The highest point has undoubtedly been my attaining of the 2:1 degree I butchered myself into achieving. After a completely disastrous first semester of second year (worth 25% of the entire degree), I was averaging at just 49/80. Otherwise known as a third. Three semesters and an ever-increasing amount of blood, sweat and nerves later, I managed to compensate and finished my degree with an average of 60.8/80. In what Geoff Poole would call ‘aesthetically-pleasing’, my final exam gave me my highest ever mark in higher education at 75/80. I now pride myself on likely having the most ridiculous range of marks the School of English has ever seen from a single student (the lowest being a laughable 41).
The Grand Plan has somewhat hit an inevitable stalling point. I would bastardise the context with metaphors of crossroads, minefields and paths to navigate, but that implies a sense of restricted choice. A more appropriate analogy for my life is having approached an ice rink. Only I’m blindfolded. And the ice rink has moving obstacles. And the obstacles are invisible. And I have never skated on ice. The boots of my C.V. have been squeezed on but my heel is rubbing against the sole of inexperience. My only real choice is whether I throw myself on, or piss away my life blissfully ignorant on the sidelines, shining the shoes of those braver and more decisive than myself. In a self-indulgent way, I guess this post is my hunching over to see if my own boots have a mirror-sheen. It’s all well and good having a master plan, but if your shoes aren’t shining then nobody will want to follow in your footsteps. You’re just a fool-got-lucky with bad sneakers. I don’t use the word sneakers, I just wanted to use it ironically.
My precarious position now is whether to throw myself into a nine-to-five-forty-hours-a-week-living-for-the-weekend job and work my way up an ladder I don’t care for, but gives me the means (i.e. money) to spend my free time doing what I really want, or to take the hit both financially and with time and spend three months studying for an NCTJ. With this, I would be (as good as) a fully-qualified journalist, with all the qualifications required to try and build the career I’ve always wanted. On paper (and screen) it’s an obvious choice, but the thought of up to twelve months more on a laughable budget and out of work, is hugely unattractive.
Despite this, I’m wavering towards taking the initial hit. I’m 21 years old. I will be working until (at least) the age of 70. In that context, surely I have a few months to invest, in order to reap the rewards of a career that would make me want to get out of bed in the morning. Or the evening. Few life routines depress me more than “living for the weekend” and “Monday morning, 9am.”
Whatever I decide, by my next post I intend to have leapt forwards and either slipped or glided across my metaphorical ice rink.
Project Laika is currently experiencing a 404.
For now, I'll just sit and dwell on past highs.
