Please Mr Postman, is there a letter for me?
I'm all-a-jitter this week. Four years of work has come to an end, and by Friday I'll know whether it's been worth it. At the beginning of the new century, I promised myself I'd get a degree by the time I was fifty. My birthday is fast approaching and so, I hope, is the postman. Back in the late 1970s, I went straight into journalism training. I didn't want to go to unversity, partly because that path was what had been expected of me for years (and I never do the expected). I also didn't think it was right to spend three self-indulgent years poncing around lonely as a cloud when I could dive straight into a Devon newsroom. I'd wanted to be a newspaper reporter since I was ten years old so, I figured, why wait? But the main reason for not going to university was I rather mucked up my chances. On the day I was due to take my biology O-Level I gave birth to Number One Daughter. So, in 2007 and several careers later, I signed up for an honours degree w...