Summer School Part 1 - not summer and not school

The Open University has been ahead of the game when it comes to working around our dire summer – OU summer school is niftily named ‘Residential School’ (RS as it is catchily termed) thereby alleviating the need for endless lawsuits from disgruntled OU students who shelled out money in the hope of a week of sun. 

I had three options for DD303 Cognitive Psychology RS - Brighton, Nottingham and Bath.  I used to live in Brighton and therefore the temptation to be out and about drinking with old friends would be too great.  I used to live very near Nottingham as well, therefore the temptation to shoot myself repeatedly to avoid dredging up memories of a one year course with the British Army may also be too great.  So Bath it was to be.  I was really looking forward to it, Bath is a beautiful city and this would be my first RS.   I met a young engineer on the bus from the station to the university.  I could have been his grandmother so no ‘Mrs Robinson’ moments, but  he was very easy to talk to and, when we got off the bus, proved his worth by spotting all the teeny, tiny signs showing us where to go to register.   I suspect that the person who made the teeny, tiny signs was around the same age as the young engineer, and light years from considering failing eye-sight. 

As we walked from the bus stop to registration, I couldn’t help but wonder why the university was situated in a rundown housing estate – 50 shades of grey indeed …. however far more John Major’s underpants than tawdry, badly written porn for middle-aged women.   It was a while before I realised that the rundown estate was “The Times’ University of the Year!” that is Bath Uni.  Were architects out of their minds on drugs in the 1960’s?  Bath has been nominated a World Heritage Site for its architecture.   Why would anyone think a range of carparks with glass would create a suitable university?   Pairing the university with the city is a challenge.  Try imagining one of Jane Austen’s heroines tripping up Peckham High Street, and you are just about there.  It was all so grim and grey looking that I didn't take any photos, which I now regret because they would have made my blog less grim and grey. 

Registration took place in one of the campus bars – this was another eye-opener.   I always think of student bars as dark, dingy places with sticky floors and a few cheap keg beers and cider.  This was light, bright, had a patio overlooking ponds and the drinks list wouldn’t be out of place in one of the city wine bars.  The cocktail list, full of 40% proof double-entendres, was clearly geared towards the 18-30s crowd.  The wine list included the standard reds and whites of most bars and even Taittinger champagne, and there was also a good selection of premium brand spirits on offer.   No wonder the poor little blighters are always on the march about student funding, their entire grant must go on alcohol in week one.  

By the time I had registered and been given fistfuls of forms, a thermo-cup – saving the environment by handing out plastic cups, and babbled instructions about tutorials for that day, my head was reeling.  I went off to find my room, a move which I instantly regretted.  Peckham High Street gave way to Cell Block H.  Having spent several years in the RAF, I expected student accommodation to be on the same lines as single accommodation in the military – basic, spotless and definitely room to swing a cat, even if it did have to be a very smartly groomed cat.  These rooms were tiny, the corridors were narrow and dark and the shower and WC block over-compensated for the lack of toilet roll and hand soap with an odour that suggested bleach was beyond the University’s budget.

However I wasn’t here for five-star accommodation, or even one star, I was here to study.  We had all come prepared with a project, because that had been our last assignment, but forewarned that this may be altered or even completely abandoned on arrival, because we were encouraged to work in pairs.  On day one we were divided into groups according to our chosen subject.  I was in Thinking 2.  You do feel a little bit bereft when you first arrive, like a first year at secondary school.  Small, insignificant, out of your depth and wishing you were back in your old class, where you know the teacher and the other students.   Even during the registering process, I realised that many students had already paired up.  One entire class seemed to have enrolled and travelled together.   I had spent the time prior to registration chatting to some of the engineers, so was still standing back, viewing my fellow students from afar whilst others were already lifelong friends. 

We were herded into an auditorium and introduced to the university staff and our tutorial staff.  Prior to the introductions we were all eyeing the two groups suspiciously.  Surely our tutors had to be the group on the left, didn't they?  The group on the right were too young to teach, some of them seemed even too young to be out alone.    But we were wrong, the young group turned out to be our tutorial staff, however the really young amongst them being administrative assistants.  The admin assistants proved to be an endless source of entertainment, they were always bounding around with endless energy, perpetually smiling and always busy with something, it would be a little churlish to mention that nobody was ever quite sure what that something was, but at least they were enthusiastic about it.  

After dinner we assigned to tutorial groups according to our chosen subject of study.  The thinking group had four tutors. There was the smiley, laid-back calm one, the one with the ‘guns’ on show and, just in case we hadn’t noticed the muscles, helpfully clipped his name badge to a capped sleeve - all the better to see the guns with, the one who always had at least one hand in his jeans pocket and thrust his hips forward whilst he spoke and, last but not least, a female tutor.  Our group were so happy to get smiley, calm tutor that two of the students shouted out ‘Yes!’ when he introduced himself, which greatly entertained the other tutors.  Our tutor and the female tutor were referred to by their name for the rest of the week, but as far as I was concerned the other two were ‘Guns’ and ‘Hand in pocket man’.  There was just so much to take in, I just couldn’t absorb peoples' names as well, even though we all had name badges.  Unfortunately for me the name badge didn’t also give me 20-20 vision or undo the ravages of time and alcohol on my brain, so rather than squint at people all the time, I just referred to everyone not in my tutorial by the first characteristic I noticed – ‘him in the suit’, ‘depression lecture man’, ‘the squealy girls’, ‘the odour girls’ (their study involved scents … it was not a personal attack). 

From the first night, the tutors put on quite a lot of entertainment for the students, which was very good of them, they could have hidden away from us after lectures and had their own social life without our endless questions and worries.  Some of the students adapted well to drinking night after night.  However I felt very old amongst many of the students, I need a good grade for my overall final degree award and there were just too many people around, a drink or two (or three) with the other students once or twice in the week would suffice for me.   By the end of day one I was very happy with my tutor group, my tutor and a few glasses of wine.  I wasn't in a pair, I was in a trio, and they both seemed really nice, better still at least one of them had a very definite idea of a project and I was happy to abandon mine for that one.    I toddled off to my grimy little cell a lot more reassured than I had been when I arrived.