The Graduate

Waiting for my 18-year-old friend to arrive and witness his rite of passage from school to university life, I found myself morphing into a 54-year-old 'fresher' checking back into college.  

Sitting on a bench in the open courtyard I couldn't stop smiling. Music thumped through an amplifier, students bounced about and greeted new arrivals with glee. There was plenty of love drifting about in the dry Canberra air.

With the emergence from my chrysalis almost complete, Oscar appeared, a second-year senior resident with one arm in a sling and the other cradling a glass of water. He'd obviously been keeping a watchful eye on Dustin Dean looking for Mrs Robinson.

Handing me the refreshment, I thanked him and enquired about his injury. To which this strapping blond surfy type from the south coast mentioned rugby as the cause. He was a smooth talker and a rugby player – both viewed as majors at university.

My friend soon arrived with his father and appeared visibly uncomfortable. This could have been due to the fact that, despite its legal status, being escorted onto college grounds for the first time by what looked like two 'dads' was probably a crook look.  

Looking to lose the unwanted attention I backed off and strolled into the dining hall. Navigating my way past the gluten-free toaster and five varieties of milk, I scanned the thesis stapled to the bay marie which outlined every possible food allergy and then left the hall, quickly. There was not a wiff of mixed grill or chilli con carne in the place. Diet obviously receives a big fat D for distinction.

Catching up with my husband and his son we soon found his lodgings: Donga No 9. That's my boy I thought, rooms matched to one's physical attributes. But how did they know his measurements?

Ordinary when viewed from outside, the air-conditioned shipping container was a grand design in every respect. Although a little small, it was lined and came complete with a WC, shower and a TV. It was a man cave with a virgin mattress and a fridge. Heaven.

On this day, and with "O" Week a week away, there were enough activities organised to complete a PhD. We met the queer rep, the arts' rep, the sports' rep and were introduced to the college principal and an armada of senior residents keen to get fresh with the newbies.

There were no complaints. For just hours earlier my friend was all set to move into self-catered accommodation elsewhere on campus, before being granted last-minute entry into Burgman College.

Meanwhile, I'll keep looking for Mrs Robinson.