Friday, October 7, 1983

Mickey Mouse


John Turney (who left early this week and made a brief appearance last night when we were all in The Westdorgan with Carl Cotton-even the normally house-bound Ade had come along), went again this afternoon, looking very smart with Brylcreem-d hair and a paisley cravat. Carl C. left this morning too; he, Barry and Trevor slept three-to-a bed last night.

When John and Carl get together I feel out of my depth; the political grasp and confidence of those two makes me despair for myself, and makes me feel like all my ideas and thoughts are like so much insubstantial chaff. While John and Carl were in the house our world here seemed to stand on shaky, crumbling foundations.

Students. The word should be spat out.

Stu and Gareth have finally found a place to live, a bed and breakfast for £20 per week not far from us in Tremont Place, which is temporary until they find somewhere more suitable.

Do I stick with my American Lit course or change to History of Art? A recent survey in the Guardian said that these two courses were the “Mickey Mouse” courses at Watermouth, and the ones least likely to provide their students with a job, which of course is just a typical situation for me to be in. I’ve heard rumours that Watermouth’s History of Art course is poorly taught, and Mo knows two people who’ve dropped out for that reason.

Mo and I are alone in the house; everyone else is out. I’m saving myself for the excesses of tomorrow night’s party at Marion Place, and an afternoon visit to Empire Lane to watch Watermouth Trinity. I’ve reading to do and an essay to hand in on Monday for my Black Americans course, and I must write home too.

I got a letter from Grant in Gloucester, written while sitting alone in his room, the weather pissing it down outside. He complained of everyone being “stand-offish.”

No comments:

Google Analytics Alternative