I took my last final exam on the day that the Paris waves froze. My entire cohort was gathered there in summer dresses – even DM, slim and beautiful in red, yellow and blue.
I had done no revision at whatsoever. I hadn’t even read the set texts in English translation. I realised that I would fail, but was unaware that this would have an impact on my existing degree classification.
Meanwhile I was envious of those who had been living in France for the past 30 years, all of whom were bound to get firsts. I moaned to RH about this without noticing that everyone else had been ushered into the exam hall. Now I would be late at the exam too.
I heard a woman calling out room numbers in French and asked if she could tell me where my cohort had gone. My room number wasn’t listed on her clipboard so she asked me to follow her to the hall in which she was an invigilator. She would check her master list there.
Here a class of dance students dressed in tutus were warming up for a practical exam. My room number could still not be found so the woman sent me to see a red-haired English receptionist in a plate glass and marble hall. Although initially amused by my late arrival, at last here was someone who was able to give me the location of my exam.