I’ll be the kid stood at the back of the crowd giving those wankers evil eyes and flipping them off, behind my Nan’s back, of course.

your shit and you can’t bitch about it because if you’d cleared up in the first place, you’d have your stuff. And they wouldn’t hate you so much.

It’s also paying a fucking fortune to sit in a room with hundreds of people you weren’t even that friendly with six months ago, clapping like a dick each time someone gets called up on stage to collect the certificate they make you PAY for. Because sometimes £3,000 a year doesn’t stretch far enough to nick a piece of paper from the library and sign it.

You have to be polite when the kid you hated from your course goes on about her job, even though you know it’s a shit job. You can’t even point out it’s a shit job because, hey, at least they’ve started her career. Where are you exactly? That’s right. Living with your parents. They’re living in London, you know. And they’re earning about £8,000 a year more than you. But whatever.

There’s also paying £40 to wear a fucking gown. I resent that massively. My poor mother paid a fortune so she could put my family through the pain of watching me graduate. It may be expensive but getting my siblings to be quite for a couple of hours probably works out as value for money. If I have to keep throwing that hideous hat in the air to pose for photos, I’ll start a bloody riot.

Then there’s my ball. £20 to watch some wanker from the SU “DJ” when my iTunes could do a better job if left to it. I have to buy a dress, which I haven’t found yet so I’m on the verge of a tantrum. I need new shoes.

I’m going to be broke again. Which delays my chances of moving out into the city, or London, by another month. Then the misery spiral continues. Fuck it – it’s not like I’m earning enough to pay back my loan. Suck on that New Labour.