Hi-ho, Hi-ho, Away from Home We Go
A mass migration takes place around Britain this week and next. Up to 428,000 young people will leave home.
Almost half a million new university students will be on the move. It is the annual ritual of delivering fresh victims to the god of higher education.
Sacrificial victims are generally young, untested, naïve, incredibly bright, optimistic, self-assured on the outside and convinced of their superior knowledge of the world. In accord with the ritual requirements of ancient religions, a sprinkling of virgins will leaven the mix.
Thousands of cars will clog up motorways, surprising motorists heading back to work who time their journey each week to avoid blockages.
Cavalcades of cars bursting with emotions will head for places that until now were names in a brochure or a spot on a map.
Bewildered drivers will complain that Warwick University is not in the town of that name. Others will drive through flat countryside wondering is it significant that the University of East Anglia should have such a vague geographical identification. It will not be the last year parents will turn up at the University of Birmingham to be told it is the other one they want.
Each of these cars will be jammed to the gunwales with food supplies, extra bedding, ‘cooking things’, electronic gadgets, favourite ornaments, pillows, condoms, warm clothes, iPhones and tablets, weeping mums, distracted fathers ignoring the commands of the Sat Nav voice while cursing the lack of signage for the spot on campus where his first born must be deposited.
In the back seat of the overloaded emotion-filled cars, cocooned behind the warm expectations and images of unlimited freedom ahead and hopefully a touch of licentiousness, the new student has other issues to consider.
Already booked into most of the Fresher events in the first week, useful telephone numbers have been gathered and a simplified map sent by the university has been studied to select the shortest distance from Halls to the points where education and learning may take place. Faced with only a few hours contact each week, the demands of the timetable will be a doddle after the A-level grind. Time now to contemplate how to fill the empty hours and what to do with the student loan money demanding to be used. Life has never looked rosier.
Grandparents, having been through the process before, will browse local booksellers for relevant titles to guide the new adult in the family who is off to vistas new and blue, or maybe to Hull. Their choice of books will reflect their own experience of life as well as being relevant to their offspring’s offspring.
“Know Your Rights as a Student”, and “Dealing With Difficult People” will top the list of those who live in small villages under attack from incomers and second home owners.
“Cooking for One”, “Top Tips for Tip Top Cooking” cookbooks will fly off the shelves. “Self-defence for the Unwary” will be appropriate considering the location of some universities.
“I survived HIV” and “Know all About STDs” will seem a touch too forward to give to an innocent eighteen year old. (Grandparents are forgiven for thinking such beings exist.)
“Marking Your Territory”, “Taking Revenge on Fridge Raiders”, “Avoiding the Odd Bods on Your Corridor”, will appear attractive to those elders who are conditioned by membership of Nimby groups.
“The Good Pub Guide 2017”, “Dealing with Depression and Anxiety When You Leave Home” and “Brain-washing for Dummies” will be high on the list of those who voted Brexit in the Referendum.
Larry Codgpole sounded off in the pub last night, bemoaning the mass exodus of two students about to leave the village for universities he referred to as ‘in far away places’. He meant Manchester and Leeds.
‘Who would be eighteen again, eh?’ he snorted, straightening up to make room for his fifth pint. ‘Makes you wonder why they do it, wouldn’t it?’ he said loudly, in case anyone was listening for a change. ‘All that fuss, mixing with strange people, all them books and things to read, their life ahead full of risks, problems, stuff that goes wrong, the world in ruins and the country facing destruction. What do they have to look forward to? Who would be eighteen again?’
Those forced to listen to him ranting agreed we would like to be eighteen again.
Some say Larry became a miserable grouch when he lost the multi-million pound winning lottery ticket five years ago. The rest of us believe he was born that way. Living in the village and never going further afield than Evesham have also left their mark.
We decided to think warmly of all those apprehensive young people on the move this week. We celebrated them, wishing them well as they step onto the shaky ladder of adult life. We drank a toast to them.
Long may they prosper.
