Communication Lost

Saturday November 27 1982

Everything here has gone slightly insane. Sharon is threatening to move out of the house into one of the blocks, because she's had enough of A (her room mate) bringing creepy blokes back and having it off with them in the bed six feet away from her. It's hard not to agree that she has a point. A doesn't exactly look much of a temptress with her little pug face and rat-tail perm (not to mention her line in nylon babydoll nighties), but she seems irresistible to a certain type of boy - the type with a bumfluff moustache who wears one of those ties with piano keys on it, judging by the one I surprised on the landing last night. It must be so embarrassing for poor Sharon, but A doesn't seem bothered in the least. She's a bit rough round the edges really.

Meanwhile, Little C has had some sort of emotional breakdown and withdrawn into her bedroom, only coming out for immediate bodily functions and hot water bottles. It's Day Four now and nobody's actually had sight of her, we just hear her creeping round like a ghost. I tried getting her to come out the night before last but just got some single-word grunts through the door, none of which sounded friendly. I suppose she'll surface when she's ready, and there's music coming from her room (endless replays of Carole King's 'Tapestry' from what I can make out, how drippy) so at least we know she hasn't hung herself. Vegetarians are very sensitive types.

Debs Barraclough has pissed off all the girls downstairs because she won't leave her bike outside and keeps bringing it into the hallway, where they've all fallen over it in the dark at least once. She calls the bloody thing 'Sebastian' and talks to it like it's a pet. And she's got a boyfriend! He's one of the Indian medics called Viraf, very polite and quiet, and he looks like Jack Sprat alongside her. I've got a feeling they might have 'done it', which is hard to imagine. I'd have expected her to stay a virgin forever.

Speaking of which, I'm up writing this at 6.30 on a Saturday morning not because I'm so keen to document my fascinating life, but because I was woken up half an hour ago by the charming sounds of R having it off very loudly in the room below me with K (Jo's room mate. I assume Jo is staying with her boyfriend at Beaumont Hall.). She's a top-volume groaner and he's a panter/puffer, you might like to know. And he shouted 'oh god' at the end. What a surprise. They got off with each other at the JCR Bar Games last night - a horrific night out that showed up student life at its worst. Pint-drinking contests (halves for the girls!  Pathetic), leg-wrestling, a Chunder Race*, and them something stupid where you got put in pairs and had to do press-ups with your partner lying underneath you. I wasn't getting involved in any of it, but R and all the sports boys were loving it as were Charlotte (naturally) and K, who ended up lying under R. I suppose it was bound to happen after that, who could resist such seduction? They waltzed off together and Charlotte came up to me and made a point of asking if I'd seen them. What a bitch she is, not that I'm actually bothered. Though I bet that's the end of my chats with R**. Ah well. K's his type, and I'm not. And he's not mine. But he was nice to talk to.

I've still heard nothing from M though he must have got my letter on Tuesday or Wednesday. I thought he might have phoned me but I was obviously right in the first place and he doesn't care. I'm just going to get on with my work and concentrate on that. I'm fed up of trying to socialise with these kids and pretending it's fun. They're all either mad or immature. I'm hungry.

*Footnote from 2012 - Chunder Race. A selection of the most socially inadequate boys lined up to devour, at top speed, a selection of particularly discordant foodstuffs such as a tin of pilchards, cup of marmalade, large cube of lard, Mars bar coated in Marmite, pickled egg dipped in Angel Delight, etc. They were then spun round rapidly several times and made to run round a circuit. The one who did it in the shortest time and without chundering into the bin placed in the centre of the circuit was the winner. The food was provided by the Hall of Residence. We were all on grants and only paid thirty quid a week for accommodation and three hot meals a day. No wonder people hated bloody students. 

**It was. Though we made contact via Friends Reunited a few years ago. He'd just moved back to Basingstoke after several years of living in Berlin working for a multinational. Still conflicted about whether or not he'd sold out his roots. 


Saturday November 27 1982 ( about two hours later)

I'm going mad now, madder than anyone else in this stupid place. I got up, washed my hair (ran into R coming out of the bathroom, he looked embarrassed ha ha) and went over to breakfast early. There was a lot of post in my pigeonhole. Among them a letter from M, and a letter from JA. The only thing I could think of was they had both agreed to write to me at the same time, to tell me they're seeing each other. I don't know why I opened hers first. Trying to put off reading his version, I suppose. But what she said was that she'd gone to the R club on Tuesday night, and M was there. "M asked if you'd come home at the weekend and I said I didn't think so as you hadn't rung me, but then you're not very good at ringing people as we all know. He told me there had been some sort of misunderstanding between him and you (have you met someone else? Is it the sports hero? Do tell!) but he said he was going to write to you and sort it out. He seemed very confident that he could explain it all and get you to reconsider, I must say." And then two pages of the usual gossip and nonsense.

So I opened M's letter. Four pages in which he poured out his heart and practically begged me not to finish with him. I've never seen anything like this written by a boy ("that weekend with you was the best in living memory... I wouldn't have cared if you said you didn't want to go up West, I'd rather play records in  your room and talk to you than ever go to the Wag club again..." My God.).  He'd been expecting me to phone him (which I'd definitely never said I'd do - it's too embarrassing if his Mum answers), and when I didn't (because I was waiting for him to phone me like he'd bloody said he would), he assumed I'd cooled off. Apparently he spent the evening with Bob sitting in the garage with the guitars, Bob trying to persuade him to pick up the phone. Now he can see he was being stubborn and proud, he reckons. Yes he was, or he's a liar. He even put lyrics from that song* at the end "to remind you of what we've had and to ask you not to throw it away over a misunderstanding." I've got his letter and JA's letter here on my desk and I keep looking from one to the other. I hate what she said about him feeling so "very confident" that he could get me back by writing. If I fall for what he's said in the letter, he'll think he's got me on a string.

I'm going out for a walk.

©Kolley Kibber 2012. Mine, all mine.