Graduation At The Barbican

The moment, while it lasted, was a blur. I remember the usher fixing my gown on the side, for the umpteenth time, as my hood kept slipping back. The row of graduates in front of me gradually disappeared and, finally, I handed the piece of paper with my name to the man who was introducing each of us. He had a terrifically enthusiastic voice with the ability to make us feel quite special.
‘Congratulations,’ he said to me, smiling warmly. 
‘Take your time to enjoy this moment.’

And then, into the microphone,
‘Rita Mistry!’

At least, I think he said my name, I can’t remember. Just as I can’t quite remember walking across the stage to the audience’s applause and shaking hands with the Vice Chancellor. A second later, I had a commemoration tube in my hand and was coming down the steps.

It must have happened as I saw it happen for everyone else. Some people had big whoops from family and friends, some waved to the crowd, some even skipped across, but everyone got their moment to a vast hall of claps. And it felt lovely and just a little bit emotional.

Graduation days for the Open University consists of a vast range of subjects and levels of accolades that just highlights what a necessary institution it is. Being able to study remotely and fairly flexibly is the only way that so many people who have other commitments can increase their education. 

It’s not perfect, my tutor wasn’t very helpful, but I did take so much from the course material, and I think I’m on my way to getting better at writing because of what I learnt. On top of that, I met some fine comrades-in-arms who kept me going through the whole course.

Remote learning is handy, but it can be a lonely affair, especially if you’re working at something creative. When you’re sitting there, often with the dreaded ‘blank’ white sheet, scratching your head for something to write, it’s good to bounce ideas off other people, even better when they’re in the same boat. Our small group of five, who’d met regularly on Zoom over the previous couple of years, decided to go to the same graduation ceremony. Sadly, at the last minute, Robert couldn’t make it, but the ladies, two of which I’d never met in real life, had all descended on this West London neighbourhood.

Anne and I are now back at home, but this weekend has been memorable. Even before we’d got to London we met, on the train, with a very amiable chap with wild white hair. His name was David Cohen, writer of the book, Diana: Death of a Goddess. We got to talking because I’d been typing away at a short story in my seat. And when I went to get sandwiches, he asked Anne if I was a writer! 

Oh, to be able to own that title without those demons of self-doubt shouting into my brain. 

David was a lovely man, the train ride went by in a flash with our conversation, and he offered to share a taxi with us, as we were heading in the same direction. Our Premier Inn sat next to the Smithfield Meat Market of old, which had been selling meat for over eight hundred years. The main section has only recently been closed for good, and currently being turned into a new Museum of London, but the building with the wrought iron work is still there. 

Our plan for Friday night was to take in a show, and what better one to see than the longest running show in London. Aside from Covid, The Mousetrap has been playing continuously to audiences in London, since 1952. St Martin’s Theatre, a charming, intimate Edwardian building, has housed it since 1974. The show was deliciously hammy, and I didn’t guess who done it, but we did have some event appropriate cocktails in the interval. 

The following morning, Christine and I were trying to find the Barbican centre. The arrow on Google Maps seemed to be swinging one way and then the other and we backtracked several times, but suddenly, the brutalist building loomed in front of us. How could we miss that?

It’s a grade 2 listed complex. A crazy, concrete maze of a place that I probably would have hated when I was younger, having lived in Coventry and been immersed in liberal splashings of concrete conceptions. Now though, in small doses, I can see the historical appeal of it. 

I’d met Christine in real life only the previous night, when we had met for drinks after the play. Nearly all the ‘rock study’ crew were staying in the same hotel, so it was rude not to meet up in its bar. It was like we’d known each other all our lives. Sarah Jane, another member of the posse, had even booked for the same play completely independently to us, which was a little spooky!

We were getting to the Barbican early because we hadn’t booked our gowns on time (or at all, in my case) and were hoping to lay our hands on the spares. Luckily, they had one to fit my diminutive size and I was able to swan around proudly in my blue gown. The auditorium looked very grand as the graduates filed in. Sarah Jane, Kay, Christine and I were all on the same row and none of us could quite believe that we were finally here, but we had made it.

Anne, along with the other guests, was somewhere up in the circle. She told me after, that she’d whooped for me, as I made my way across that stage, but I can’t even remember hearing anything. 

Can I call myself a writer, now that I have this M.A.? Well, it shows I’ve got potential, and I’m on the path. I’m getting closer I think. I just need to keep that momentum going and keep developing.