I do not think that I am going to need to worry about forking out for a Masters’s’ degree any time soon.
I do not think I should be allowed to talk to people. I am no good at it and say all sorts of rubbish.
I have had my interview this afternoon and am now dolefully picking up the pieces. I think it most unlikely that they will be yearning for my literary company for the next couple of years.
They started off asking me about why I wanted to do the course, and I can hardly believe that I said it, but I said that Oxford’s course was rubbish in comparison, and explained why.
Looking back I think they might have been rather astonished at the conceit of a person who only considered Oxford and Cambridge as possible university options, especially when that person happened to be an elderly unqualified taxi driver. Perhaps they thought I had never heard of any others.
I went on to talk about poetry, a subject in which I think I have explained that I am quite startlingly incompetent. I tried to think of some suitably memorable poetic lines, and – wait for this one – came up with Roses Are Red, Violets Are Blue, which was out of my mouth before I could even stop myself.
The interviewer writes poetry with a horticultural theme, but I suspect she might not pinch the idea.
Worse still, they asked me about my favourite authors, and whose prose inspired me. I ought to have seen that one coming and prepared an answer, but you will not be surprised to learn that I hadn’t, and in my anxious, heart-thundering flap, said Jilly Cooper.
I could have talked about dozens of authors whose writings have knocked me into knee-trembling awe, but not a single name came to mind. Fortunately I added CS Lewis in there, but between mild pornography and children’s stories, it is hardly an inspiringly academic list.
Maybe I should apply to Oxford. Its course might be rubbish but at least CS Lewis went there.
You will be pleased to hear that I managed not to say any pretentiously inaccurate rubbish about dreaming spires.
I am not even sure that they had got the right person anyway, because one of the things one of the interviewers very flatteringly said was that my writing seems to come from a place deep within me, from my gut. I was very touched until I remembered that the piece I had included in my application was some pointless blurb about baking apple pies, so maybe they were referring to eating them. Either that or I have messed up somebody else’s interview and will have to hope that they do a better job when it comes to being me.
The last bit of the interview was when they asked me to discuss a piece of text that they had sent to me, which I immediately and tactlessly said I thought was horrible, which it was. It was about nasty people sitting around drinking nasty things and wondering where they should take their snake for its holidays. I disliked them by the end of the first paragraph, and said so, but then made myself look an idiot when they said: So would you read the rest of the story? and I said: Yes, obviously, because I would. Fascinating and ghastly, like reading the books about brain surgery, which should also have been on my list of favourite reads and I had forgotten to mention.
I signed off gloomily and took the dogs around the park to be emptied. I do not know how it is likely to turn out, but I am not going to start saving up just yet.
What I think I am going to do is wait for Mark to come home and then drink some gin.
That might cheer the day up.
