SEVEN years ago, I received the results of my second Leaving Certificate and discovered I had somehow amassed the points necessary to enter TCD to read for an English degree.
I had never felt so smug in my life and I couldn't wait to tell people where I had been accepted. Most of my classmates had ended up in what I considered to be mundane vocational courses at institutions that were lights years removed from the world of Brideshead Revisited. The idea of studying accounting procedures or learning how to programme a computer appeared to me to be missing the whole point of a third level education.
University was all about reading the occasional novel or poem and then discussing it loudly in a nearby hostelry over eight or nine pints of Guinness. That and needing a haircut.
As far as I was concerned, I had done the hard work in getting into university; now was the time to live a little.
How I scoffed and snorted when my old school friends told me of brutal 20-hour-a-week regimes and studying into the night. What deeply sad individuals, I thought.
The best thing about reading English at Trinity was that it seemed practically impossible to fail an exam or assessment Providing you were seen at the occasional lecture or tutorial, all that appeared really necessary come the end of Trinity term (i.e. exam time), was that you turn up on time and write your name correctly on the front of the answer booklet.
Needless-to-say, my four years soon passed away in a haze of booze and cigarette smoke I was rewarded with a mediocre honours degree and a glass of vinegar-like wine in the Graduates' Memorial Building.
Three years have now passed since my commencement (i.e. graduation). During that time, I have tried and failed at teaching worked temporarily in a ramshackle London bookstore and signed on the dole at frequent intervals.
Currently, I am engaged on a FAS Community Employment Scheme, but that can't last forever (12 months maximum). Where to then?
Recently, I bumped into an old school friend who had ended up in that most un-Arcadian of institutions, Waterford RTC, where he had studied the soulless subject of industrial computing (how I pitied him at the time). A decent sort, on noticing my dishevelled appearance, he insisted on buying me a couple of pints.
It turns out he got a great job from his time spent at the RTC - good money, good career prospects, lots of travel (most of his air fares coming out of his employer's wallet), everything you could ask for really.
He asked how things were progressing for me, at which point I looked at my pint, took a big gulp, and said it was time to go. The beer had taken on a sour taste and it wasn't sitting too well in my gut.
