Final touches to cardboard models, inking in technical drawings, prit-sticking minute pieces of paper onto masterplans, sending off drawings to be photocopied, titling every A1 piece of paper, making sure all is in order. It is the morning, I am in a university studio sometime early summer 2001, and it is the day of my final architecture presentation. I have been running around for over twenty-four hours. The jury are waiting. I march to the main block, just in time to change into a shirt and have a shave in the toilets. I emerge and take my place in the queue. Only I am not ready: it is pointed out that my neck is bloody. But I had not noticed the drips of blood now flowing: this was kind of proof that this was my craziest, busiest, most hectic day ever.
Anyhow my portfolio is okay. I get called into the jury room. I get my work out. Go over it for the hundredth time. Present my model. And tell the story behind the drawings. I am asked to leave the room. When called back in it is to say I have passed.
Yes, I celebrated my degree over a coffee and later a whisky, which was plenty for me. Tipsy, I excuse myself, and head home, for a long sleep.