Ellie Healy: Week 2
This week Ellie’s revision sanctuary is violated
Contrary to the backlash I received last week, one thing I actually love about uni is the fact that I buzz off meeting people from completely different backgrounds to myself.
There is a secret computer room that’s always empty in the sciencey area that I have recently found, but I can’t tell you what/where it is because then it will get busy and I’ll fail my degree, sorry.
So, last Wednesday I was in this secret location writing happily about Sylvia Plath and literary linguistics (yeah, that’s right, I’m well clever), when these two girls sat down next to me all giggly. I could detect a hint of ‘Alien’ by Tierry Mugler on Girl #1, and I thought “This bitch has good taste in perfume, we should be best mates.” Alas, it wasn’t meant to be.
About half an hour later, I hit a wall with my essay and started getting distracted. In case you don’t already know, Google Maps is fascinating source of procrastination. I decided to see how my house at home was doing, which is a semi-detached cream-coloured lovely little number. There I was, staring at it fondly, feeling a bit homesick, when I saw Girl #1 out the corner of my eye, spying on me.
Suddenly, a bit of paper fell off her side of the desk. I leant down, picked it up and asked her if it was hers. She avoided all eye-contact (though she probably couldn’t see me through her thick-rimmed hipster Ray-Ban specs anyway), and with a flick of her hand she spat, “Nope. Not mine.” in a quick, sharp retort.
Then, right in front of me, completely shameless, Girl #1 said to Girl #2, “Babe, let me show you my house on Google maps.” I rolled my eyes and smirked. I knew what was about to happen. A battle of the cribs was about to commence.
I was not prepared for what was about to ensue. Girl #1 had a big beautiful house on top of a cliff with a stunning view of the sea. Girl #2 had a gorgeous country manor surrounded by greenery and cows. Girl #1 had a brand new swimming pool built only three years ago on the grounds of her old school. Girl #2 showed off her daddy’s Audi on the front drive, etc… this continued for a number of minutes.
I sat there, well and truly starstruck, and if I’m honest, a touch jealous.
How incredible must their childhoods have been with gardens that massive?! What better start to your day than to look out your bedroom and see an actual cow?! Imagine being bored at the weekend so you walk to the end of your road and go to the BEACH with your mates?! This was beyond the realms of my imagination.
The point I was trying to make is that for whatever reason some of them don’t want anything to do with me. I particularly like hearing what it was like for people growing up – before a couple of years ago I was in a kind of ignorant bubble where I couldn’t imagine what other thirteen-year-olds did at weekends if they weren’t chilling in Bexleyheath McDonalds or getting smashed off one can of Strongbow down the park.
To end my column, I would like to introduce you all to a bloke who calls himself ‘Pogo’. I was attacked by him last Tuesday at Market Bar (a Mecca for BNOCs and Rah’s alike), when he approached me in the smoking area, told me his ‘name’, and asked me if I would like to “bounce on his stick”.
Shout out to Tom, from London Victoria, who later proudly confessed to being a Rah and loving it. In classic Rah fashion, as soon as I opened my mouth to mug him off in front of his weird mates, he asked me if I went to Trent. Nice one. Banter.