As first years, we viewed the Leaving with a mixture of dread and anticipation. On the one hand it symbolised the shedding of the school uniform, freedom. And then there were the horror stories, the glimpses of sixth-year students who occasionally ventured into daylight.

They seemed pale, haggard creatures. They used paper to write on instead of scrunching it up in little balls. They spoke in a foreign language, a bizarre hybrid of acronyms (CAO, UCAS), despairing sighs and "calculus" (which given the bitterness with which it was spat out we decided was French for pure evil). There were even rumours that people sacrificed ER to study.

It was a terrifying proposition. And yet, six years later, the Leaving doesn't seem the nightmare we imagined. With three weeks to go most people have yet to go mad.

Certainly there's pressure, but the prevailing mood is not one of fear, but rather impatience. Everybody is being sensible enough, realising what has to be done and then trying to do half it.

Of course some changes have come into our world. As early as September I felt the Leaving encroaching. Teachers have been always telling us to study, but now people were listening. Homework was done on desks at home rather than on the bus on the way to school.

My bedroom was transformed. I seem to remember having furniture, but an army of photocopied handouts has invaded, ruthlessly filling every available space. Where once Winona Ryder gazed wistfully from my wall, study-plans loom ominously, dividing my day into neat little segments.

Unfortunately, as they invariably neglect to allot time for watching Australian soaps, toenail-clipping, lengthy conversations with the speaking clock or whatever distraction suddenly becomes urgent in an attempt to avoid study, they usually end up in the bin or as little paper aeroplanes.

After Christmas, points became the dominant topic. The question was not what you were doing but how much you needed. Brave souls attempting medicine were either afforded the respect reserved for Everest mountaineers or dismissed as masochists.

A few months later, all anyone wants to know is: "How much study did you do last night?"

Size matters. Those who do less than the average are given an encouraging smile. Those who dare to do more are given a suspicious gaze and deemed liars or insane.

The orals were the turning point. People used their Walkmans to listen to powerpacks; TnaG's viewing figures doubled. The pressure began to show; bags developed under people's eyes; coffee became our primary food source/friend . . .

And then once the orals had passed, there was a huge sense of relief. The Leaving had started, now everybody just wanted it to leave.

Now we've reached the final milestone, the last day of secondary school. It doesn't feel like the euphoric day I anticipated in first year. There's a sentiment almost approaching nostalgia. Teachers have metamorphosed from red-pen-wielding demons to something resembling human beings.

It's all very civilised. There's talk of tea and scones.

And so school is over. We all troddle home to our respective survival shelters, ready to enter Planet Leaving Cert, that lightless limbo between school and college. Curtains are drawn, televisions are unplugged, provisions of coffee, highlighters and A4 pads are stocked up.

I think we'll survive.

Darragh Martin is still, just about, a student at St Fintan's High School, Sutton, Dublin. He will regularly contribute his impressions of the Leaving Cert papers to Exam Times