I'm going to Sheffield! (We'll come back to frenchie at some point, but there isn't all that much too say and frankly, this is much more important to me right now.) Today was, of course, results day, the day we've all been trying to ignore the existence of for months, the day on which i finally found out whether i'd get into my first choice university (Sheffield, for which i needed three Bs, one in french), my second (Leeds, BBC, B in French), or neither and go through clearing. Mostly i've hardly been nervous about today, generally managing to forget it until people ask "Are you nervous about results day?" When i have been nervous that's been mostly covered up by another fear, much, much less important, but for which i am actually grateful, as i at least could be certain about that one, whatever i told myself. As today is also the day the year twelve's get results it didn't seem too unlikely that i might see E there today. I, as always, entertained fantasies of going up to him, assuring him that everything i'd told him about previously was true and finally convincing him that none of this was a joke. Obviously i knew this was nonsense, and as it turned out i didn't see him at all, not one glimpse of his beatiful personage slipping lithely past, but still, as i've said, this worry covered up the actually more important one concerning my results.

When i had thought about results day i'd been pretty confident. However, at least one part of me has some sense of realism, and i desparately tried to persuade myself ("Be absolute for death," the duke says to a man on the Viennese equivalent of death row in Measure for Measure, "either death or life shall thereby be the sweeter.") that i was bound to fail, (Well, no, not fail; an E counts as a pass. That's how they're able to claim 96% pass rate. Seems a little like cheating, though, as an E won't really get you very far, and everyone knows it.) and i'd come up with the silover lining (No longer going to the same university as P, who it seems i can no longer talk to properly at all.) However, i'm far too arrogant to really be persuaded by that, so i went in today knowing that i was going to walk out with three Bs at the very least. Probably more. I wouldn't have been surprised if i'd ended up with four As. (Ok, that's obviously an exaggeration. Nobody, nobody posessed of a modicum of intelligence could have thought i'd get more than a C for Art. So my D wasn't too much of a surprise.) For a while i'd been semi-consciously practising my grin, my huge, immense and above all massive grin when i found out how brilliantly i'd done. I could pity the people who'd done worse than me, who hadn't made their grades, but really i'd be enjoying knowing i'd done better.

Quite a shock, then, to discover i hadn''t managed it. I needed three Bs. I got two and a C. I wouldn't really have minded about that all that much, they're always telling yuou they'll probably let you in if you just drop a grade. But this grade was rather an important one. I needed, for both universities i'd applied to, a B for french. In my AS exams i'd missed getting an A by about five marks. I was convinced i'd get a B this year at the least. I really did believe i might get an A. So the C was something of a shock. It turned out that i'd done quite badly on what i think must have been the speaking exam (It must have been. The listening, reading and writing was, really, quite easy. And i know i'm not great at speaking.) and even worse (Really, really badly) on my coursework. I got twenty three marks out of a possible ninety. And i hadn't thought i'd done that badly. Fortunately, i have enough sense to accept that that was utterly and completely my own fault, that i couldn't try lay any blame (As my mother has, a little.) on my french teacher for not alerting me to the fact that my coursework was so terrible. We were all late handing the things in, he probably hardly even had time to mark it.

So i was unable to grin. I could hradly even talk. I was lucky, though, really. I had an expression in reserve that i'd been practising for years. I was instantly able to put on my "Please, please, don't speak to me, can't you see i'm not happy? Can't you see i've quite blatantly screwed up? If you ask me my grades i will, i will know that realy you're only doing it to bolster your own feeling of well being. Besides, this is a perfectly interesting piece of floor i'm staring at right now, what could be important enough for you to tear me away from it?" expression, the one i'd put to use in pretty much any social situation in which i've found myself for years. Once i'd spoken to all the relevant people (I may now have to forgive the deputy head for, as i've enjoyed phrasing it for years 'kicking us out of outside'. He was really kind and supportive, and copnvinced me there may yet be hope for me.) i flip-flopped down the steps and strode out of the gate, where i was rushed home by my mother.

Once i'd found the letter from Sheffield with the phone numbers to call in this situation and spent a minute or two getting up the courage i typed in the number and pressed that little button so that it would start the call. It was comforting, in a way, to know that they would have already decided my fate. My mother works in admissions, though not in university quite as well reputed as Sheffield, so i knew that she'd already decided who was going to be on her course by the end of Monday. After a few unsuccessful attempts i got through, only to be put in a queue. It didn't last long though, about five minutes, and i was soon talking to a real person. I was still only half able to hear what she was saying, so my half of the conversation didn't, i'm afraid, make the best of sense. But eventually came the point where i was told "You've been accepted." I was very grateful to this person, irrelevant as she no doubt had actually been to the decision process and i could hear the change in my voice as i thanked her and said goodbye.

So, in around a months time i'll be transplanting my life and as many books as i can to Sheffield, where i will do a four year course in French and Linguistics, including a year abroad in France or a French speaking country (I rather like the sound of Guadeloupe, actually, where our French (The only person i've come out to (If rather (very) clumsily) in another lanuage.) assistant was from. But that's probably quite unlikely. Anyway, i'm going to Sheffield! Hurrah!

You'd think that this brush with doom might have taught me a lesson. Perhaps, having almost not got it, i might be moregrateful about my place. I might be more careful with courseworky type things in future. I might learn all sorts of lessons about humility and so on. There are probably loads of morals i can and should be drawing from all this. I won't though. Oh no.