| Diary entry for last night, written entirely in the Bell |
[05 Oct 2004|09:26am] |
I went to college, hastening pace as the sun dropped further...and my watch lied again, telling me it was later than it actually was. I arrived at the station breathless, and a little nauseous; half caused by the wrenching gut filling fatigue, half as a result of clashing emotion. Nobody but an old gent witnessed my panting, doubled over form. He could have taken much delight from seeing a man a generation younger racked in such a tired state. If he did, no mirth or indeed expression at all registered on the gangly framed gent's stoical face.
The train was just then puilling in, and I entered, clumsily crab walking with my carrier bag in hand down the absurdly narrow aisle and slumping into a window seat, tipping my bad onto the sterile plastic triangular table.
The train ambled towards Ramsgate, clunking through track and junctions, as I fought my labourouse, sleepy countenance. The prospect of studying in evening again tiring me with it's creeping reality.
I've never been much for train journeys, and indeed they are now considerably worse with my trip weekly co-inciding with the school leavers slouched with bag and phone...discussing in loud monotone voices subjects of depressing familiarity. "How's yer bird"? "What ringtone you got?", "Got thrown out of football practise". I could write down these and tell them what to say by showing it to them.
This hardly endears me to an already pretty horrid service. At any rate, I endured it, and stepped into Broadstairs, clomping down the the steps to the underside of the bridge, and the busy high street, all the while trying to roll a fag whilst wrestling with my headphones and bag.
Trundled towards the Wrotham Arms, a wooden, quiet pub with curiously stationary tenants and customers. Immediately stared at by all, I was compelled to avoid the attention of all but for the barman, who too my order cheerily (if adenoidally) enough, and I sat cross legged on a stool, sifting through "Wuthering Heights", and sipping my Guiness, stopping only to roll yet another trombone cigarrette.
Looking around, I saw regulars at the bar, and various women and men. I was younger than all by probably a decade or two, but for a young man with an arm on the fruit machine, and the other in a sling. He looked pretty menacing, as if he could wallop you with the unbroken arm if it was not glued to a plastic button.
I eked out the pre college time by drinking slowly, then silently leaving, pulling on my fawn coloured coat as casually as possible, in an "alirght, folks? CHEERS!" kind of way, as if to convey genial pub exiting body language through coat wearing gesture alone.
Heaving my smoke filled lungs towards college, I stumbled through the gate, down the car lanes, and towards the Kingsgate building. Quick gaze at my unruly hair, huffing at it's increasing curling insolence, and climbing the steps towards my class, so far within was a singular student. I sat and fell into a concious slumber.
Rapped awake by the next student re-arranging tables, I saw the others sprinkle in, talking "hello's", "how are you's", and "sorry i'm lates"
The actual lesson was not too harrowing, but for the presentation of text analysis, which I rambled through with peculiar lazy disinterest considering my enthusiasm at writing the thing a week prior. Paul impressed most, his understanding and description was professional and articulate down to the tiniest detail. Have a feeling that out of all of us he is excelling the most.
As the session pressed on, Carole returned our homework. My frankly RUSHED assuming of the character of Lockwood in letter form yielded me an A+! Not to mention some great comments, which surprised and pleased me greatly. Hey, I guess it was uncontrived, and there were some very good lines in it now I read it back.
Check it out. Note tutor comments, and slanting paragraphs. Bloody printer.
Perhaps thinking too much is a little foolhardy to the aspiring writer.
At any rate, we read (I myself becoming a little more adept at using my speaking voice) chapter four, seemingly having to analyse every sentence, as we drifted into the more historcial context of Nelly's narration, a relief after the heavy monologue of Lockwood.
Break. More Smoking in a porch, and staring at the Yarrow building thinking, whilst the others talked college through their smoke behind me.
My tiredness increased and my back ached. During the second half I shifted about and pulled at my hair while we learnt of "perspectives" of viewing prose. Then home, through the dark roads and half built warehouses, talkign to two other students and Carole, as she gave us a lift home.
Carole dropped me at the Bell, and I pushed open the squeaking inner door, seeing inside a smattering of familiar faces, including Mel and Gordon, who sighed "hi Phyllis's" with no enthusiasm at all, both tired after a heavy weekend or working.
Bill greeted me with usual geniality, and poured my Guiness. Ian is on holiday, you see. As I drank, I began to write this entry, which now commences to overlap itself.
After I had written this, I watched as the middle aged members of the Bell Chuckle Club chortled about seances and the supernatural. As well as burial grounds. Jesus Christ.
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crushed