The reality of 5th year

Picture the scene. My wait at the Union bar is marginally less enjoyable than usual – of course I’m squashed from every possible angle, but this time by the repellent burly ‘gentlemen’ next to me in bizarrely colourful jackets. As I yell my order to my friend at the bar, a vodka concoction finds itself on top of me, leaving behind a delightfully sticky trickle down my back. A slightly inebriated guy leans on me and slurs, “Do you need a dad?” to which I reply, rather curtly, “No, thanks, I’m good.” “You’re not a fresher?” he asks, somewhat surprised. “Ehh, no. Try a 5th year!” I yell back, “(you twat)”. 

Yep, that’s right, 5th year. No wonder I am no longer ‘laaving life’ in the glorious Venue One. I am old. Not in terms of age, at a youthful 22, but in terms of university lifespan, I am most definitely old.

Freshers’ Week is no longer appealing. Tesco is no longer somewhere to avoid on a bad hair day. I can now walk down Market Street – phone at the ready – in case the texting trick is needed when I see someone I don’t want to/have time to talk to. Boots is now embarrassment-free.

It’s weird.

The number of students who reach fifth year at this University is really rather small. Medics – nope. Undergrads – nope. Masters students – well at least it sounds better when you tell people why you’re here for another year.

I guess I am part of a minority. My sector: language students. We burst our bubble to teach English to a bunch of little Juans, Jean-Pierres, Giovannis or Svens. Life was rather delightful – working minimal hours and traveling Spain on a stupidly good salary was pretty darn sweet. It seemed like the best way to go about my degree. I just really didn’t factor in the notion that I’d be spending half a decade at university, with only an undergraduate degree to show for it. My friends at Edinburgh Medical School will have earned two-thirds of their stethoscopes before the time I’ll have learned to read and write in a second language – a skill that probably half this student population already have anyway.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Yes, this Old Feeling ain’t fun. But it’s not the worst thing in the world… at least I actually have some sort of structure in my life, something to do. Many of my now graduated friends have no structure; their job these days is to find an actual job. Having no idea where the feck my life is going come May 2013, I’ll embrace this ‘old’ feeling. 

Maybe my relative age will even cause those wise enough among you to listen to this time-tested piece of advice: next time you’re stumbling around the Union, thinking you’re a big man because your proverbial balls have dropped and you can finally become a dad, it is probably best to not give anyone you are trying to chat up a vodka shower. Trust me on this one, I’m a 5th year. 

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