I spent the day on campus, not in the library as intended, but lazing in the sun on the grass outside with Pete. We lingered there until eight thirty, the evening cool and clear, the heat of the afternoon having subsided, blown away on the soft refreshing winds of approaching night.
We talked about America and Pete seems enthusiastic about his year abroad. He plans on reveling in the superiority of being English in America. Occasionally, I get the merest twinges of disappointment and regret. I say the merest twinges, because I ruthlessly crush them before I have time to feel I’ve made a mistake.
Travel seems to be the favourite post-finals option among the few people I’ve spoken to. I talked about this with Mum as we walked back from Forefield when I was in Calverdale, and she said she’s altered her position on traveling rather than settling down. When I used to mention this to her before A-levels she blew her top and made me feel ungrateful for saying I wasn’t going to University just to get a job. Yet now she says if she was in my position she’d travel.
“Robert has always wanted to travel but Carol isn’t keen . . ..” This is all quite a weight off my mind and the more I think about the years after I leave University the more optimistic I am—opening doors, etc. I am only nineteen years, 348 days old, and the thought of this makes me glad . . ..
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