At Glasgow, we sit our finals in February/March of our fifth year.
I’ve been avoiding our faculty library since September — not too difficult, that, as it feels as if my faculty have been going out of their way to put me in hospitals that aren’t in Glasgow. I was around last year, though, and I remember what the last cohort looked like by February and I remember wanting to give them all hugs and chocolate. I have no reason to think that the current fifth years looked any better by the time their exams rolled around. But it’s over. So far as I can gather, they spent most of last week having a very big and very deserved sleep, and then this week they learned that they really are going to be shiny new doctors.
In many ways, this is absolutely terrifying. It means that we’re next. It means that this time next year, I can expect my bloodstream to have been replaced entirely by caffeine. It means that I am expected to be competent to the level of an F1 in less than twelve months, which, if the passage of time over the last six months is anything to go on, can be fully expected to go by in a flash. And that in a very little bit more than that, I am expected to be an F1.
Mind, it’s not as if the semi-regular emails about FP application dates weren’t already reminding us of that.
In any case, all of those things are for tomorrow.
Because I ran into one of them today and we jumped in the air and hugged and screamed. In public. You might have heard me in Edinburgh.
We’re stupid proud of you all.
Now playing: Michael Ball – If Tomorrow Never Comes