Graduating in the time of Covid

The exams are complete ... The degree finished ... But where's the riotous fun? ... A modest valedictory event, without dancing ... Graduation ceremony in doubt ... Preparing for a "man's world" with "Women in Law" ... Barely Legal's Anna Kretowicz blogs from Queensland  

"Students, put your pens down. The time for examination is over." Only this time – my last time – this refrain didn't echo around the room as I finished my final law school exam. 

No invigilators hot-footing it down the aisle in their orthopaedic shoes to reprimand the student desperately attempting to finish their paper. 

No shooting pains up my arm as my hand cramps for the fourth time while attempting to advise Karen of her prospects of challenging the admissibility of a confession, which Inspector Cluedo extracted from her under circumstances that sound oddly suggestive of involuntariness. 

And no celebratory drinks at the uni bar, affectionately known at UQ as "The Reddo", or ceremonial binning of the wad of notes made from so much paper that a climate activist could chain themselves to it. 

Instead, I clicked "Submit" and checked my inbox for the automated email telling me cheerily, "Your work was received!" 

My mum took a pause from baking a celebratory cake - in true Eastern European style - to give me a hug. Fortunately, Queensland has been rather coronavirus-free lately, thanks to Annastasia's careful restrictions and strength in refusing to be intimidated by political opponents. 

There's a mask, unworn and dusty, sitting in my room - a gentle, and nonetheless unwelcome, reminder of our post-COVID world.

Fortunately, the UQ Law Society was able to run its end-of-year valedictory dinner. We flocked to a bar tab like the resident campus bin chickens to a poorly-guarded lunch. 

There were the overexcited students with a reduced tolerance for alcohol, plus there was a "boogie ban" - nobody was getting married so that meant no dancing allowed. 

Perhaps the coronavirus likes a boogie, so it can transmit more rapidly on the dance-floor. Can the Chief Medical Officer confirm?

Three hours and many champagnes later it became a giant game of musical chairs. Security staff darting about, desperately asking tipsy law students to stop dancing and to please take their seats - only to find as soon as one sat down others springing-up to boogie again. 

Perhaps this is how Malcolm Turnbull felt trying to enforce the bonk ban.

So while not entirely deprived of a triumphant end-of-degree finish, it feels off kilter, like enjoying a brownie only to learn it was dairy-free, gluten-free, no sugar and vegan.

I'm not quite sure when, or if, I'm going to have a proper graduation ceremony to mark these last four years. My older brother, who is one of those dearest to my heart, is stuck in the UK lockdown and won't be home for Christmas. And I miss him. 

Freshly graduated, I'm now looking down the barrel of a six-month break before I start my first real law job. 

I'm told it's a man's world, so I've braced myself by attending a smorgasbord of "Women in Law" events and building a wardrobe of power suits. Obviously, I'm now immune to the patriarchy.  

I feel a bit like the little red pin on Google Maps, that plops down in the middle of the Pacific Ocean before you type in your destination - mildly disoriented, but I'll have direction soon. 

If this were a law exam, now is the point when a harried law student rifles through their notes to advise me of my options. 

From Anna Kretowicz