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Joe Aharfi  The peace of a quiet Carlton share house was shattered this evening when feedback for LMR’s second assignment was sent out. Max McGavin’s housemate sighed when she heard his screams, but she finished dinner before she did anything about it.
“You alright, McGavin?” Beth asked, some time later. “Do I bloody well look alright?” the first-year law student snarled. He did not. The skin on McGavin’s face had turned pale and soapy, and his red-rimmed eyes hinted at madness. The former “gifted child” had cruised through his Arts degree, where only the barest effort had been required to earn H1s. In fact, he had come to consider such grades his birthright. Of course, such beliefs offered him safe refuge from the reality of an average mark on his second law school paper. “Take a look at this rubric, Beth,” he snapped. “Seven... ‘satisfactory?’ Five… ‘good?’ This must be for some other idiot’s work.” Beth raised her eyebrows. It was enough for McGavin’s denial to give way to rage. “And get this, my tutor had the nerve to tell me “my first attempt at statutory interpretation was a good one,” and I “should be proud of my efforts.” A strangled laugh. “Statutory interpretation?’ I’ve analysed Plato’s Forms. I’ve dissected Nietzsche’s nihilism. I’ve even made a mockery of Foucault’s theory of power. Does this fool really think the Graffiti Prevention Act will be my ruin?” For the sake of his sanity, Beth took this chance to remind her housemate that it was a pass or fail subject, and he had passed. For good measure, she suggested he learn from the feedback and work harder on the next one. “Yes, yes... maybe I should do that.” But deep down, McGavin knew there was no greater mark of intelligence than a laissez-faire attitude towards hard work, which was for peasants. Joe is a First Year JD Student Comments are closed.
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