I walk to work most days and my route nearly always takes me past my old university campus.
It's no longer owned by the uni it was owned by when I went there. It used to be Glasgow Caledonian Uni's Park Campus - three and a half years into my course, it was bought over by Glasgow Uni and is now their teaching college. Weirdly enough, I actually ended up temping in there a couple of years back. It was odd because the basic building has remained the same but all these modern bits have been added on since 2001, in a freaky, patchwork-meets-Frankenstein sorta way.
Anyway, sometimes I barely notice it on my walk past, it just blends into the background. But on other days, I just realise how much at times I miss being a student.
Not the being-skint part. Man, I lived on a hundred quid a month at uni and sixty five of that went on travel expenses. Actually, I'm surprised I survived.
Not really the learning part of it either. To be honest, I did skip a lot of classes, particularly in my first couple of years. I did Marketing & Communication and it really wasn't the most enthralling of courses. One of my friends has just started an undergraduate course in something she really WANTS to do and I'm a little jealous of her enthusiasm for it. I wish I had a passion for something like that, I really do.
It's a cliche I know, but for me it was the EXPERIENCE . . .
Meeting people from different backgrounds and places was great for me, and it totally made me gain confidence.
But most of all, I remember all the drunken nights. Or DON'T remember them, more appropriately.
The one that always sticks with me most acutely is the night of the course punch party in third year.
We were doing a module that year which entailed us marketing a real-life product (our team's product was the Ultimo bikini) and having a mock trade fair for the product (where I ended up walking around amongst fully dressed people IN said bikini - not my finest hour . . . ) . Obviously, we had to raise money to ensure that we could fund making our stall, advertising materials, promotional goodies etc. Our team sold chocolate. Another team had the inspired (in my view!) idea of having a punch party.
That was one of the things I loved MOST about uni, right from Fresher's Week of my very first year. The punch parties were AWESOME - all you needed to do was pay two or three quid and BAM!!! - unlimited punch for HOURS. Possibly every type of alcohol in the world was in that bunch bowl. Possibly not. But there was a HELL of a lot of alcohol in there.
So the team organising this one sold us tickets. I bought one for me, and also for my sister (who was a first year at the same campus) to convince her to come along. Of course, the thought of free alcohol obviously convinced her. (Can you tell we are related???)
We headed to the Bedsit, where it was taking place. That was the name of the tiny student union pub in Park Campus. (I think it closed a couple of months before we had to move to City Campus. Sadly.)
"I'll pace myself," I thought. As always.
Some things never change. I never DID manage to pace myself, in the end.
The punch tasted like dilute orange juice. Kia-ora, to be precise. My coursemates assured me the taste was deceptive. The stuff was in fact POTENT with alcohol.
I've never drunk so much dilute orange juice in my life . . .
I believe I had reached 13 cups and thought I was still sober.
I was having an AWESOME time though.
I remember having a discussion with some of my female friends about what guy on the course we would shag if given the chance. I was taken aback by my own answer.
I also vaguely remember being told that one of the guy's friends fancied me. I thought he was cute, but even with the alcohol in me, I was too shy to even look at him. (I probably had a lucky escape, as I've seen pics of him on facebook these days and he's NOT worn well. How depressing.)
I remember going to the toilet towards the end of the night. Probably stumbling is a better chosen word.
I remember my sister waking me up half an hour or so later.
I'd decided to have some shut-eye on the floor of the toilet.
It made sense at the time . . .
THEN came the suffering.
I puked on the subway between Kelvinbridge and Partick.
I puked at Partick train station.
I puked on the train from Partick.
I don't remember getting home, but my sister said putting me to bed had been a bit of a chore. "It was like undressing a ragdoll," she told me afterwards. "You were totally FLOPPY."
And you know how usually if you puke repeatedly on the same night you've been drinking, you usually don't feel as bad the next morning? Like you've got most of the badness out of you at the time and therefore the hangover is slightly better?
Not this time. I was puking the next day too. I think I got to uni about five hours later than planned. I was still feeling sick the following evening. I think I may also still have been slightly drunk until then.
I think that may have been the most drunken night of my life.
It was certainly one of the worst hangovers I've ever had.
But everytime I walk past my old uni, and remember that night, I can't help but smile at the memory of me waking up on the toilet floor.
What a great night . . .
I missed "Cheer-me-up-Tuesday" the past few weeks - I'm not sure why, I just kept forgetting about it - but it's back this week. Of course, I'm cheating with a clip you've probably seen before. But it's relatively new to me, as I only saw it for the first time on a new tv show called "Rude Tube" last week. Me likey . . .