5pm on the roof terrace, my first week of uuunniii, an abundance of free red wine. it looked a lot like my last day of sixth form; much like that final day, you get to shake hands with a lot of people you don’t particularly like.
having necked a good four thimbles of cold red wine i took to rolling tabs in an effort to look busy, since at this point i was still certain that if anyone caught a glimpse of my phone i was gonna be mugged at knife point. the head of eng soon put a stop to this when he told us that because the rooftop had two solid walls, it could not be considered ‘outside’ and therefore not a ‘smoking area’. all of this is minor detail but you can begin to get a sense of how increasingly awkward i was becoming because my two main go to’s smoking and pretending to text were thwarted by THE man.
at last, a character i’ll refer to as jaques approached me nonchalantly amid the hollerin of reading list one-upmanship. a little older than the average fresher, he looked a lot like he didn’t give much of a shit about this poncy little get together and asked if i fancied sacking it off to go to the pub instead. course i fucking did, the only place i feel comfortable is swimming in alcohol. this is where things re-deteriorate.
so what are you interested in? besides english obviously.
the honest answer to that is getting lashed and swooning over tall lads with facial hair. the fact that i’m not even particularly interested in english was pitfall enough, but thankfully that’s something that’s assumed about you on an english degree at an arts college.
beyond that is a series of failed efforts at photography, fashion, or that time i taught myself the first 30 seconds of skinny love on the keyboard that i’d previously sacked off aged 8. i had absolutely fuck all to tell the guy. and just like that, the city backdrop in my peripheral and increasingly dizzy head combined to create the perfect, wishy washy, arts twat answer to blow all these rehearsed responses out of the water:
well, that’s kinda the reason i’ve moved to london, to find out what my interests are, i’m not sure yet, it’s why i’m here
so there you have it: a response as vague as it is brilliant. you can be as vapid a character as me and still come off as remotely interesting, the best part - no more questions can be asked on the matter.
eat chips, kiss lads, get a hobby when ur 30.
(i went to the pub, his friends talked about freud a lot and i spent two hours staring into a bottle of desperados as if it were a tunnel view into my own bladder)