Impending first day of big school

polka-dot-school-backpackWhen I buy nice shiny dresses shop assistants ask if I’m excited about my year ten formal. If I dare to accompany my mother somewhere on a weekday I’m asked why I’m “so lucky to be having a day off school, dear?” 

Yes, when I’m forty I’ll be grateful, but at the moment all I’m cracking is a slightly amused fake-smile through gritted teeth. Those of us small in stature can get sick of being treated like we’re prepubescents. On the upside I am used to cheaper movie tickets. On the downside, I’ve contemplated tattooing my ID on my forehead more than once as, evidently, jumping up and down, huffing to the club doorbitch “I’m twenty effing three!” doesn’t make one seem any more mature than club doorbitch assumes one to be… 

So it’s the understatement of the century to say that my excitement at the prospect of being able to casually drop that I’m doing a postgraduate degree is up there. 

Despite how rad the bag in the photo is, I think I’ll give it a miss lest I be shooed out of the med school grounds and frogmarched to the nearby primary school. Ahem.


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