10 days ago, I visited Cambridge to attend the “Welcome Event” for my Undergraduate Diploma. After twenty years, I’ve finally got my ink-stained mitts on a Cambridge University Student card. It’s official. I’m enrolled. Was it a triumph of years of hope? On paper, yes, but in reality, it felt very much more like an inciting incident than a crisis point. The sense of being roped in like a slightly confused and nervous racehorse at the starting line was palpable.

As always, for someone with a perpetual paranoia of being considered rude, I arrived early. Waiting outside, I took a moment to enjoy the views. It was like standing inside Vaughan Williams’ Pastoral Symphony whilst holding a metal ruler. Perfectly manicured lawns stretched down, rolling under gnarled and knotted trees that definitely remembered a time before the buzzing of a lawnmower and a cavalcade of taxis.

I always enjoy watching people arrive at places they haven’t been to before. There’s a full panoply of emotions that slide across faces, which, despite belonging to an entirely alien soul, are instantly recognisable: an open-mouthed and wide-eyed twinkle of awe; a tight shouldered, strained grin of squeaking excitement; the bowl-deep, darting and assessing eyes of fear; the long stride and swinging arms of marching determination. Then there’s me, perched on a bench, noting all these little quirks and charms down.

Madingley Hall was a building worth taking in. Perched almost awkwardly at the end of a modern tarmac driveway, the brick confection of history and learning had clearly been through the loving ministrations of an overly-zealous Georgian architect. The hall’s Tudor roots were visible in places (you can’t not love a good licorice twist chimney), but for the most part it’s become a ruddy patchwork of bricks and verdigris coloured domes. Despite the awkward clattering of grandiose architecture, it felt surprisingly welcoming.

With the formalities of enrolment concluded, I met some of my new course mates. I’m pretty sure I terrified a few of them; I’m not the best at talking with people and reigning in my own anxieties and social awkwardness. I’m also aware I stated that there isn’t a single problem that the addition of a dragon can’t solve, but even on reflection that is a conclusion I will stand by. Regardless of my glaringly obvious insecurities and quirks, I had a wonderful afternoon, chatting about books and stories and the trials and traumas of writing with some truly wonderful people willing to tolerate me. Thank you for that.

So enrolment complete, student card nabbed, reading list being munched through, it seems I’m off on my adventure. The starting gates are open and my dapple grey miniature pony has started trotting on a new and winding path. There’s so many hopes and dreams for where it might lead. Will I be able to make it through the snowy mountain pass of my self-doubt? Or will I be distracted by that nice familiar hay trough of failure once again?

I guess that over the next 8 months, I will find out.

Cambridge Begins

Why Do We Write?

The Drive