My first Cambridge exam in Easter of last year was a misadventure entirely of my own creation; I had dozed through my alarm, and was now running late, dashing across Sidgwick Site to a 9am exam in the Law Faculty. I arrived on time, gratefully panting, only to look around, dread building inside me as I failed to recognize a single one of the students or professors: I was in the wrong room. The possibility of catastrophe bubbled up in my mind: was my exam in a different building entirely? Had I misread the time, or even the date? But heavenly deliverance came when an invigilator kindly asked if I was meant to be in the room next door. By some miracle unexplainable by science, in the end I was only a minute late.

“In the sight of my professors’ lonely gowns, it felt that we were vaguely following the motions of something we had ceased to appreciate the real value of”

With this story in mind, I should probably be the last person to advocate for attending our exams dressed for Formal Hall. And yet, it is an idea that has nagged me since last Easter term. Of course, my professors at the front of the hall were wearing gowns, but only gowns, underneath they sported jeans, t-shirts, and quarter-zips. The magisterial traditions of Matriculation or Formal Hall are a reminder of how special the opportunity to study at Cambridge is, to make American tourists gawk and turn to one another, saying: “It’s just like Hogwarts!” But I felt only a weak echo of that in my exams, sitting in a blandly modern Sidgwick Site lecture hall in jeans and a t-shirt. Particularly in the sight of my professors’ lonely gowns, it felt that we were vaguely following the motions of something we had ceased to appreciate the real value of. Like the automated house in Ray Bradbury’s short story There Will Come Soft Rains, that still automatically cleans the floor, makes breakfast, and washes the dishes for a family that is long-dead. The box is still being ticked, the action is still being completed, but the house is empty, the soul and purpose of the action is gone.

Oxford consistently receives more attention and interest than Cambridge — that is an uncontroversial truth. Regardless of who is ahead in the League Tables in any given year, it is consistently the case that the elections of Oxford’s Chancellors and even the Oxford Union make national news, and when Netflix recently decided to shoot an American rom-com against the backdrop of a British university town, the film we got was not My Cambridge Year. I think the topic of gowns reveals a clear reason for this. Oxford revels in its traditions: their students go to exams in full subfusc with a tradition of having a white, pink, or red carnation to indicate their first, middle, or final exams. Cambridge, meanwhile, practices many of its traditions with an insecure awkwardness that saps them of their majesty. Of course Netflix is going to choose Oxford over Cambridge as the backdrop to its romantic comedies, of course journalists’ cameras will be magnetised to it: because Oxford has a stronger identity and brand, not just as a place but as an idea.

“How much better would my story have been if I was racing through town fully-gowned?”

Of course, Cambridge still has a wealth of distinct traditions. And that is why I call on all students here to embrace the uniqueness of this university: go to formals at as many colleges as you can, stop and listen to Evensong as you walk past your college chapel (even if just for a moment), and try to find your balance at the stern of a punt at least once. This university experience won’t last forever, and these are moments and memories that you can only experience here and now. Cynically, yes, they are antiquated and pompous. But it is not in spite of them being old-fashioned and stuffy, but because they are old fashioned and stuffy, that these traditions are so resonant. And freed of that cynicism, you will enjoy Cambridge so much more.

The saga of the gowns’ retreat from Cambridge student life is a long one. Until 1965, gowns had to be worn effectively at all times in public, even going out in the evening! In 1965 the enforcement of gown-wearing after dark was mercifully lifted, their requirement for the UL was dropped in 1967, and for exams in 1970. For the most part, good riddance: I don’t think even students most enamoured with the Hogwarts-fantasy of gown wearing would enjoy being forced to wear one to Spoon’s on a Friday Night! But I do think an exam is something that deserves to be symbolically separated from the everyday, to be infused with that halo of academic importance.

And so, I submit my petition for Cambridge to return to gowned exams. After all, how much better would my story at the start of this article have been if I was racing through town fully-gowned? More embarrassing for me, maybe, but the prestige of Cambridge University would be unblemished.