As a teenage undergraduate in the early 1990s, I lived in a world of blissful ignorance. Two or three lectures a day, a couple of essays to churn out each month, a handful of exams. No biggie. The rest of the time I spent mooching around and listening to UK indie. It wasn’t until I was well into my third year at university that I actually ran into any mature-age students. It was almost embarrassing, like seeing your mum in a lecture theatre. Wasn’t uni supposed to be for young people?
God, I was ignorant. And pretty far up myself.
Now, 30 years later, I’m about to do something I never contemplated, or understood, at that time of my life. At the ripe old age of 47, and as a father of three small children, I’m off to university again.
That’s right, I’m about to become a mature-age student.
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