The End

Anybody who turned up with a head full of sentimental nostalgia, or memories turned palatable and warm over the years, would have been disappointed. In fact, if anything, most people seemed hell-bent upon making sure that the ghastly spectacle of two hundred unrelated students, thrown together by blind luck and perhaps a handful of reluctant common interests, did not become exactly that – the husk of some awful social rite of passage, paraded across Facebook and god knows where else while, presumably, the same perverse ritual was carried out across hundreds of educational institutions across the country. It was.



But there were no sad, chubby children with men’s faces pining wistfully in the background of a photograph and no damp-eyed wretches flitting from clique to clique with a doomsday book of thoughts, or jolts in the brain that resembled thoughts. Nothing but an hour or two, mediocre and anonymous in the sense that those very same gestures were being, had been and would be replicated across the globe thousands of times over, and with each passing occasion it seemed that no statement gained any gravity at all.


There’s the poor cunt with whom you slept/spoke/spat out rumours, and they promise they’ll stay in touch and there seems to be an air of regret/resignation/righteousness about them, but it’s certainly rather bright out here which, it seems, has a habit of dazzling things out of proportion. Of course, they’ll stay in touch, they say. But they won’t.


Nor will you shake hands. I wouldn’t trust those lusty spades, if I were you.