February 23rd, 2012: me, some others, the teacher. The waiting. One after another, she rapidly scans through the students, allowing herself two or three minutes to check whether the student is worth passing the exam or not. And, all of a sudden, here you are. She calls your name, and welcomes you with her strict smile whose meaning can be seen both as "oh you're my next prey, be ready to be torn into pieces" or "oh poor guy, I'm so sorry for you".
You start sweating cold, and your heartbeat is becoming louder and louder with any step you move forward, while the external noise, on the contrary, becomes more and more inaudible. Finally, you're there. With a trembling hand you sign the paper, and with a trembling voice you say "Good morning", knowing that this is gonna be a nightmare. She starts asking you some questions. You have a blackout. Suddenly, something happens.
You speak. You say something coherent. Your fear disapperas. Your pride comes out. You are happy. And bla bla bla you're already imagining your 30 cum laude, your holidays, the freedom, the cocktails, the girls in bikini.
One question after another, you feel safer and safer.
But then, still grinning inside for the good result you think you've reached, you hear the last question: "tell me about amortized costs".
The 30 cum laude, the holidays, the freedom, the cocktails, the girls in bikini. They are suddenly gone. The pride, the safety. Gone. The speech. Gone.
You start babbling around saying incoherent things. You don't know where to look at. The others, who were envying you until a second before, now are desperately trying to help you.
A black out. You start sweating again.
She move her head in disappointment. She grins. With a sadistic tone, she says: "you are not ready enough. Come next time".
And the end is over you.
What you learn today is: Don't count your chickens before they're hatched. Or, in the italian translation, Don't say "cat" if you don't have it in the bag.
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