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[02 Nov 2004|09:22am] |
Such fun is using South Eastern trains. It's like entrusting your journey to a directionless and headless horseman, but with less accomodating transport.
My rush to catch the eleven past train was a futile exercise, like a tiger hunting a dead bison. It arrived five minutes after my panting frame, a chuckling mockery in it's relaxed slide into the station.
Sidled on board, forced to dump myself into a cramped single seat amongst cackling school girls, who merged into a shouting screeching mass, encouraging me to seek distance by staring out of the window at the tiny yellow lights in the dark outside, drifting beacons in a black open air tunnel.
This short sleepy trip was at least warm and otherwise uneventful and did not prepare me very well for what was to come.
A fucking FORTY FIVE minute delay, booted squarely into my face by the connecting train having left a single minute before ours had arrived.
Now you would think that this idiot's cabaret would have a sense somewhere, and keep a train bound for Victoria back a little until the one from Charing Cross had arrived. So as to aid some fucking conveniency for those of us who suffer their service. After all, a minute's lateness is NOTHING compared to what is usual, so this would have not MATTERED.
Even this paled to grey against the darkness my mood was taking. The next train, (the fifty minutes past) was CANCELLED, due to "Structual damage" to a bridge. That's fine, BUT IT WOULD HAVE NOT HURT TO HAVE HELD THE PREVIOUS ONE BACK FOR A FUCKING MINUTE NOW, WOULD IT? No. Still, idiots must have SOME organisation, if only to irritate.
S.E's insolence towards me continued, as amongst freezing winds gathering, and shivers battering my countenance into near rage, the platform lady announced that the next train was due at six fifteen, forty five FUCKING minutes away. I sighed, and resigned myself to another fuck up, and slumped irrascibly onto the ugly holed bench, rolled a cigarrete, and blew the smoke out absently taking token puffs without getting any real drag. I stabbed at my cd player buttons, searching for music to suit a BOLLOCK freezing Englishman sitting on a lonely platform gradually vibrating like a dying polar bear, and yawning constantly.
I watched the platform for all, noticing all; the rail worker pottering about in a utilities shed, a single dim light amongst a line of equidistant identical lights, seeing it gain the same luminosity of the others over time and watched it every sodding minute until it did so.
"Come on! You can do it! Gain glowage you watted CUNT!". I did not say this, but given my shivering indignation I could well have.
My hair was a pont tailed dark explosion, throwing itself around without permission, the bangs slapping me about the eyes and nose, tickling me into further shivers. A hooded chav sat next to me ruining what little comfort I had, his face concealed like a proto Black Rider though with far less menace.
Still, as two more chavs took up residence (as this cloaked idiot departed), I left, noticing that the train was to appear at the opposite platform. I shifted myself to a new position coldly and listlessley lolling against a rail and folding my arms as if to show my indifference to one and all, staring silently at my feet.
Minutes became concrete, ponderous steps of a giant, but eventually the train settled into view as if saying "Alright, i'm bloody here, keep your eyeballs in, lest you become so amazed by my appearance that they fall out and roll under my fucking wheels"
We boarded and a again my wearyness overtook and I let head drop towards reflection, looking at my face..too tired to analyse it with my usual fault finding fashion. However, I was still displeased by this pale image in a general way. A B.D.D thing.
Broadstairs loomed like the arms of a judas, it's dirty station leering into view. I left the train and took up walking head down with headphones on, music only partly drowing the sounds of the other commuters and their loud barked nothings, wasting as so many so much breath on aimless swearing and tediously bland exchanges.
The walk was equally as wretched as the train journey, but shorter as I fast covered much ground briskly trying to outdistance the sprinkling of hateful chav groupings, maintaining this distance should I get too close and leave myself vulnerable to imbecilic criticism. Probably about my hair.
I got to college swiftly, rather pleased with the energy of my journey. Evidently, the downturn in smoking has helped although I was puffing away at the time.
Dived into the complex, music blaring in my ears and went into the toilets to adjust my misbehaving hair; trying to tie it into a hair band, about as easy as shoving squirrels into a hula hoop.
College was itself a variable experience. Essays were read for an hour by Carole, to the class. She went through almost every one with a markswoman’s accuracy, pointing out the advantages and disadvantages of each, generally praising every one, which indeed I would have been. So much talent displayed, so almost depressingly so.
However, her appraisal of mine was to overturn this inferiority I felt, even after a horrid beginning.
She began by reading with a negative comment, which was that the opening paragraph was redundant, as it was evident that we were doing what my intro stated and that “anyone who didn’t know that wouldn’t be there in the first place”.
I choked into my soul, shifting embarrassingly in my seat despite the anonymity of the readings…..I was KILLING myself inside for being so fucking stupid, despite the fact we were previously taught to write this as an intro.
I was expecting the worst. She dived into the rest after this missive with a reading that put away this embarrassment.
She read the entire remainder of my essay with approval, noting what I’d done in each place (using alliteration, good language as if in the character of Bronte), and my spirit and confidence raised immeasurably. I allowed my little face a smile, and would have jigged but this would have been silly. And so I did it mentally rather than physically.
Get this thought; everyone’s essay was BRILLIANT, not a single one was rubbish. All were diverse, personal pieces of equal technical excellence, in both answering the question, and also having a reaction exclusive to the writer. I am in good company here. This is not a chav’s playgroup.
I got an “A”. According to the tutor’s notes, it was much better where I gave personal reaction to the text, and the organisation was excellent and specific to the question.
However, the presentation assignment was horrid. I explained that due to the stupid amount of time I’d afforded to the essay from THIS week, (that hateful 1,000 word behemoth I’ve been so wrought over) I neglected to spend a great deal of time researching feminism. This admittance drew sniggers from certain elements of the class and my self image horrors returned, as if they were laughing at every part of me, and my bumbling through words I can speak so eloquently in the medium of word and writing.
I blurred this with my self image, felt ugly, unimportant, stupid, and worse; significantly un-intelligent, as if a scrawny ignorant hobbit amongst aristocratic beings.
I stumbled frankly, through the little notes I had written, simply explained in a small voice that I simply was not very good at this public speaking thing, and sat silent. I hated myself, I felt like an idiot again, like I’d made no progress with my confidence with people, my self confidence. How can I take place in society and be as others are if I’m still so stupidly reserved and small? What the fuck is wrong with me that I can still feel so witless and imbecilic amongst people I should be simply overthrowing?
I don’t know. All doubt forced temporarily away talking to Paul. He encourages so much as he takes great interest in helping others and bringing the discussion out of them. He’s even swapped essays with me, so as to give us a better understanding of each other’s method of looking at prose. He brings to the fore the latent words one has to say, and this really does help.
We climbed into Carole’s six seater, and drove away from the college, her dropping Paul at the road he lives near, and then drifting through the dark November night, over road bumps and the generally uneven and twisting and turning streets, through suburbs, town, and open country lanes, blackened on each side with deep night.
I chatted to Carole during this and her son, Shaun whom had sat in on his mother’s English lesson. He’d taken great interest in this, intently listening to her teaching as we had, whilst addicted to his drawing sheet. Such youthful enthusiasm is rare, and he was merrily talking of cars and Scooby Doo, as we all talked about films, too.
Saying my thanks and goodbyes, I came to the post college pleasure of the Bell, always a little more welcoming a sight after the tiring pursuit of educational development.
Aleks and Dee were there, so I stood with them and talked for a while, glad simply to be home. After they’d both hazed away I was left with Ian to once again dismiss my hair. I do not care, this at least gives him some material, for without my hair he’d have little to criticise me about. We must let idiots have their toys to play with, after all. I just smile safe in the knowledge that despite my younger years my wit and graces are so far above his as to be in the fucking stratosphere.
And so, I began to tire and drink with equal measure, dragging the ball point pen across paper, and documenting the night. And that is where this entry ends.
After completion, I walked home swinging my crappy old carrier bag with all my stuff in, slumped into bed and slapped on Return of the King again. When I’d awoken this morning, the menu was once again blaring at me, it’s small piece of audio repeating over and over. The clock read six forty…I groaned and lay back, until finally getting up and typing this lot out. How long have I taken then?
Shit! About an hour and a half. Not bad for 1,700 words, considering i'm yawning, tired, disinterested, and looking at my diseased favourites all the while.
Morning!
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