So came matriculation, when we dressed in all our academic finery and were bestowed the mantle Oxonian, in the Sheldonian Theatre. We were the best, the finest, and now we were part of the University.
The tourists took pictures of us as we emerged from that regal chamber into the pale half-light that is the English Day.
From that day on, things passed into a blur of essays, futile French lessons, and bops and football and laundry. There were so many stories, none of which were epic, but all of which were fantastic. There was Jared and the Flood. The many nights spent talking rubbish with the DATA-J (jared David, Adam, Tom, Andrew, and Joshua) group into the wee hours of the morning in Jared's cramped room, the beserking of Adam, the duplicity of Andrew, the drama of Alister Hardy, and the visit to the Parliament at Westminster.
And the papers were mad magnificence. It was to be a year of great learning. I learnt of Walpole and the Whig Supremacy. I learnt of the Rising of America and The Fall of Lord North, of the Ascension of Pitt and the Force of Revolution. Of Tacitus and his Forbidden Dissent. Of Gibbon and the Georgian Fascination with Rome. Of Macaulay and his belief in Invincible Progress. Of Federalist America and Cohabitation France. Of Aristotle and the Good Life. Of Hobbes and Rousseau.
It was a year to behold, where immense knowledge was infused into my consciousness, painfully, painstakingly, and beautifully and powerfully.
Michaelmas was but the start of all this. The routine came quickly, almost too quickly, leading to the episodes of blundering that so characterised my stumble into First Year. But the teething problems were gradually overcome, and I could eventually look to a good year ahead. I decided to wait patiently and bide my time, honing my skills in preparation for the Great Preliminary Exam that awaited at Trinity's End. And so I set my shoulders and laboured for readiness, for the task at hand.
Until the day I was afflicted with a Girlfriend.
