My eyes darted frantically across the huge boards outside my grammar school. Lost amid a surging swarm of school-leavers surrounding the boards where our A-level results were mounted, every time I found my name I got swept to the side by the heaving throng before I could check my grade.

As fast as individual teenagers broke off from the melee having seen their results to either punch the air and shout "Yes!" or turn white and/or burst into tears, newly-arriving teens joined the results-seeking mob.

After being wedged under the armpit of a beanpole with body odour for what seemed like an eternity, I finally reached the front. I found the results pages for each of my A-level subjects and my shaky hand followed the line which stretched from my name to my grade.

BCC. B for English Lit, C for Politics, C for French. Now, in retrospect these are perfectly respectable grades. But at the time I was gutted, and stumbled free from the results board hordes to dissolve in racking sobs all over my dad, the like of which he hadn't seen since I was a tot.

You see, I needed ABC to get on my first choice university course – an honours degree in multi-media journalism at Bournemouth University. The course was heavily over-subscribed because, unlike so many Mickey Mouse media degrees which just sit their students in front of a television for three years, this one was accredited by respected media industry bodies and was half theory and half practical, meaning I'd graduate fully trained in TV, radio, print and photo journalism and having passed exams in media law, media ethics and so on.

I had listed other "safety" courses on my UCAS form, but they were nothing like as good and I desperately wanted my first choice. I knew I wanted to be a journalist and I believed that course would best equip me to get a good job after I graduated.

Nursery rhymes aside, the first song I remember from my childhood was One In Ten by UB40, written about the depressing record levels of UK unemployment. Hell, the band was even named after the then unemployment benefit form.

Where I grew up, many of my primary school classmates' dads were on the dole, their kids missing out on school trips because they couldn't afford it. By osmosis, we all got the message – you'd better work your socks off at school and get a good job, or this is your fate.

And work my socks off I did. But grammar school piled on the pressure even more. A common threat from my sadistic maths teacher if I did badly on a test was "don't worry, Sarah, not everyone is university material...".

The admissions tutor at Bournemouth University had urged me to apply for the multi-media journalism course as my first choice even though I knew I'd do my very best but I had no chance of getting ABC at A'level. This puzzled me, but I followed her advice. She told me to call her as soon as I got my results.

So on A'level results day, my dad drove inconsolable me home (these were the days before mobile phones) so I could call the admissions tutor and tell her my results.

I was crying so hard I could hardly get the words out – but I stopped crying when I heard her shriek "congratulations – you've won a place on our course!".

I'd always known I wanted to be a journalist, and by 18 I'd been working part-time writing features and CD reviews which were published in my local paper for three years and I'd done work experience at two local radio stations.

The admissions tutor said that by doing this I'd demonstrated a passion, commitment and talent for journalism that was much more important to her than exam results.

My devastation was replaced by utter euphoria. I was in.