It is a particularly confusing May of 2012 and I am just about to finish my senior year at a rural Ukrainian high school. Out of a steady three dozen of students who entered its poorly painted walls some years ago, only twelve have made it to graduation.

Despite the embarrassing drop-out numbers (and as a direct result of particularly low managerial expectations), it is revealed to us that we have outperformed the five year plan by 8%. Numbers are regarded highly in Ukraine. Celebrations are at hand.

I take a deep breath before ascending into the hell that any Ukrainian high school graduation ceremony typically is. My goal in general is to survive. My goal in particular is not to burst out laughing. Two hours of humiliation may feel like an eternity, but somehow all the hymn singing, poem declamation, bizarre pagan rituals and Soviet paraphernalia are finally over. My sins are forgiven, my karma is as white as snow before a state inspection and I am ready to move on.

When I applied to study in the UK, most of my outlook on the country still came from my state-provided English work book. At day, I envisioned studying in a medieval castle, adding to my arsenal of self-deprecating jokes, and stocking up on tartan occasion-wear. At night, I pictured practicing my English with the brightest specimen from some broad-shouldered, sexy-back Oxford rowing team. As you can imagine, my parents had a slightly different picture in their minds. They got sold on the idea of a top-notch education that will never go out of style. I don't blame them!
Either way, the agency that sorted out my papers was looking to place me somewhere into an average university in the middle of nowhere in the UK. Just to be safe. You shouldn't really expect much from a village high school graduate, you know?