Onward!!

Finally made it to register for the doctor at my current address. The documents they require (identification and two proofs of address dated in the last 3 months) in tow, I was optimistic. It was a good thing that I am feeling mildly optimistic or this would turn into another rant, because – as always – things didn’t go entirely smoothly. My national ID card was only accepted after I told the girl that it specifically says they accept that as ID. Also, apparently the two proofs of address (in my case, bank statements) would have to be “from two different banks” (What? Foreign students aren’t even allowed to open multiple bank accounts) or I would need a note from the Home Office. I told them that I don’t need a letter from the Home Office, being an European national. She came back after a quick chat with her colleague and said “OK, we can do this for you this time, as you would need to come back and you thought you were prepared”. So, now she was doing the favour for me!

No matter, at least I’m registered. Now to get my new patient registration done. Kind of makes me long for the simplicity of doctor registrations back home. Or, dare I say it, private healthcare. None of that faffy crap and carting forms back and forth.

As I got home, they called from my bank, asking if I “had a few minutes”. I knew what they were doing – peddling their post-study account. I had already been invited for a chat with a clerk about it before. They’re really careful to tell you of the wonderful rewards it includes (an interest rate) but neglect to mention until the very end that it actually costs you money. I can kind of understand paying for specific services (credit cards, etc) but the thought of £10 a month disappearing from my account for the sheer privilege of them holding my fledgling paycheck isn’t really that attractive to me. They used something along the lines of “it’s like a chocolate bar a day, so not very expensive at all” to which I wish I’d retorted “or you could not have the chocolate bar and save the money”. I remember years ago at a job this guy representing a credit card with horrid terms telling us to think of the minimum monthly repayment we should encourage the customers to sign up to the card with as being “like a pack of cigarettes a week”. What great and healthy comparisons!

I told the woman on the phone that yes, I am still a student (technically anyway) and that I would pop into the branch as soon as I could (which means when I have that mythical paycheck coming in every month I guess). Then it’ll be time for some serious bank shopping.

I keep thinking of novels I should have read but haven’t. I’m guessing I should both keep a list and just start at the first one I can get my hands on. I’m thinking of how nice it would be to spend an idle day relaxing in the sun reading. Followed by a pint at some relaxed pub.

I’m becoming scarily English by the looks of things. Not only do I find idle banter with friends in a pub perhaps the best possible way to spend a Sunday afternoon, I’m also craving good chunky chips with salt and vinegar, and other “traditional” English food. And this is only days after I decided to try and keep myself healthy!

I’m also going to a music quiz later on tonight. It’s only a pound per team member participating, so it’s not an expensive way to spend an evening, at least if you don’t sit morosely nursing a pint after another.

There is much to write about the cultural stuff that I’ve done, too – I went to the theatre to see Arcadia (which I fully recommend) but that will have to wait for now. It’s back to work time for me, I need to get the maximum number of hours I can in order to pay for rent next month.

It’s over. I was greeted at the door of the exam hall with a cigar and a (plastic) glass of single malt. I was just so shellshocked that I could do little but smile. I don’t know if I thanked my friends enough for their gesture, but I am grateful, so grateful.

What did it feel like to finish university, for better or for worse? It’s an elation, a feeling of being in the now and this moment mattering more than anything. Tomorrow doesn’t exist, or it does but doesn’t figure into my calculations. My friends were feeling the same and we’re just whipping ourselves into this curious combination of frenzied relief. It’s a good feeling and I feel warm and optimistic and happy. It doesn’t matter how the exam went, even though every now and then I think about it and shake my head and just go “what did I just write?” What counts is that I survived.

Of course the reality is somewhat harsher in the light of day. The tube strike is still on meaning travel chaos. I ended up sleeping on a friend’s couch for all of about four hours before having to get up to go to work. I grudgingly got up and took a shower which made me feel marginally better, and set out to walk to campus to start my 10.5-hour work day that I simply could not get rid of. The fresh air probably did help my churning stomach, and it was actually really nice to walk down residential Islington backstreets down toward Holborn. I had no map, just a vague inkling of whereabouts I should be heading since I decided not to walk along the big road. Ended up arriving bang on time.

I’ve really let myself go. I feel bloated (and not just because of last night) and tired, despite eating as well as I’ve could. Having a lunch of a chicken sandwich and some yogurt with berries and muesli felt like the best thing ever. If I could avoid fat entirely for the rest of the month I think I would. Now to find appropriate stuff to cook that’ll keep me un-cranky but healthy. I have nothing but time. That’s the weird thing, it’s just … over, all of a sudden. There is a sense of “now what?” I mean, this afternoon as I was taking my lunch I reached into my bag to pull out some reading, and realised there is no need. That’s how accustomed we are to this thing, and then the carpet is pulled out from under us.

I could recite word for word what I was feeling just before my last exam last year, only perhaps with the qualification that I feel I know even less now. It’s hard to think that my career as a student at the LSE is about to end, and end so brutally – a 3-hour exam on some of the roughest and most depressing stuff I’ve ever read. It’s come so quickly, and it’s left me a bit confused. I don’t particularly feel I’m going to my last exam today. I don’t particularly feel like there won’t be any more school after this, either. It’s just become a blur that I kind of expected to keep going. Instead, it ends today, no matter what I write. Well, hoping that the exam isn’t a failure (it sometimes feels like it will be) so that I won’t have to come and repeat this next year. Now that would be a hoot.

Actually, I am scared. I am scared of both the exam, and the After. I can’t figure out which I’m more scared of.

I never thought it would come to this, a frantic last-minute slog through the literature because I feel so completely underprepared for Wednesday’s exam. I’ve kind of coasted these past few days, feeling like little is going in my brain and my attention span is shorter than that of a puppy on about a gallon of coffee. I’ve kind of trusted people who say “yeah but you’ve done well all year, you know this stuff”. Maybe in a way I do – I read things and go “yeah, yeah, know that. Ooh that’s interesting, but kind of common sense.”

But in other ways I most definitely do not. Looking back at past exam papers, depending on the year I could answer the requisite 4 or occasionally would struggle having one good answer. I really hate leaving it down to luck like this. That’s why I am so frustrated: The not knowing is maybe worse than the potential panic in the exam. At least a panic steels you into writing something and digging for any stray bits of knowledge in the deepest recesses of your mind. Uncertainty, on the other hand, is chilling. It makes the subject(s) at hand insurmountable and austere, and any preparation you’ve done merely messing about with a pile of papers. You blame yourself for not having done more work but on the other hand you have been trying for a week but simply not being able to get around to it. Even now I’m writing this instead of tackling readings and writing essay plans.

This, then, is what it’s like to end your degree. Until the inevitable bang or whimper there’s annoyance, frustration, even anger. And lots and lots of pulling of hair.