I set off for Watermouth at half-past eleven. I watched the London Marathon before leaving and Dad ran me onto the station: I shook his hand and we said goodbye until June. He gave me a poem he’d written for me. I’ve inherited his sentimental attitude towards such things and we share the same feelings of nostalgia.
The coach journey down was mundane, the weather gradually deteriorating the further south we traveled, the brilliant Yorkshire sun giving way to torrential London rain. . . . Watermouth finally, and I trudged miserably up from the bus station through wet grey streets to catch a taxi to campus, my bags so heavy I had to stop every few minutes.
I reached Wollstonecraft Hall at about eight. Lindsey, Russ, Shelley, Shawn and a few others were in the foyer. “Did you have a nice holiday?” asked Lindsey, and Russ carried my bags upstairs for me. But Shelley sailed by without a word.
Barry told me later that she, Katie and co. have been saying how stupid last-term’s lifestyle was, and that they've vowed no more sleepless nights and mindlessness and are filled with new determination to pursue meaningful paths—if this means ignoring people and hurting their feelings then tough luck.
All these hassles and complications already!
We went out and ended up fairly drunk and I didn’t go to bed until after midnight. My room is still a tip, my clothes unpacked, my bed unmade.
No comments:
Post a Comment