The Old Bird: The Realisation that the University of York is Working Against the Aged.

On Wednesday I set off with first year student gusto from the library to the biology block for my English literature seminar. I managed to arrive 5 minutes late for a lecture about Brexit. The slow realisation that I got it so wrong was truly mortifying. Instead of leaving quietly I chose the tactic of turning lobster red and muttering repeatedly ‘I’m in the wrong place’. Naturally it wasn’t my fault, I was led astray by attractive young men. That afternoon Cupid set out to completely throw me off course. The guy I asked for directions to the biology block was Apollo but the guy that was holding the door open for me to enter the lecture room was Adonis. I didn’t give a toss about which room I was meant to be in, I was going in that one. It was a truly saddening experience writing a formal letter of complaint to admin in which a strong suggestion was made that the UoY only allow mediocre looking individuals to become students from 2017, but someone had to make a stand. Don’t fret, the hot ones will be back as mature students within the next 20 years after having suffered the realities of life, and will therefore be in less distracting forms. I did it for you.

Having finally made it to the Death by Arthur seminar it was only a short amount of time before the tutor asked me a question in what I can only presume was an English literature secret language, for I am quite sure there are no profiteroles in Le Morte d’Arthur. I paid for the eye candy & lateness for the next hour and 45 minutes by trying to balance my folder, 2 notebooks, handouts, and copy of Le Morte d’Arthur on my legs whilst attempting to hide the annoying roll of mummy fat around my stomach with an extremely warm fleece lined UoY hoodie. It is apparently too much to ask for £9k a year to actually have some fucking table space! It is common knowledge that a table can hide a multitude of sins, and it is my right as a chubby person with books to have one.

Reflecting on the last 2.5 hours during my cycle home I produced an action plan for the next week. I needed to work on the issue of being guided by my vagina, appreciate that layered clothing is a must, and most importantly memorise the Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms. It is highly possible that perhaps I am actually more of a York St John girl than a University of York intellectual. My determination to prove this theory wrong commences on Friday night: if Finding Dory doesn’t have the answers then I don’t know what does.