One hundred metres on slippery ground

One hundred metres on slippery ground — 242 words

Thunder rumbles through the streets when I wake up this morning. Sleepily I look at the clock. Half past four. Why do I want to do this?
The memory of last night pops into my head. My gaze had grazed the words of a billboard on the wall of the university, glowing mysteriously in the sparse glow of the streetlight. There couldn't have been anything special on it, because I can't remember what it said.
I only remember getting off the train to look at the advertisement again. I had read the small print carefully, made a note of the phone number and had dragged myself home to make a call.
I pull myself together. It's not possible to cancel. I have called, registered and probably paid - now I have to go.
Some time later I enter the university building. The floor seems to have been freshly mopped. It is deserted. I turn searchingly around myself while nervously playing with my hair. About a hundred metres further on, I spot a group of people; most of them are around 50 years old. I walk slowly towards it. My bones creak after each step and I have to lean on my walking stick to avoid slipping on the wet, slippery ground.
This is where the learning began. I'll just say this: a decade later, I knew more than I had in my previous life combined.