Release (installment four)

At about ten thirty last night, a notice went up. It was really rather wonderful, decorated in purple and green felt-tip pen and excessive punctuation: "PPE-ists! The tutors are working on it now! If they don't fall asleep you'll know by 11.15! - otherwise 9am."

They didn't fall asleep as it happened, and I went down to the JCR to find everyone milling around the noticeboard. Some pushing and shoving later, I got through to find my name on the "you can go home" list. So much for me - just one written test and one interview, and they've seen all they need to see. I don't know what to feel about it, as I wouldn't have objected to another interview. When I look back at the one I did have, I feel an overwhelming sense of blah; that I didn't make a fool of myself but nevertheless gave off an aura of suffocating mediocrity. I didn't want them to think I was boring, and I probably would have performed better at a second interview.

That said, others people are having a worse time of it than me. Not long after I made yesterday's entry, Helena gave me a somewhat hysterical call, and a little worried, I ventured out into Oxford to find Merton. It turned out to be a ten minute walk down wonderfully winding pathways, and there were people on Broad Street giving out free samples of Kellogg's Crunchy Nut Bars, so I ate one and pocketed one for Helena and eventually arrived at the college door. On my way, I made a habit of peeking through the big college doors I passed to see which ones they were - I remembered my mother complaining that they don't put any outside indication of the presence of the college. I said, "If you have to go there you know where it is," which strikes me as the most probable reason.

Helena met me at the door and she wasn't faring well at all. After arriving in a hurry yesterday morning, she was faced with being the very first interviwee, and apparently the two tutors grilled her to within an inch of her life and drove her to tears afterwards. My immediate thought was simple - "If they grilled you, they must have thought you could take it." - but she was not consoled. She isn't well either, suffering from an undiagnosed ailment that means she can't keep anything down, and I decided the wisest course of action was to spend the afternoon and talk her down a bit.

Merton College seems bigger than Balliol. It probably isn't, only seeming so because it backs onto Christ Church Meadow, but Helena's little part of it was pretty and much nicer than my room, which was a cave-like first-year's den. We engaged in stimulating and occasionally hysterical conversation until dinnertime, where something else struck me. I couldn't eat, as I didn't have a Merton dinner pass, but I sat with Helena while she ate and was amazed at the formality of the great hall surroundings. The Harry Potter great hall is in fact the hall at Christ Church, but all the other colleges' halls are similar, and the lights are warm and low which makes them even more imposing. The point I am attempting to make with little coherence is the way I didn't realise how Balliol is unusual among colleges for its lack of ceremony. I could eat when I wanted, how I wanted, wearing what I wanted, without a pass (we were supposed to have them but the helpers couldn't be bothered and did it on trust - and that sums it up!), which definitely cemented my choice. The only college that's anywhere near as left-wing is Wadham, where I believe schlagen has applied.

I left Helena after dinner, bidding her luck for her next interview. She had a guaranteed two, and seemed positively aggrieved when I found out I only had one. But I'm worried in my own way; they were nice, but were they being nice because they thought I'd fall to bits otherwise? And I hate that level of paranoia, but it sneaks in regardless. I'm trying to ignore myself now.

I went back to Balliol through deserted city streets, marvelling again at the sheer beauty of the place. I told myself again and again not to love it so much, not to get my hopes up, but I can't help it. Someone said, earlier this year, "I don't know why you want to go there."

My response, not spoken, was: then you don't know me.

But I can't hope too much. In a singularly deflated mood, I went to bed last night and slept until nine this morning, at which point I gathered my things together and went down to the JCR. A quick look at the website told me that there was a train in forty-five minutes. I've never bought a ticket for immediate travel before. Lots of mad rushing about followed. Among the forty-two applicants, there was only one other person who was from the north (Manchester). If I said, "I'm from Liverpool," I got a double-take and some version of "wow, that's far." It only contributes to my long-held notion that the south is another country. Patrick called last night (his interview at Cambridge went well, apparently) and I told him, only half-ironically, "They talk funny here!"

Well, they do. I got the 10.31 to Stafford and from there to Liverpool Lime Street, dropped in on my mother to get my house keys and got home earlier this afternoon. It's warmer and brighter up here, and I do feel like the last four days have been spent in another world. And I'd love to be part of it, but I'm home now and that's okay. Should be seeing the mini-Scoobies tomorrow and the resident lunatics on Saturday, so life is good on that front.

And one more thing - the last few days have generated - count 'em! - eighty comments posted in here. I'd like to thank all of you for keeping me happy, calm and amused while I was down there. And now I'm taking a bath. And watching Angel. Sigh.

Edited to add: I can be incredibly vague at times. Anyway, to make it clear, my not getting a second interview doesn't have any bearing on whether I get in or not. They could have decided I'm hopeless but equally that I'm so fantastic that they can't let me go. There really is no way of telling.