I am finally free from the shackles of English part one. I will never have to think about medieval literature again, or Renaissance or Milton, who, quite frankly, is quite possibly over-rated. Or the functions of criticism (bah). Next year will be beat poets or just Lawrence Ferlinghetti, and tragedy, and practical criticism and another subject of my choice. I have a bruised wrist and blue fingernails, and not much brain power left. I have forgotten what normal people do, and woke up at 7am ready to leap into my desk chair and start writing out record cards and post-it notes frantically.
I have written fifteen essays this week.
Four WHOLE months of freedom.
The boy next door who is called Wilbur of Wilfred and apparently is a yoyo champion, whatever that is, knocked on my door yesterday and asked if he could oil my door. I could hear much barely-restrained anger in his voice. Yes, I said meekly, watched him spraying the hinges passive aggressively. Close it, he ordered, and I pushed the door shut with him standing on the other side, and it did not creak and moan and scream horribly. J imagined for a moment Wilbur or Wilfred standing at my door with a bottle of baby oil in his underwear.
I have time to blowdry my hair again. What will you do, asked Marco behind the bar, as I stood blinking and slightly confused before an array of cakes. Um. I said. Sleep. And have fun. What, he asked, and his face was a picture of confusion. Have you had no fun? So I cleaned my massive, mouldy collection of kitchen items which have slowly accumulated, and did my laundry.
The ducklings are older and bigger and uglier. Singly they are no longer cute, only en masse, when they walk through the porter’s lodge, and the librarian feeds them old bread from a plastic bag, muttering quietly to them.
And the sun is shining.
Goddamn Right 