Gown

I am worn out: more so than usual, which is saying something. It has been a busy couple of days, attending my son's graduation ceremony at Cambridge, which involved a lot of getting dressed up (which is never easy), eating and drinking (which is a little more welcome) and standing around in the sunshine (alright up to a point, and then just about tolerable when combined with the eating and drinking). And it is not often that my knowledge of Latin comes in useful.

There is a complex mix of emotions. It is poignant to see your offspring get to the end of their university career and prepare to step out into the real world (ignoring the bits of the real world they have already stepped into). You remember – hazily – your own university years, the hopes and dreams you had built up, your enthusiasm for carving out an exciting career, and wonder where it all went wrong. You note, in these troubled times of migrants risking their lives to reach this country, only to be blamed for all society's ills once they arrive here, that your own parents were migrants who managed through hard work to build a life for themselves here, and whose grandchildren have now succeeded in scaling the heights of the English education system. And in particular, the sense of relief, tinged with a little sadness, that after six years you will no longer have to drive back and forth to one university or another at the end of each term to drag your sons and all their belongings back home. Or at least not until your daughter heads off to university in a couple of years' time.