All entries for May 2010

May 14, 2010

kitchen warfare

There's been drama over a kettle. My friend Chris asked me to write a short story about it. I put in big words he didn't understand and a fuckton of alliteration.

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We were two thieves, dancing in the shadows of the deserted kitchen, trying to evade that thin corridor of light that shone through the small sliver of glass in the door. We didn't hold guns in our hands, but mugs of scalding hot tea, trying not to spill them as we laughed in the clinical brightness of the cooking area, where the off white appliances were splattered with the deep reds of chilli and curry, cooked carelessly before the evening began. With our mission accomplished - the successful surveillance of the kitchen for the safety of our brethren - we snuck out with our bounty swiftly, locking the door behind us as if we were never there in the first place.

They'd never realise a thing.

It all started when the maths people from upstairs took their kettle to Rootes. This in itself was a ridiculous notion, considering maths people are a solitary bunch, who with the exception of my compatriot, do not have any friends other than the cold, hard, emotionless numbers that stare back at them from the page, mocking them for their choice of such an endeavour. The maths people, of all people. Through a devious forgetfulness and an understanding of trust, the drama boy came down to borrow ours, then leave it upstairs, absent-mindedly sipping coffee from his enormous mug inscribed with Shakespearean innuendo whilst reading Byron to himself. A conflict of classics; he didn't know how accurate he was. In the end, we told him to go elsewhere - I can't be doing without my fix of green tea and lemon in a morning - and well… it resulted in this.

This, being a shirtless boy standing in my kitchen using our toaster. A shirtless boy, with carefully dishevelled hair, who I didn't know. This was a betrayal. This was all out war.

It seems like nothing, right? Well, it wasn't. It was a clear statement of territory - 'I can use this toaster if I fucking well want to and nothing will stop me.' I had to do something about this. I began plotting; how best could I strike back? It clearly wasn't with maths pictures and a poor example of a giraffe. It may have been the maths people who started it, but I doubted it would be them to end it. I realised that we had one weapon they didn't - keys. Oh, how security matters these days. After that initial affront, I did my washing up, left and locked the door behind me. No way in. I heard rattling and voices. Strike one, completed. To really piss them off, I decided to go and get a cup of tea… and lock the door behind me. No lights, nothing. Guerrilla tactics. They wouldn't know who they were dealing with, but they would know there was no place for them here. My partner in crime followed me, eager for revenge - he was a recent convert to our side - and that's where we stood, in our pyjamas, enjoying our vindictive cups of tea.

Home safe, I heard frenetic rattling of door handles. The crown jewel - their kettle - was still ours. Whoever said that stealing could never be justified?


May 10, 2010

10.5.10

It seems like one step forward, two steps back; finishing the big portfolio today to find that I have yet another 3650 words to go before the constraints of coursework are no longer, and all for Monday. It seems as if I will have to lock myself away in my room for three more weeks, reading away and noting down all I can so that I can pass five hours of my existence which mean so much. It seems as though I'm fucked, but really, I know I'm not.

It's been an interesting start to term; two modules end and we choose two new, projects begin and continue, I discover how much of a cynical/pretentious twat I can be. And all between episodes of Dexter and slices of lemon drizzle cake, neither of which are aiding my figure, but certainly feeding my imagination. I meet and greet with rock stars and remember just why I do this in the first place. My guitar still sits idly in the corner, begging to be let out. In three weeks, it won't be left alone.

Today is my sister's birthday; she's seventeen. Seventeen years ago (I doubt it was to this very day, maybe a couple after), I stood in a hospital ward, charming all the doctors and nurses with my little herringbone suit and updo as styled by my grandmother. I stood next to my mother's bed, saw a new baby and wept, because I knew that I was no longer the only one. Only now I realise that it was in fact with joy, not sorrow as I first imagined it would be. I'm not sure how life would be without my sister, but one thing I know is that it would be far less funny. That girl needs to go into standup, she's still got me in tears.

I know that now it's time to race the dream. Sadly, it's less romantic than Mat Devine first described, but more buried in books, swimming in sheets of paper and consuming cups of coffee en masse. Not for the caffeine, you realise, but the cliche.


May 2010

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