Fictionalised memoir exposes ‘dubious’ PhD experience in ‘modern, successful university’

I wake to the sound of raindrops tapping on the window of the tiny room in Pollock Halls of Residence. Situated on the edge of Holyrood Park near the foot of the dramatic little mountain, Arthur’s Seat, this should be a sweet awakening. But I’m soaked in feverish sweat, my stomach is cramping crazily with every little movement, my head is pounding like a gong and my back feels like I’ve ridden a camel across cobbles all night.

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