I ripped open the letter, unfolded one of two pages and a single word caught my eye before anything else – ‘regret’ – Bugger!

I read the whole thing more to satisfy my curiousity than anything else:

Dear Jeremy

I write with regret to say that we shall not be able to offer you a place to read Mathematics at Trinity from October 2007. Your application has, however, been passed to the Inter-College Pool, where it will be available for consideration by the other colleges.

A SHINING GLIMMER OF HOPE! I read on…

During this procedure it is possible that you may be asked to come for interview at another college (or at more than one college), though you should appreciate that not all candidates whose applications have been put into the Pool are called for further interviews. Such interviews will be held between 11-13 January inclusive (there may be additional dates if required). If a college wishes to interview you, you will be contacted prior to these dates.

Hmmmm… So I haven’t been called for an interview, but there is a possibility that I may have been offered a place without one. The current applicants to places ratio is 4:1 so I’m battling it out against 3 of the finest Mathematical minds in England and possibly even abroad.

We appreciate that this is an anxious time for you, but we would ask you not to telephone college admissions offices yourself. Further information about the Pool is enclosed.

You should receive a final decision on your application by the end of January at the latest.

Yours sincerely

*Name withheld*

The next day a letter arrived in the post with the same ‘Cambridge’ stamp. It was even thinner than the last.

Dear Jeremy

Since I wrote to you last, we have given further consideration to your application. The other colleges have also completed their consideration of candidates in the Inter-College Pool.

Good, good…

I regret to say that no college here is able to offer you a place to read Mathematics.

!$#%?@!

I am sorry to have to send you this disappointing news. The competition for places at Cambridge is severe, and we are conscious of the fact that we have to turn down a substantial number of gifted applicants, many of whom will go on to highly successful careers at other universities. I hope that you can put this disappointment behind you and go on to such success, and I wish you well in your efforts to do so.

Yours sincerely

*Name withheld*

It was at this point that I raised my hand in the general direction of Cambridge and lifted my middle finger from my closed fist.

Thanks for making me fill in half a dozen forms and flying me half way round the world you elitist bastards!

But in all seriousness, I probably would have given the same answer in their position. Cambridge is arguably one of the greatest and most reputable institutions in the world to study Mathematics. Although I played with the idea of being there at one time, I do not have a passion for Mathematics and would have used the acceptance letter to adorn Choueifat’s show-off-y wall. That, and I’m lazy.

And competition is severe and passes through a series of filters. The first step is to be even allowed to apply to Cambridge by your school (I was initially told that I had to do more A levels to show them I was willing to work – unacceptable for someone as lazy as me), the second step is the many forms you have to send and resend excluding the UCAS form, the third is the exams you are doing: to study Maths, for example, you have to have an A level in Maths and preferably be doing an AS or A level in Further Maths depending on the college you’re applying to, the fourth step is a possible interview in Cambridge with two professors, the fifth is a possible pooling, and finally you will probably be asked to do two Maths STEP papers at the end of the year as part of a conditional offer. These exams are lethal, and students generally begin practicing for them at the beginning of the academic year.

Taking all this into consideration, I am quite happy with the fact that I was put into the Inter-College Pool by Trinity College.

Besides, 5/6 universities isn’t too bad of a score. ;)

Due to the delay, we just managed to make it in time for the connecting flight from Larnaca to Heathrow, London. The moment I stepped out of the plane, the icy chill of English wind blew past, welcoming me back. It’s been at least 4 years since I was last here. For a brief moment, I was considering falling to my knees and pulling a screaming fit of ‘I’m home! I’M HOME!’ on the tarmac á la Kevin Costner. Needless to say, I’d probably be arrested (again) if I had.

Now, so that you all know the story, I have applied to study Mathematics at University College London, King’s College London, University of Southampton, University of Bristol, Imperial College London, and University of Cambridge. So far, I have received 4 acceptances – conditional offers from Southampton, Bristol and UCL, and an unconditional offer from King’s. Imperial haven’t even given me a nod about my application [edit: this is no longer applicable. I received a conditional acceptance from them in the middle of writing this article], and my purpose here in England is to attend an interview at Trinity College, Cambridge.

Cambridge is a quaint university city. The University of Cambridge consists of 31 colleges that are spread around the city. Each has its own majestic campus. Imagine tall Gothic churches, towers and spires reaching the skies, lawns of finely cut green grass, and rivers flowing beneath wooden arches reflecting the grandness of it all. Add to this the quirky rules of only fellows (senior members of the university) being allowed to tread on the grass and you will have a faint picture of the elite University of Cambridge.

Since you know my last-minute nature, you could probably guess that despite allowing 2 hours to get to Cambridge from Bedford, I arrived at the Old Combination Room (where I was to take a gruelling 1 hour Maths test) just in the nick of time (a few minutes before 9:00 AM). There, I met with the others who had interviews today. Surprisingly, they weren’t part of the stereotypical image one gets when he/she thinks of a Maths student – glasses, acne-ridden face, black, greasy hair, and a stutter to match – they were all rather smart looking chaps (much like myself if I may say). Except for one orange-haired bloke who resembled Ron Weasley from Harry Potter except a little nerdier (if that is possible) with glasses and a pimply face. I asked where they all came from. Cornwall, Luton… A boy with a ghostly white face stared at me for a while, drew his face closer to mine and, not taking his gaze off me, whispered, ‘Romania.’ Then I looked over at the only person wearing a proper suit, tie and all, in the corridor. ‘Cardiff,’ he answered.

‘Hmmmm… That’s quite a long way.’ I pretended to look impressed. He smiled and nodded.

The grand bell outside tolled 9:00 AM and the the student supervisor called us in to the examining room. As we were walking in, the Cardiff lad asked, ‘What about you?’

‘Dubai,’ I replied bluntly, and smiled back at him.

The paper was an excruciatingly annoying (or ‘challenging’ as they like to call it) set of 10 questions – 6 on pure Mathematics, 2 on Statistics, and 2 on Mechanics (Applied Maths). Out of those 10, I managed to answer 3 fully – of which I got 1 wrong – and 3 or 4 partly – of which I got most wrong. On our way out, orange hair asked me, ‘How was it?’

‘Not too well,’ I replied, which was an understatement.

‘Yeah, it didn’t go as well as I expected.’

That made me feel slightly better as I trudged off to Mr X’s (no, he’s not an evil genius – I’m merely keeping his name anonymous) office for the interview. A Chinese undergraduate told me not to worry about the test and accompanied me for a while, but later abandoned me for a slim, blonde Architecture applicant with a black skirt and stockings. I can’t blame him – I would have done the same.

I reached Mr X’s door, pulled myself together, and knocked three thumps into the white wooden door. ‘YES, COME IN!’ the blaring, but jolly, call came from inside. Obi-Wan-like voices inside my head were feeding final snippets of advice to me: ‘Remember, Jeremy, firm handshake, maintain eye contact, always…’ I grasped the oval shaped door handle, twisted it, and walked in. Two professors stood up and greeted me and asked me to take a seat.

The older man (Mr X) had a short grey and white beard, and an aged face. He took my file, and asked, ‘And you’re Jeremy?’ He fingered through it for a bit, raised his eyebrows, smirked, and said, ‘So you think you’re a home student?’

[A home student pays £3,000 a year, while those considered overseas students pay £18,000 a year. The rules are a bit hazy concerning those abroad who are liable for home student status, the main loophole being that if you had to leave the UK because one of your parents was 'temporarily' employed outside the UK then it's okay. It's at the discretion of each university to interpret the rules and decide your status, though, and I can't say with confidence that the majority of universities will see my 15-year sojourn in the UAE as temporary.]

‘Ummm… I THINK I’m a home student, yes,’ I replied, emphasising strongly on the word ‘think’.

‘Mmmmmm…’ He pondered over the file a bit a bit more. ‘Well, I’m afraid you may find that you’re not considered a… Ah!’ He stumbled upon something I had written, ‘Perhaps you might since your dad was employed abroad – ah! – temporarily,’ he chuckled and gave me a sly look as if implying that I was a sneaky bastard (which I am in a way). ‘Well, I’m not sure how long you can extend temporary,’ he added.

‘Well, it all depends on your definition of temporary really,’ I said in an attempt to justify my application.

‘So you’ve come from Dubai, have you?’ the younger and taller chap asked. He was quite friendly.

‘Yep.’

‘How was the flight?’

‘It was absolutely awful.’ I laughed with them. Too bad they probably thought I was joking.

Much to my dismay, this talking session only lasted about 2 or so minutes, which was disheartening as I was banking on playing my personality card rather strongly. The 50 other minutes consisted of me drooling a puddle onto the paper in front of me, trying to understand how to work the current problem out, and the younger professor breaking the problem into continually easier series of steps. Mr X would occasionally offer his help, and sounded slightly annoyed when I couldn’t answer what seemed blatantly obvious to him. By the end of the interview, I had slogged my way through only 2 of the test questions.

I was then finally asked if I had any questions about Cambridge. I felt rather empty for not having any, and wondered if I should make something up just to please them. Then Mr X said, ‘You don’t have to have any. In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t. Sometimes students wish to ask all sorts of questions such ‘Can I specialise in first year? Is it possible to do this…’ and the like.’ I feel he was slightly glad he didn’t have any questions to answer.

‘Well…’ he grinned widely and tapped both his palms on the desk. That was my cue to leave. I stood up and shook their hands once more. They thanked me for coming. I felt like I had just been declared the weakest link – ‘Goodbye!’.

Upon arriving, I found out that Statistics had been cancelled. The official excuse our teacher gave was that there were representatives from AUB (American University of Beirut) arriving at lunch (when our lesson takes place). The unofficial excuse is that he couldn’t be arsed to teach us.

As always, we got so bored our minds wandered past the line of sanity once again and entered the realm of the bizarre: why not buy a TV and stick it in one of the locker compartments? Within seconds, we had formed the blueprints for the drilling work that needed to be done, the wiring, everything… (as of this moment, all we’re waiting for is the 300 or so dirhams that need to be coughed up to purchase said TV).

Suddenly, there came a thwack at the door followed by a few giggles and the scurrying of many little feet. The little brats were at it. A few seconds later, the sound came again. I opened the door, grabbed the nearest kid, and pulled him in by the scruff of his neck. I then prepared to subject him to the numerous methods of torture that were second nature to me – dousing with cold water, hanging from the ceiling by legs, constant face slapping on attempt to speak, and my personal favourite as told by General Melchitt (of Blackadder fame): ‘Personally, I’d recommend you get a hold of a cocker spaniel, tie your suspect down on a chair with a potty on his head, then pop his todger between two floury buns and shout “Dinner time, Fido!”.’ I was unsure what the Geneva Convention would say, though, so I refrained from performing that last one.

Meanwhile, one of his friends stood outside acting tough. The other Grade 13’s invited him to join us. He shrugged and replied, ‘Sure.’ And into the class waltzed a pudgy character who bore a remarkable resemblance to the Michelin man. He messed around with a few of our books, pretending he could understand them, made a couple of wisecracks, and on his way out, threw one of our calculators on to the table. I went to close the door behind him when he tried to slam it shut. I held on to it. Realising the lack of muscle in his overly-fat arms, he proceeded to use both arms to slam the door. I held onto it again, but this time, opened it slightly, gave him a good kick to the stomach/chest area through the crack in the door, watched him reel back into the wall behind him, shut the door, and had a good laugh with the rest of my classmates.

It didn’t last very long. Soon enough someone exclaimed, ‘Man! He’s crying!’

‘Ignore him,’ I said casually.

‘But he looks like he’s really hurt.’

‘Of course he does. He’s a bloody faker! Don’t go outside otherwise you’ll give him the attention he wants,’ I explained.

Then a supervisor appeared.

I heard some blubbering and whimpering followed by ‘What? Who did it? Where is he?’

I walked outside to find a fat finger pointed in my direction.

‘Come here!’ the supervisor said sternly. I accepted my fate. There was no fighting it. It is useless to resist.

He looked down at the short figure curled up into a ball on the floor, sighed and said, ‘Now, I have to report this. Why did you hit him?’

‘Because he’s an annoying little @*?#’ I wanted to say.

‘Because he disrespected me, sir,’ the words came out.

‘Come on! He’s only a small child!’

‘His age is irrelevant.’

Since when did little shites becomes so disrespectful to their elders? When I was small, I actually admired and looked up to those in the grades above me.

He sighed and asked me to come with him to the head supervisor’s office. There the head supervisor was quick to lash out and dish an immediate suspension to me while the kid was given a mere slap on the wrist. I didn’t argue with it. There would be no point. The fact of the matter is that if the kid’s father had complained, the school would have had to face the brunt of it. Punishing me hard enough in front of the kid so that he wouldn’t complain to his daddy was the only solution. I sat down and took the lectures, the shouting, the over-exaggerated threats of police involvement (much like the ones in my thread Arrested In St Hilarion!). Meanwhile, the kid sniffed and sobbed, cradling his right arm in his left. I felt a burning urge to twist his arm, and tell him to stop bullshitting, but decided it would only add to my sentence.

I was sent to the exam hall for the rest of day, where I had a laugh about the whole thing with the examiners there. I even volunteered to help them with the papers since I had nothing better to do.

End result: I came all the way to school ($38 by cab) on a whim and missed the only lesson of the day – Maths – because I was suspended.

The next day the kid came to school with a cast over his arm.

Oops.