As Winston Churchill once never said, “Matriculation is the apex of Freshers’ Week because it’s effectively where you make all your friends”. More time will be spent in this meandrous march than at all Freshers Week shindigs amassed, so be certain to arrive adorned with proper documentation, lest you’d want to play Guess Who with your intercontinental passport-holding amigos. The more time spent lingering, the more attractive your ID photo becomes, and you begin suspecting whether matric is actually code for matrix – what is real anymore? You aren’t entirely sure, but by the end of the line you’ve changed your major from geography to psychology because hey, they rhyme so they’re probably analogous and you didn’t really like rocks anyway.
Desiccated and parched, you glance around in consternation wondering if your sombrero is appropriate for an academic meeting, but come to the conclusion that the wait is the most ridiculous out of the two. When finally face-to-face with your esteemed advisor (is Ailsa pronounced Elsa?), you spend two minutes politely chatting and you’re ready. Based on what you picked up from her thick accent, you’re not sure whether to take the left, or the lift, but you ended up the same place anyway. Running out seemed like the most majestic ending, but you’re now accustomed to this staccato pace and have morphed into a worm.
As you slither out of the maze, the light scorches your dusty eyes, and you realise that even the infrequent Scottish sun is shining on matriculation day because that’s the kind of party this is. You kneel and weep realising that there is a whole year until you have the privilege of this beauteous process all over again.