I woke up in the morning- it was a splendid morning too, looked out of my window, saw the grey sky, my back yard and the overflowing bins. I stream of consciousnessed my way to breakfast, where I was met by Patrick. I didn’t let my housemate guess that I have a mind of my own, so I sat for an hour pretending that I too, was engrossed in Youtube videos.
Did it matter? I asked myself as I walked toward Owens Park bus stop. Did it matter that my student life was about to cease completely? All this must go on without me, was I fearful and nostalgic, or did it console me to know that Kebab King would still be there long after my departure. How unbelievable graduation is!- that is must end, and no one in the whole world would know how I had loved it, every instant…
The door to the magic bus opened.
As the bus moved through Rusholme, I examined the myriad impressions, the innumerable shower of takeaway possibilities. I began to hear an incessant voice, telling me how the HM government were conspiring against me and how the masons are evil. Relief, it was not my in my head, but crazy bus lady.
I received my marked essay on women’s exclusion from literary history; I doubt it will become of seminal importance in feminist studies. I was allowed uncensored access to the John Ryland’s extensive library, boom! I sat there and pondered English Literature; after all I am an English Literature student. Is literature of today a patch on the Elizabethans? I do not want to lay blame with our writers, or professors, but with the crude bundling of amateurs. Words failed me, Omfg I could not find a word to express my emotion, so I surfed the web to find one. I worked a little on my writing, and submitted a first review which is to be published, unsigned in The Mancunion next week.
At the end of a long, elusive and engaging day I went for a walk around Platt fields and considered throwing myself in the lake. But didn’t, and decided instead to drown my dissertation sorrows in a few scoops at the Friendship Inn.
