In September 2018, I started my undergraduate degree in English and Philosophy — a useful vocation, I know. My mother and I drove from London to Bristol in her green Mazda2, walked through the rain to my student digs, blu-tacked my Johnny Cash poster over the fist-shaped hole in the wall, embraced and then said goodbye.
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Are we allowed to feel angry yet?
And so began my university experience. Three years of debauchery. Three years of dangly earrings, unwashed pants and forgetting to call my mother. Three years of pitta and chips, irritable bowel syndrome, mullets, £2 cider, sanctimonious student theatre, lecturer strikes, Covid Zoom calls and missed deadlines.
And then it was over. I was no longer a student. I was a graduate. And what did I have to show for it? Not very much, just a flimsy certificate and £50,000 of increasing debt. Five years later, and I’m left scratching my supposedly educated chin, wondering, ‘Was it worth it?’
