It’s been a good
week. In some ways it’s a case of plus ca change. Did I roll up to
another class of Diane Cloche's minus assignment? Affirmative. Did
the insomnia return? At least for one night, yes. Maybe I need to up
the dosage. Is the trickle of students who get drunk and then walk
past my window shouting and singing throughout up to about 3 or 4 am
just another hassle I could do without? Absolutely. I’m pleased
they’re enjoying themselves and it’s a comforting reminder that
this quiet enclave is also a vibrant city that never sleeps, but the
intrusion annoys me. Perhaps because I resent their thoughtlessness
or that their behaviour is unpredictable. If they were trains I’d
know they were just passing through, but you never quite know how
long the noise will last with teenage human beings or what it
portends. Perhaps I secretly wish I was one of them. The students are
clearly having a very large helping of joy…
And what about my audition? Did I get a part? As a tree, perchance? Nada. Perhaps there’s a missed call on my phone.
And there’s been that whole essay business.
On the other hand, day by day, I felt pretty comfortable about things. That might simply be because I’m on amitriptyline, ostensibly for my insomnia, but it’s also used to treat depression. These past few days I’ve found myself more in the present. I was sat on my bed reading The Magic Toyshop the other evening and I suddenly realised I was just content sat there reading and it reminded me of being a child. Normally I don’t have the patience for book reading, albeit that I surround myself with them, I’m lucky if I read two a year, but a little more positivity has crept into my mind. It must have, because I’ve started liking Radio 6 more and usually the DJs annoy me.
On Monday I skipped Raisa’s child lecture for the first time. I had the child fiction essay to do and I don’t find the lectures particularly useful. They’re good but it’s food for thought, or spoon feeding, depending on your viewpoint.
On Tuesday I went to the Reading, Writing and Thinking lecture (again not necessary to me personally, but I learnt that the word fabulous comes from the word ‘fable’) at 9.00, taken by Professor Helen Wilcox who had come jet lagged from South America. (She’s not yet replied to my email asking for Paul’s number). I skipped the child lit lecture at 11.00. (We have one usually given by Raisa on Monday, one usually given by Laura, Tuesday).
I went to Laura’s child lit seminar in the afternoon. At the end, Laura looked like she was steeling herself when I approached her and I don’t blame her. As my mother once observed, I’m a cross between Basil Fawlty and Frank Spencer. That’s reason enough, but it was ‘all good’ as we say in modern parlance. I only want to know what the essay title needed to be. She pointed at me with two hands like someone brandishing pistols and said, “Everything okay now?” (or I’ll shoot) or words to that effect. It was, but it wasn’t long before I was causing trouble again, which we’ll get to shortly.
Then I went to my second meeting at Bangor English Dramatic Society and I felt welcome and enjoyed the company. It was a writer’s meeting and though I might put myself forward as an actor at some point I’ve joined on that basis. The organiser, Nicholas, is one of those people I associate with the name ‘Merlin’. He is thin with long blonde hair and a wizardish goatee. There may be some tints in the hair, or I may be a confused 42 year old, tints are common amongst the students, let’s put it that way. He is mature beyond his years in the manner that some geeks are because they are interested in relatively thoughtful pursuits. Amber is a mixed race and matronly girl who radiates a sense of chill like a large, satisfied cat. I’m not sure what her role is but it’s probably quite significant. As for the writers, there were only three of us in attendance. There was a pretty, intelligent slim girl who I see in Diane’s seminar and a pleasant, shy, small toothed young man who, like lots of people, reminds me of someone else. They all do, it comes with age.
We were in an open plan area opposite a lift in Pontio and we just bounced around ideas for a murder mystery we’ll write together. I suggested it could be set on a cruise on a ship that is sinking very slowly, or in a newsroom, and the detective an android who blames the murder on the cat. Surprisingly Nathan readily accepted these suggestions and copied them down. What was also nice was how we working together well and integrating our thoughts without friction.
Besides that we will be pitching our own 20 minute plays, if we so desire, and if we want there are opportunities to pitch a (minimum) 90 minute play in December and sometime next year. I also suggested that they consider adapting The London Cuckholds. It’s out of print but there’s a copy of it in Bangor library.
Then I went to The Menai pub afterwards to do the Words Aloud open mic poetry event but I decided not to stay because it was very loud and I figured I would find it hard to converse with people. However, the organiser Aidan wrote to me later to ask if I was there and when I explained the situation he kindly said he would try and sort out a better venue at some point. As I walked back down the road after leaving The Menai I saw a silhouette appear that looked rather like Zoe, my tutor, who is a published poet. She stopped and asked after me but I didn’t tell her why I’d left.
Now, about the mess-ay. I’d had notification on Tuesday that my extension request had been granted and extended by 5 days but it didn’t indicate whether this was 5 days from the time of notification, request or deadline. So on Wednesday morning I duly emailed Michelle Harrison (admin) and Laura about this. Laura wrote back to say it was counted from the submission deadline and was due Thursday by 12pm. I didn’t see how it could be. The submission deadline had been Friday noon so counting 5 days it would be Wednesday noon. I immediately wrote back to Laura to ask, are you sure, isn’t it blah blah blah? She never got back but I figured I’d take her at her word.
Wednesday lessons were fine. Nobody had done the reading required for Matthew Durham’s class, as per usual and he was as restrained about it as ever. I wonder if he’s planning his escape to a higher grade university but at least he knows the deal, he’s Bangor alumni himself. Everything was okay in DeAnn’s class. I quickly wrote a dialogue whilst the other students read out theirs and it passed muster.
Now here’s the thing. I should have finished off that damned essay. But I figured, well, Laura says I’ve got until midnight tomorrow so I’ll do the poem for Catherine instead and some Magic Toyshop. But the fact is, I had plenty of time, in fact I was unable to sleep until gone 4.00am. And all this time I was up in bed unable to sleep a little voice kept saying, “Do Laura’s essay, do Laura’s essay.” And I kept saying, “No, I’m tired and I don’t need to get it in until tomorrow midnight.”
Of course, Michelle Harrison rang me up Thursday morning and said it should have been in the day before. I said I thought as much but Laura told me otherwise. “Well, we’ll have to honour that but you need to get it in now.”
“But I was going to tidy it up this afternoon.”
“Too bad, you’ve had long enough.”
Long enough? I’d had three and a half days (counting from when I realised I had an essay), the students had sixteen. And why didn’t I know? Because the Bangor university website erroneously states the essay is due at the end of term. Because I was ill on the day Laura discussed it. Because there was no email to announce the essay. Because...okay, I’ll shut up. Fact is, I should have checked the somewhat labyrinthine online system to see if we had anything. That I cannot deny. So anyway, my essay was not an essay I would consider to be A grade. It was a rush job, and I talked too much about my chosen texts and not enough about their effect on my writing process (very little, actually) so I expect a B at best and quite conceivably a C. If I don’t get a lowish A for the Keats, though, I’ll be having dark thoughts.
By Thursday things are always pretty much plain sailing. Just Catherine’s super easy poetry class in the morning and Alex’s dull (as he himself admits) but cosy lecture series on how to write an essay. Actually, this is one I might actually come back to revise. I pretty much know innately how to structure an argument, it just comes naturally- what with my hyper critical tendencies- but I see no harm in learning the structure they suggest. I guess you could say there’s no harm in learning anything that’s suggested but a lot of it does seem to be quite obvious. Maybe it’s that little voice again. Where does it come from? I know not. It doesn’t speak actual words. It’s a feeling.
I usually work on my own when Alex asks us to discuss something with a partner but I showed my workings to Alli, one of the very few mature students on our course. She told me that she was at The Menai the other night and also thought it was too noisy. After the lecture I spoke to Alex and he was so sweet and understanding. He thanked me for pointing out that the website error and told me not to worry, first year marks don’t really count etc. I felt I’d just had a conversation with an angel. It was an ideal prelude to a shop at Morrisons afterwards. If he’s a father I imagine he’s a very good one. Alex for president, etc.
Okay, I’m rambling. Make up class with Catherine on Friday due to her being away. Spoke to a really chatty cashier last night in Tesco. Like my dentist, she fired all sorts of questions at me. Did I have a good day? What did I do? What was I studying at uni? What did I want to do after uni? But the fact that she was only 24 I might almost have thought she was chatting me up but some cashiers/human beings are like this and I appreciated the conversation. Today she’ll be celebrating her birthday with her twin brother and his fiancée.
Couple more things. We had two fire drills during the week, both after 1.00 am. Everyone seemed to enjoy them.
One thing I’ve not done is talk about the students. The truth is, I like them. They are probably the sort of category I would have slotted into when I was their age. When it comes down to it there is something wholesome and comforting about them, like a new Marks and Spencer wool rich jumper.
They all have nice teeth, nice skin, nice hair. One minute they seem as mature and intelligent as any adult but they have the vitality and certainty of the young and it’s nice to be around. I feel I’m learning from them. It’s probably the sleeping pills talking. I’ll be back to my grumpy self soon enough.
And what about my audition? Did I get a part? As a tree, perchance? Nada. Perhaps there’s a missed call on my phone.
And there’s been that whole essay business.
On the other hand, day by day, I felt pretty comfortable about things. That might simply be because I’m on amitriptyline, ostensibly for my insomnia, but it’s also used to treat depression. These past few days I’ve found myself more in the present. I was sat on my bed reading The Magic Toyshop the other evening and I suddenly realised I was just content sat there reading and it reminded me of being a child. Normally I don’t have the patience for book reading, albeit that I surround myself with them, I’m lucky if I read two a year, but a little more positivity has crept into my mind. It must have, because I’ve started liking Radio 6 more and usually the DJs annoy me.
On Monday I skipped Raisa’s child lecture for the first time. I had the child fiction essay to do and I don’t find the lectures particularly useful. They’re good but it’s food for thought, or spoon feeding, depending on your viewpoint.
On Tuesday I went to the Reading, Writing and Thinking lecture (again not necessary to me personally, but I learnt that the word fabulous comes from the word ‘fable’) at 9.00, taken by Professor Helen Wilcox who had come jet lagged from South America. (She’s not yet replied to my email asking for Paul’s number). I skipped the child lit lecture at 11.00. (We have one usually given by Raisa on Monday, one usually given by Laura, Tuesday).
I went to Laura’s child lit seminar in the afternoon. At the end, Laura looked like she was steeling herself when I approached her and I don’t blame her. As my mother once observed, I’m a cross between Basil Fawlty and Frank Spencer. That’s reason enough, but it was ‘all good’ as we say in modern parlance. I only want to know what the essay title needed to be. She pointed at me with two hands like someone brandishing pistols and said, “Everything okay now?” (or I’ll shoot) or words to that effect. It was, but it wasn’t long before I was causing trouble again, which we’ll get to shortly.
Then I went to my second meeting at Bangor English Dramatic Society and I felt welcome and enjoyed the company. It was a writer’s meeting and though I might put myself forward as an actor at some point I’ve joined on that basis. The organiser, Nicholas, is one of those people I associate with the name ‘Merlin’. He is thin with long blonde hair and a wizardish goatee. There may be some tints in the hair, or I may be a confused 42 year old, tints are common amongst the students, let’s put it that way. He is mature beyond his years in the manner that some geeks are because they are interested in relatively thoughtful pursuits. Amber is a mixed race and matronly girl who radiates a sense of chill like a large, satisfied cat. I’m not sure what her role is but it’s probably quite significant. As for the writers, there were only three of us in attendance. There was a pretty, intelligent slim girl who I see in Diane’s seminar and a pleasant, shy, small toothed young man who, like lots of people, reminds me of someone else. They all do, it comes with age.
We were in an open plan area opposite a lift in Pontio and we just bounced around ideas for a murder mystery we’ll write together. I suggested it could be set on a cruise on a ship that is sinking very slowly, or in a newsroom, and the detective an android who blames the murder on the cat. Surprisingly Nathan readily accepted these suggestions and copied them down. What was also nice was how we working together well and integrating our thoughts without friction.
Besides that we will be pitching our own 20 minute plays, if we so desire, and if we want there are opportunities to pitch a (minimum) 90 minute play in December and sometime next year. I also suggested that they consider adapting The London Cuckholds. It’s out of print but there’s a copy of it in Bangor library.
Then I went to The Menai pub afterwards to do the Words Aloud open mic poetry event but I decided not to stay because it was very loud and I figured I would find it hard to converse with people. However, the organiser Aidan wrote to me later to ask if I was there and when I explained the situation he kindly said he would try and sort out a better venue at some point. As I walked back down the road after leaving The Menai I saw a silhouette appear that looked rather like Zoe, my tutor, who is a published poet. She stopped and asked after me but I didn’t tell her why I’d left.
Now, about the mess-ay. I’d had notification on Tuesday that my extension request had been granted and extended by 5 days but it didn’t indicate whether this was 5 days from the time of notification, request or deadline. So on Wednesday morning I duly emailed Michelle Harrison (admin) and Laura about this. Laura wrote back to say it was counted from the submission deadline and was due Thursday by 12pm. I didn’t see how it could be. The submission deadline had been Friday noon so counting 5 days it would be Wednesday noon. I immediately wrote back to Laura to ask, are you sure, isn’t it blah blah blah? She never got back but I figured I’d take her at her word.
Wednesday lessons were fine. Nobody had done the reading required for Matthew Durham’s class, as per usual and he was as restrained about it as ever. I wonder if he’s planning his escape to a higher grade university but at least he knows the deal, he’s Bangor alumni himself. Everything was okay in DeAnn’s class. I quickly wrote a dialogue whilst the other students read out theirs and it passed muster.
Now here’s the thing. I should have finished off that damned essay. But I figured, well, Laura says I’ve got until midnight tomorrow so I’ll do the poem for Catherine instead and some Magic Toyshop. But the fact is, I had plenty of time, in fact I was unable to sleep until gone 4.00am. And all this time I was up in bed unable to sleep a little voice kept saying, “Do Laura’s essay, do Laura’s essay.” And I kept saying, “No, I’m tired and I don’t need to get it in until tomorrow midnight.”
Of course, Michelle Harrison rang me up Thursday morning and said it should have been in the day before. I said I thought as much but Laura told me otherwise. “Well, we’ll have to honour that but you need to get it in now.”
“But I was going to tidy it up this afternoon.”
“Too bad, you’ve had long enough.”
Long enough? I’d had three and a half days (counting from when I realised I had an essay), the students had sixteen. And why didn’t I know? Because the Bangor university website erroneously states the essay is due at the end of term. Because I was ill on the day Laura discussed it. Because there was no email to announce the essay. Because...okay, I’ll shut up. Fact is, I should have checked the somewhat labyrinthine online system to see if we had anything. That I cannot deny. So anyway, my essay was not an essay I would consider to be A grade. It was a rush job, and I talked too much about my chosen texts and not enough about their effect on my writing process (very little, actually) so I expect a B at best and quite conceivably a C. If I don’t get a lowish A for the Keats, though, I’ll be having dark thoughts.
By Thursday things are always pretty much plain sailing. Just Catherine’s super easy poetry class in the morning and Alex’s dull (as he himself admits) but cosy lecture series on how to write an essay. Actually, this is one I might actually come back to revise. I pretty much know innately how to structure an argument, it just comes naturally- what with my hyper critical tendencies- but I see no harm in learning the structure they suggest. I guess you could say there’s no harm in learning anything that’s suggested but a lot of it does seem to be quite obvious. Maybe it’s that little voice again. Where does it come from? I know not. It doesn’t speak actual words. It’s a feeling.
I usually work on my own when Alex asks us to discuss something with a partner but I showed my workings to Alli, one of the very few mature students on our course. She told me that she was at The Menai the other night and also thought it was too noisy. After the lecture I spoke to Alex and he was so sweet and understanding. He thanked me for pointing out that the website error and told me not to worry, first year marks don’t really count etc. I felt I’d just had a conversation with an angel. It was an ideal prelude to a shop at Morrisons afterwards. If he’s a father I imagine he’s a very good one. Alex for president, etc.
Okay, I’m rambling. Make up class with Catherine on Friday due to her being away. Spoke to a really chatty cashier last night in Tesco. Like my dentist, she fired all sorts of questions at me. Did I have a good day? What did I do? What was I studying at uni? What did I want to do after uni? But the fact that she was only 24 I might almost have thought she was chatting me up but some cashiers/human beings are like this and I appreciated the conversation. Today she’ll be celebrating her birthday with her twin brother and his fiancée.
Couple more things. We had two fire drills during the week, both after 1.00 am. Everyone seemed to enjoy them.
One thing I’ve not done is talk about the students. The truth is, I like them. They are probably the sort of category I would have slotted into when I was their age. When it comes down to it there is something wholesome and comforting about them, like a new Marks and Spencer wool rich jumper.
They all have nice teeth, nice skin, nice hair. One minute they seem as mature and intelligent as any adult but they have the vitality and certainty of the young and it’s nice to be around. I feel I’m learning from them. It’s probably the sleeping pills talking. I’ll be back to my grumpy self soon enough.
Keep the positive thoughts up - also there is already an adapted London Cuckolds out there, but I can't remember who adapted it. It's the one I did in '02. Really not too bad at all.
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