22 years of age and I felt like an old man.
The good years were over, I felt. The essence of my youth had seemed to fade after two and bit years of sixth-form stoning sessions and three drunken years at the UOH with Morley.
And now I was bogged down in this place.
The time had come to “knuckle down” according to my parents. “Face up to the grind” they would say. My heart and head sank every time they said it.
I couldn’t think of a worse picture. That kind of talk conjours up images of a life of drudgery, a mindless goblin being whipped by his warlock master, while all the time being watched over by the all-seeing, unblinking eye.
Which was pretty much the case as I shackled myself to my desk with my ear/mouthpiece headset on a grey, raining tuesday morning.