In September 2018, I started my undergraduate degree in English and Philosophy — a useful vocation, I know.
My mother and I drove from London to Bristol in her green Mazda2, walked through the rain to my student digs, blu-tacked my Johnny Cash poster over the fist-shaped hole in the wall, embraced and then said goodbye.
And so began my university experience. Three years of debauchery. Three years of dangly earrings, unwashed pants and forgetting to call my mother.
Three years of pitta and chips, irritable bowel syndrome, mullets, £2 cider, sanctimonious student theatre, lecturer strikes, Covid Zoom calls and missed deadlines.
✍️ Zak Asgard
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