University Attendance Officer circa 2017, I Can Explain

Before my successful burger-flipping career took off, I used to be an English student. As a quiet, bookish person with a fear of the opposite sex and a tendency to blush at the tiniest piece of attention, many university experiences led to awkward situations for me. But, as I endured such experiences, I think I somewhat gained confidence in myself, and gradually became more comfortable contributing to groups or talking to other students. Or so I thought.

One of these occasions when my confidence was growing a great deal was when I had a study project with three other students. Three girls in fact. And I was doing really well, sharing a lot of research and even having casual conversation with the girls. I felt for a moment, like a normal, functioning human. We left the library building where we'd been studying in one group, and then I turned left to head towards my accomodation, and said goodbye. However, the three of them (all heading the other way) gave me a look as if to say something along the lines of "ehm - ok - where are you going?" I concluded later, through the process of going through the whole of the situation in my head multiple times, that the reason they gave me this look was that I'd left without saying goodbye. I had said goodbye, but like I say, I was quiet and shy, and me at my highest level of confidence was, I'm presuming, a mere muffle to the ordinary listener. And, anyhow, this is, as I say, something I concluded later.

What I concluded in the moment was something quite different. What I concluded, and acted upon immediately and with great haste, was that I had missed something important that we were meant to be doing as a study group. Probably go back to our lecturer to report our findings. And the rest of the group were looking at me as if to say "ehm - ok - where are you going?" Now, if you cast your eye back to the last paragraph, you will see that this is the exact same way of phrasing my later interpretation of the look. Looks can be deceiving. And this one was as deceitful as they come.

Feeling terribly guilty for abandoning my group, I immediately rejoined them and tried to excuse my leaving by pretending I was going a quicker way. I quipped 'it's six and two threes isn't it?' The lack of response to said quip should've been a warning sign, but I put it down to my quiet voice again.

I then preceded to follow them across the campus. And I mean, across the campus. Like, from one side of the campus to another. And then up three flights of stairs. It was only at the end of this quest, when we entered a room filled with other students, scanned our student attendance cards, and sat down in front of computers, that I realised that this was a class. A class that the rest of my study group were all in. A class that I, on the other hand, certainly wasn't in. But when this moment of realisation came, all the students had sat down, all the computers had been turned on, and the lecturer had begun to lecture. It would have been a terrible decision at this point to have admitted to myself that I'd made a catastrophic error and get up and walk across the room and leave. The walk would be really awkward. I would've blushed. No, far better to remain in my chair and pretend I'm meant to be there. So I turned on my computer and prepared to blag my way out of this one.

Now, the first bit of difficulty I encountered (other than trying to ignore the three girls from my study group sat next to me who were clearly wondering why on Earth I was there) was when all the other people in the room opened Microsoft Excel and preceded to work on what was evidently an ongoing project. Now, I don't understand Microsoft Excel at the best of times, and their spreadsheets were very thorough. No, not worth the risk. Instead, I thought I'd write blog for my Dad who I was working for at the time. Now, for reasons that I can but don't really wish to explain, the subject of the blog was an Irish children's television programme called 'Jakers! The Adventures of Piggley Winks.' British and American readers may remember it; it was broadcast in those countries too.

So, there I am, writing this blog, blending in. Nothing amiss. I'm going to get away with it, I thought. It was going to be the longest hour of my life (I silently prayed it wasn't a 2 hour class), but I was going to be okay. I was just going to crack on with 'The Adventures of Piggley Winks.' However, the adventure of Matty Long at this point elected to take a turn for the worse. Because, when the tippety-tap of fingers on every keyboard but mine had ceased, and every head had turned toward the lecturer, I realised that the class was being taught on a huge projected screen for everyone to see, and under this screen, facing everybody in the room, was my computer. And, on my computer, was the least passable thing for an excel spreadsheet you could possibly think of. A massive picture of a cartoon pig.

Now, I blush sometimes without realising I'm blushing. I blush when I'm not even embarrassed. The level to which I blushed in this moment, I don't think I can quite put into words. And all this was happening in full view of everyone as I anticipated the conversation with the lecturer who, having spotted the two bright pink faces of Piggley and myself, was on her way over to investigate. She had no words, only a look. And this is a look I had no trouble understanding. It said, and I believe I may be quoting this woman's thoughts here - "who in the name of seven hells are you, what are you doing in my class, and who on Earth is that pig?"

Now, I think for a short while my mouth was open but the words weren't coming out, until I mustered the strength to say ‘ehmmmm, I couldn't find a computer in the library so I thought I would just use this one . . .?' Now, instead of the logical response, which would've been 'so you've walked halfway across campus, up three flights of stairs and wandered into an ongoing class and just decided to use this one instead, without even asking??,' she just said 'ehmm, ok.’ The next forty-five minutes lasted about a thousand years.

One small positive is that, on the way out, I remembered to scan my attendance card again. This was something I always forgot to do. In fact, this was the only time I ever remembered to do it at the beginning and end of a class that entire term. Whoever was the attendance officer that year would've seen that the only class I attended all year was a class I was never meant to be in. So, on the off chance they’re reading this, having been puzzled ever since, their mind can be at peace. But it isn’t likely that they are reading this, so it isn't really a small positive I guess, just another awkward thing in my awkward life.

But maybe, at the end of the day, that is the positive. I immediately went home afterwards and described it to my best mate as the worst thing I'd ever done in my entire life. In the space of two hours, I'd gone from confidence and a contribution to education, to an awkward, blushing, cartoon pig-loving mess of a man. But it's these things going wrong in the worst possible way that help you learn to accept yourself. There has been other moments since. Pretending to be my dad to a blind man out of politeness for an hour was a bad one, not to mention allowing the same woman to call me 'John' for three years until she was at a service where I gave a speech and was introduced as 'Matty.' I've avoided her since. 'Matty is my middle name' I'll tell her if I see her again. I don't even want to think about the cocktails of awkwardness that occur when you add alcohol.

But, in a world of anger and bitterness, political hatred and online trolls and bullying everywhere, maybe realising that the worst thing you've ever done is accidentally attend a class about language variation in the UK (yeah, I listened to some of what was being said) whilst writing about why Piggley Winks is a genius, isn't such a bad thought?

Oh, and the blog post was published. It was well received in fact. You can read it here, if you want. Just please appreciate the pain I was going through during its composition.