When we arrived home after the Greenbelt festival, the opening of the front door was impeded by a lump of envelopes. Most of them looked boring (bury, burn, destroy). Some went straight into the recycling box which we keep tellingly close to the letterbox.
But one, with my name on it, bore the UCAS insignia. I tore it open.
“Congratulations…” it began.
Although I had been the first of the four of applicants in our house to receive a conditional offer for a course last year, I was the last to have the offer firmed up. In spite of being treated like a firm candidate and receiving joining information from both faculty and college, nothing had changed on UCAS Track.
With my course about to begin, I had begun to experience UCAS Anxiety.
On investigation, I discovered that a routine, yet vital, medical form had been lost somewhere between my GP and Cambridge occupational health. But now I was into the August summer holidays and seemed always to end up speaking to colleagues of the people who had originally been dealing with me. It had the air of something which could make Kafka’s “The Trial” look like a walk in the park.
But now I’m sorted.
The only disadvantage - I’ve run out of excuses to put off tackling my reading list.
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