When I Grow Up
This was my dad’s fault. I am certain that, along with my grandfather, he is tonight quite quite drunk on the best alcohol that Paradise has to offer, and so I feel that he oughtn’t to be too upset about being blamed for this particular decision.
It has been eight years since the first time I was interviewed for a place at medical school, seventeen years old and invincible, and nearly nine years since I took my A-levels and learned that I would not be going to medical school but instead to read for a degree that I didn’t want to do at a university that I didn’t want to go to. On that day, my invincibility crashed down around me and I have been a better person for it. It is six years since I graduated from Durham, with a good degree and better friends and an unshakeable belief, after everything, that things had worked out the way that they should have, and six years since I embarked on a year of working in the interminable and soul-destroying gap year job that taught me everything nobody ever wanted to know about bus timetables.
Last Thursday marked five years to the day since I opened up UCAS Track at 7am and saw that I had been made an unconditional offer to study medicine at the University of Glasgow.
Today, my dreams all came true.
A new chapter begins.
And the hard work starts now.