly be called a hangover, so I was feeling unusually fresh and perky.
Jims exam was finishing at one oclock, and mine at half twelve, so, what with the sun shining and the flowers out, we decided to meet in The Horse and Cart at midday, get a few in before the masses arrived and have a poignant little us-together celebration, being lifelong buddies and all. It was a sage decision, as we had the pick of the cheese and pickle sandwiches.
As I sat at the shadowy table in the corner, beyond the reach of the dustbeams of sunlight that cast a veil over the polished tables, unchewed beermats and empty ashtrays, I noticed for the first time the clunky ticking of the mahogany clock on the wall. At the bar, Jim was the beneficiary of the landlords jovial reception, strictly reserved for the first customer of the day. He pulled the beers with the care and precision of a watchmaker, and raised his eyebrows to Jim for approval.
In silence, verging on reverence, we let our pints of bitter settle until they were crystal clear, the white head of foam forming a razor-sharp line all the way round. Jim raised his glass to mine, and with the wisdom of the centuries looked me right in the eyes, giving a barely perceptible nod. He saw that it was good. There was no need for words.
History would now begin from this moment on, everything prior to it a mere aside. With initials after our names we would stride forth and contribute, venture and pioneer. The rewards would be considerable. We had so much to offer, and, it must be said, me more than most. One day, someone would write about this very moment.
The moment was brief. Within days, it started to feel more like an end than a beginning. Jim had gone back home. Other friends, scattered across the country, had yet to finish exams or had disappeared to unknown locations. I was packing up to leave. The books I should have read. The ones I shouldn't have been. The CDs that more than anything else defined my academic years. The clothes that had weathered the epoch, start to finish, still just about good to go. I knew the questions would begin when I got home. Big Questions. For three years or more we were supposed to have been planning nay, plotting - the future, but as far as we were concerned, like bad accidents, the future was just something that happened to other people.
* * * * * * * * * *
Theres an easy way to combat that first step into the big, bad world wed been told so much about from the moment we first complained about baby food, and thats to put your mind to work and start thinking. Of course, you dont want to rush into things, do anything youll regret, so you need time to consider all the possibilities. Provisionally, six months is a nice round figure to allow yourself and work out what youre going to be.
The process takes its inspiration from the Revision Plan of A-level days: before you can do any meaningful structured revision you need a plan. The plan needs to be properly thought out, down to the hour, and should be clearly presented and easy to follow. Naturally, by the time its finalized, coloured in and laminated, its rendered obsolete by the fact that youve only got five weeks till the first exam, an exam for which the plan allots a reassuring four months. The time required to draw up the plan hadnt been properly planned for.
By contrast, the advantage with the six-month Thinking About Your Future Plan is that you dont even have to get up and make a plan. You just think for a bit. And, if in six months you still havent come up with anything, well, you'll just have to take more time to think some more. Such decisions, however tardily they may be reached, are not to be taken lightly. Softly, softly, catchy monkey, fools rush in and all that So at bottom, the first real step into the big, wide world doesnt begin for another six months or, which is the same, when you decide. Whether you call it 'waiting for something to happen' or 'taking control of your own life', it certainly makes you feel better. As does unemployment benefit.
So with time to kill and an overdraft still not sick enough to warrant unplugging its support machine, I went to pay a few visits here and there to friends still in exams, they having been less meticulous than I when selecting their subjects of study. Some were being unreasonably unrelaxed about the whole thing. I, meanwhile, was in the coveted window-seat of the local by opening time.
As it was the summer of 2002, there was a World Cup to schedule myself around, a month-long carnival of colour and bonhomie hosted by our South Korean and Japanese cousins. How we sniggered at the Spanish, robbed of their dreams yet again! How we chuckled over Italian incredulity at those mysterious forces working against them behind the scenes! And how we held our heads high as conflicts political and cultural were finally served justice with one penalty kick against Argentina! At half seven in the morning we drank in unison and sang in jest. Strangers chatted spontaneously at the bar, and shared pages of the newspaper across tables. It was exactly how things were meant to be: free and carefree, our true passions unleashed, all tethers untied.
Unfortunately you dont escape three years of questionable commitment to a higher institute of learning that easily, and soon enough the question of the graduation ceremony reared its mortared cranium. And having no intention of attending such an embarrassing affair, I managed to convince my parents that, well, I might go. The matter required wise counsel. Jim, long my partner in mediating between right and wrong, was by this time honing his sleeping skills, claiming exam stress, and his parents were extremely understanding. Its mighty difficult to get out of bed after eight hours sleep if youve been used to at least twelve a day for the last three years. But once up, he rubbed his eyes, pondered the gravity of it all and swiftly decided he had no intention of donning mortar and wings either. A result. We had a united front. And a manifesto.
There were two important reasons for not going: the first is that you look and feel ridiculous, and picturing Jim in that get-up certainly made me smirk. I, on the other hand, have a habit of making myself look a fool, so one more day wouldnt have mattered much, but it would have been remiss to overlook an opportunity to avoid humiliation. The second reason was down to principle. The idea of publicly celebrating academic success after three years of getting up early enough to catch last orders and pursue female foreign students around unpopular nightspots smacked of hypocrisy, and it would be wrong to implicate our parents in that. After all, it was supposed to be their day, not ours. So, little by little, we both managed to squirm out of the whole unseemly affair, and my certificate of graduation was eventually sent to my house a few months later.
