It's difficult for me to think back to that fateful day. Such painful events are best left in the past, forgotten forever. Sometimes, however, they drift back from the dark shadows of memory to be relived again.

I don't remember the exact date, but it happened many years ago, back when I was just starting out in university. The day was a chilly day in autumn, when leaves fell relentlessly to the ground and just sat there stubbornly until the rain soaked them through and they were trodden into a pulpy mess by the hundreds of students trudging from class to class under the protection of their umbrellas or purple Gore-Tex™ jackets. That was a very long sentence.

And "a very long sentence" was exactly how a great many of the students felt about their time spent as undergrads. For years on end, we suffered unrelenting study and unpleasant food made by irritable old ladies in the cafeterias.

On one particular wet, chilly day, I woke, dressed, grabbed my jacket, dashed out the door to the bus stop. It wasn't until I arrived on campus that I happened to look down at what I was wearing. Colours clashed like armies fighting to the death. I stood in shock, just staring at the vicious contrast between the orange shirt and my purple jacket. With a trembling hand, I clasped the jacket tight at the neck, obscuring the orange completely.

I hid in the actors' greenroom for hours. I even missed another philosophy lecture ? although I have to admit, I was looking for a reason to miss it anyway. That's when Catherine, an actress, entered and found me still clutching my jacket.

"What's with the hand on the collar?" she asked, frowning.

"You don't want to know," I said.

"No, really, " she prodded, "what is it?"

"I... I...," I stammered and Catherine rolled her eyes. "I made a tragic mistake this morning, Catherine." I opened the top two buttons, revealing the shameful orange underneath. Her eyes went wide in disbelief.

"Oh my god," she smirked, "That's truly awful, Steve. Here, let me help." She rummaged in her bag for a moment and produced a ballpoint pen. Very carefully, she wrote on the back of my hand, which again clutched at my collar.

"There," she grinned. "All fixed. See you in class." She put away the pen and dashed upstairs to the classroom.

Tentatively, I read the back of my hand. It said, WARNING. FASHION FAUX-PAS COVERING HAND.

Never again will I wear an orange shirt with a purple jacket. Never again.