I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling twenty-two.

And it’s terrifying.

Looking back a year or so, if I was asked what my plans were, what I was doing after university, what my goals were, I’d simply shrug my shoulders nonchalantly. I’d got to where I was at the time with minimal effort, I sailed through GCSE’s, A Levels and was on course for a first class degree in a STEM subject from a red brick university. As a result I never put any serious thought into the post-university void I would inevitably have to fill. I mean, I had a rough idea of what I wanted. The plan was to take a year out, during which I would gain work experience and apply for the fabled graduate scheme that had been touted as the ultimate goal for the majority of students. I assumed that with a first class degree I’d stroll into a graduate scheme, collar raised like Eric Cantona circa 1996, and never look back.

I first started to hear warning sirens when some of my contemporaries secured positions on various prestigious schemes, some as early as the December of our final year. Mind, these sirens were incredibly brief and soon became faint, like an ambulance racing by the sirens are deafening at first, but are slowly drowned out by the cacophony of life. In my case the cacophony consisted of fruitless pursuits such as; Come Dine with Me marathons (come on, you can’t just watch one), mammoth FIFA 16 sessions, cycling, college football, sculpting my spaghetti arms into noodle arms in the gym, the list is endless. And if the sirens were to resurface I would simply drown them out with something else (I brewed my own ale, for Christ’s sake) and leave Future Me to deal with the problem of my impending unemployment. Thanks, Past Me, you wanker.

And here I am, Future Me. Or Present Me? I Don’t know. But what I do know is that the ambulance I mentioned earlier, well I think it’s following me. Because the piercing screech of it’s siren haunts me day and night.

 

 

 

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