Skip the formalities, where's the bar?
As backwards as it sounds, and very fitting to my character, I'd hit the booze far too hard the night before the event resulting in a very hungover me on the day. I awoke in my bed (thankfully) having no recollection as to how I got there, nor how I became so intoxicated, and after a shower to attempt to freshen up, we headed down to breakfast at the hotel. As always, the unlimited supply of continental and cooked choices made my eyes widen, but I forgot about how sick I was feeling when I was piling it onto my plate so when we returned to the room it didn't stay down for too long. Mum left at this point having had enough of the drama. Better out than in though and I began to get ready for the day. My wonderful sister kindly straightened my locks and tried her best to work her magic on my face by covering the hungover mess with makeup. All barring my bloodshot eyes (which were a total giveaway) hid the Bridget Jones-esque state that I was in. This "Bridget Jonesing" continued as me and my sister ran out to the car park to load our belongings into the car, me moisturising my legs out of the boot and running completely late, still feeling completely drunk.
Then came the formalities and it was oh so formal. From the dress code to the proceedings, everything had to be just so. We headed into Uni to get gowned up which can I add was the heaviest, most uncomfortable thing I've ever worn and I felt that my mortarboard was going to fall off the entire time. After many photos and me bossing my sister around telling her to catch my best angles because she was equipped with a very good camera, we entered the beautiful Minster in a very orderly fashion, seats named and numbered, stewards EVERYWHERE and the organ playing. The entry of our lecturers led by the Archbishop of York, John Sentamu, was another hilariously formal event. All looking so stern and serious in their floppy hats, scared to smile for fear of getting shouted at and walking in unison like the army would march. As traditional and lovely as it all was, I was trying very hard not to laugh.
Our ceremony continued and as they began to read the names out I was convinced I was going to fall over as was everybody else. I didn't seriously think they'd read each and every graduate out back to back, but they did and my head began pounding more - I was gasping for a drink. Our row finally got called up and we were herded by the stewards to the correct position. We went through what I can only describe as a human car wash, where two ladies stood either side and held you while adjusting your gown so that your extremely formal outfit was perfect. They then asked your name to check that the person on stage would read the correct one and you waited behind the line to get called. Luckily I didn't fall, it all went smoothly and I only had an hour and a half left of name reading and speeches while suffering with a severely damaged head.
Joking aside though and as sickeningly formal as it was, graduation was a very proud occasion for me and my fellow graduate friends. I felt proud to be there and to officially be handed my degree. I felt proud to be in the Minster and shaking hands with the Archbishop of York. I felt proud to look like I did knowing that I'll probably never be dress like that again, unless of course I become famous and get handed a doctorate of something wonderful on a plate. I felt proud being conscious of the fact that so many of my family and friends were sharing this pride and support with me. I felt proud knowing that my Grandparents had the technological skills to be watching the live stream of the occasion. I felt proud knowing how proud my other Grandad would have been.
So, as funny and so unsuited to my non-formal character it was, I was happy to be there and I now feel extremely glad to have those memories of the best day I've ever spent hungover.
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