Shaun Smyth, president of the Union of Secondary Students in Ireland, is facing into his Leaving Cert exams - haunted by dreams of an irate Corkman in the guise of a leprechaun

So it's finally come to this, that oft-anticipated but never really contemplated moment of truth.

Tomorrow, for nearly 60,000 Irish students, is D-Day, the culmination of years of procrastination, skipping class and trying for all our worth to evade that ever-impending sense of responsibility that comes with the Leaving Certificate. After all, this set of exams is supposedly the pinnacle of our intermediary educational endeavours, the yardstick by which we are determined social successes or failures, and the means of separating those destined for Law and French in TCD from those bound for Street Enhancement Engineering.

In short, it's the be-all and end-all of our very existence or so the powers that be would have us believe; but is the thing of such paramount importance in the overall scheme of things? Well, I certainly thought so yesterday morning.

I awoke abruptly, my brow filmed with perspiration from the effects of a nightmarish manifestation of my pre-Leaving Cert dread. In my dream, I was alone in the examination hall, attempting to sit English Paper 1 despite my mysterious and sudden inability to string a coherent sentence together. The sub-zero temperature of the exam hall added further to my discomfort, as did the skull-pounding, infuriatingly kitsch blaring of a random pop song, which seemed to emanate through the floorboards from the very depths of Hades.

To top it all off, over the course of my paper I was forced to endure an examinations officer in the imposing form of Roy Keane, adorned in leprechaun suit with Walkers crisps et al, glaring at me malevolently throughout. "You were rubbish in 1996 in your entrance exam, an NGer in your Junior Cert, and a dropout candidate now."

Imaginary irate Corkmen aside though, it was with a sunny demeanour that I navigated my morning routines and made a concerted effort not to think about what lay in store for me. This was on the self-deluding assumption that if I spent the day in oblivion and ignored the Leaving Cert it would obligingly vanish. Best-laid plans go awry however, and as mine was laid with all the finesse of a carefree first-year sitting Christmas tests, it didn't stand much chance from the outset.

All it took was a cursory glance across the broadsheets for me to be thrown into a state of blind, unadulterated panic. The catalyst for my frenzy (which incidentally involved shortness of breath, increased heart rate and a sudden urge to hunt down and exterminate Pythagoras, Eavan Boland and Ré Ó Laighléis) was of course a simple headline proclaiming the advent of the moment of truth for myself and all the others. Eager for some semblance of escapism, I decided a brisk walk was the best option to quell my mounting anxieties, clear my head and put off last-minute study.

Big mistake.

At each turn of the road I was confronted by a succession of neighbours wishing me well, each well-meaning but simultaneously foreboding; milestones on the road to ruin, failure or complete nervous breakdown.

My nerves were further fragmented when over the course of the day I was inundated with "good luck" text messages.

"Dnt wury, ul do gr8" featured, as did "Brk a leg" and the inevitable contribution by a smug college student of "Hope ur redy, ur very future hangs in d balance". All concise and convincing arguments for the banning of all forms of technology. (For the uninitiated in text-message language, a full translation of the above messages is available from your nearest 14-year-old.)

Thankfully, as the final days of my time as a child, a school student and a Leaving Cert virgin draw to their inevitable close, solace and reassurance arrive. It came from an extremely clichéd and predictable source, my ever-dependable mother. Its manner of arrival was nevertheless somewhat unorthodox. In a typically melodramatic attempt to demonstrate her motherly concern and religious values, she tried to bless my writing hand with a Padre Pio relic.

The sheer sense of occasion and misplaced importance of this gesture amazed me, and managed to re-establish a sense of perspective in my dealings with the Leaving. It was somewhat akin to giving your motor a good polishing with the Golden Fleece (of Jason fame) before your driving test. It hit me that this set of tests do not in the least warrant fretting, loss of sleep or even a responsible degree of social activity. It does not warrant the intervention of Padre Pio or any saint or deity to guide your writing hand. The Leaving Cert is a guide on your path in life, but where you are going is up to you. So enjoy yourselves and do the best you can in the Summer Quiz. It's all you can do, and it's what I'll do tomorrow.