Observations
Adjusting
to the hard, beige-ish coloured wooden seat, the student ahead of me huffed as
his golden brown coffee sloshed on to the round table top in the Hub. The small
splurt of hot coffee on the table jiggled with the vibration of his overly
sized mobile phone he'd placed just shy of my own.
Looking
down; trainers, converse, Dr.Martens, and sandals - of all things in this
dreary weather - passed the table as I sat, staring intently throughout the
students' social area.
A small
spark of sunlight beamed through the large wall of window at the far end of the
large space, making way for the pelting rain that swiftly followed. Umbrellas
flew up in an array of bright colours; from pink to florescent yellow to the
outstanding blue of a foreign sea. One however, that did stand out to me was
one of a midnight black colour in the heart of a large group of female students
making inaudible comments as they patted their hair, visibly worrying about
frizz due to the heavy rain. A blonde girl bravely walked, without any cover,
in front of the window that I had moved towards in order to obtain a better
over-view of the small splatters of rain hitting the red faces of the PE
students that ran past in their shorts and t-shirts - the poor people.
Staring
as I wrote, a woman in an overly large bright purple hoody with 'Edge Hill
University' printed in a vibrant yellow colour slipped on a clear liquid, that
I assumed to be water, after it had been spilt on the floor by one of the
hurrying students as they rushed to a table in the warm, dry congregation of
huddling people. With the elegance of a swan, the woman rose to her
black-booted feet, pushed her nose high up in to the air, in an attempt to get
over her embarrassment, and strode on her way as I stood to leave.
Notebook
and pen in hand, I watched as students, lecturers, bin men and all manner of
other people stared as I found the nearest tree to stand beneath, sheltering
myself from the onslaught of rain.
Looking
back towards the Hub, I stood and watched one of the lecturers that had
detailed the mass observation to our class; black shoulder bag in hand,
desperately running to throw away the empty white starbucks cup that had a
wooden stirrer poking out of its top.
The rain
had stopped, so I wandered towards the main reception area, greeted by 30 or so
freshers piling off of the Edge Link bus as they hurried towards their various
destinations. A man, older than the others, carried a worn copy of 'Wuthering
Heights' as he slowly meandered through the group, seemingly unaware of me as
he walked straight through a puddle by the side of the curb, submerging his,
previously, white 'Nike' trainer in the murky rain water. An almost inaudible
curse escaped his mouth as he lifted his left foot out and shook it off,
batting away a browning leaf as it relentlessly clung to his shoe.
Gracie Marie (e-name)
Observations of the
lake
28/10/2012
The waterfall falls peacefully into the lake which is
home for the quarrelling ducks. All of a sudden a rabbit bounces across the
springy grass as a man’s cigarette smoke escapes into the air.
A jumbo jet echoes in the mighty sky above, whilst the
papers in my journal blow apart in a swift gust of wind. And a cold, deep
shiver creeps down the back of my spine.
Everything is quiet but the constant chopping sound of
the gardener’s sheers. He beheads the plants with an expression of satisfaction
across his face.
The wind picks up and produces a distant roar, spiralling
through the atmosphere around me. Waves of students float past me offering
confused glances; one of which is eating a sandwich and my stomach rumbles with
jealousy.
A Honda motorbike stands beside the large towering
building …I wonder who it belongs too? The pigeons don’t care as they saw left
to right in beautiful synchrony.
The rain is here now…I am going back inside!
Robert Farmer
Observations
A man (gardener?) just drifted by his bright orange
ride-on lawnmower. The big spinning light on the back of it alerted people to
his presence, he damn sure wasn’t going to move out of the way for them! He
drifted around a corner and out of sight.
A few minutes go by and I see other people writing, pads
and pens in hand. I hope they’re not writing about me. Two women walk by in
fluorescent green vests, they look like policewomen but they have a different,
much fancier title on the back of their jackets that I didn’t quite catch.
A crowd has begun to gather near me so I plan to head
inside. But wait! A man in a small truck just drove over and stopped next to
me. ‘Edge Hill Facilities Management’ apparently. The man climbs out,
retrieving a bag from the shutter on the back of the truck. He just shot me a
look, as if saying, “Have you never seen
a man in a comically tiny truck before?” The crowd around me has begun
rolling up cigarettes. Going inside doesn’t seen quite as interesting anymore.
But on the other hand it looks like it might rain.
I’ve moved now to the other side of the duck pond and the
sudden wind is making writing just a little bit trickier. People are sat in the
café in the Education Building, pointing at me and the other writers. Sure, a
person walking around writing isn’t an everyday occurrence but it hardly
warrants pointing! A group of people walk closely by the pond, lost in their
own worlds, and for a second they look as if they may fall in. Part of me wants
that to happen. They’d fall in and I’d be stood ready on the side to write
about it.
I guess I was wrong before, about it raining. In fact the
sun has just come up. I’m now stood near a tree which has tiny bits of white
strips cloth on nearly every branch. I think I know what they are but it didn’t
matter. The rough weather had stripped them of their meaning and legibility.
I’m guessing no one really cares though, they still look pretty cool.
I’m stood on the tiny bridge now. A kitten just darted
out from within a bush on the edge of the duck pond, scared away by the ducks
aggressive quacks. Clever ducks.
A security guard walked by on my other side, chatting
casually on his radio. The gardener is back now, only without his lawnmower
(that’s ‘parked’ around the corner) He’s trimming the bushes and chopping loose
branches. Ok now it’s raining. The way the drops bounce on the stillness of the
water feature make it seem almost interesting for once.
Jack Bumby
Mass Observation
The
Wilson Centre cafe was not a place you could go if you desperately
craved
privacy. The walls to the outside were nothing more than sheets of
glass,
showcasing the outside world for the few paranoid souls who still
lingered
inside watching the weather, making sure that the rain had indeed
faded
from the sky and that the sun had finally settled into its position
for the
day against a bright sapphire sky. At first, it appeared as if I
was the
only one in the area who wasn’t relaxing. Everyone else had their
friends
and a drink at hand to enjoy the scenery with, where as I had
traded
my complimentary drink for a previously blank notepad and a friend
for a
faithful blue armchair. As it turned out, however, I was not in fact
the only
writer who had sought the safety of the café as opposed to the wet
if
fairly sunny outside climate.
She
crept into view like a timid deer, checking that the area was clear
from
predators before entering. Her eyes were hidden behind a pair of
glasses
and her head was a deep chestnut brown. In her hands, she clutched
onto her
notepad, as desperately as someone might hold tightly onto some
water
during a trek through a desert. It was precious to her, possibly why
she held
it close to her chest. It held something special to her: words,
her
words. She continued to cradle her notepad close, almost as if it were
a young
silent baby snuggling into its mother’s chest. As she left, my brow
furrowed.
I was alone once more.
The café
wasn’t busy but, luckily, it was hardly dull. ‘I will always love
you’
bellowed from an unseen radio whilst people walked to and fro. A man
with
broad shoulders and a grey coat skulked up into the room un-noticed
save for
me. He seemed to carry a fairly pale look about him, leading me to
guess he
was possibly a phantom of some sort. Whilst this was absurd, much
like a
ghost, he vanished suddenly out of sight but not out of mind. In
front of
me, three gentlemen sat sipping on their Starbucks coffee as if it
were the
nectar of life. They were seemingly oblivious to my frantic
scribbling
on paper, my attempts at noting down their presence and simply
smiled
blissfully in each other’s company. The same could not be said,
however,
for the blonde haired woman who approached the counter of the
café.
She seemed to be alone, waiting patiently behind a man in cue for her
coffee.
Her coat wasn’t anything too special apart from the colour. It was
a deep
dark green, much like the colour of the trees I had passed earlier
that day
on the way to University. In her hands, she fidgeted with a maroon
purse
that looked almost like a passport to the untrained eye. She slowly
strolled
up to the counter when it was her turn, ordering a quick coffee
before
carefully slinking away.
At that
moment, the three gentlemen were joined by a fourth man, dressed in
a crisp
neat white shirt. He seemed out of place among them. There clothes
were
simple, casual even. There was nothing really remarkable about
anything
they wore, especially when compared to their neatly dressed
acquaintance.
He looked more like a waiter than a university student. Soon,
the four
strangers stood up and made their way towards the door. As they
left, I
did as well, for the café had become quite empty and I desired to
see more
stories unfold outside the still Wilson Centre café.
Outside,
the sun was shining brightly, causing the small wet puddles that
still
clung to the ground, enduring the torture of evaporation, to sparkle.
Five
workmen strolled past. For a moment, it was hard to distinguish one
from the
other. They appeared to be the same shape and size. They were like
an army
of soldiers, all clothed in bright blue pants and dark blue
jackets.
They walked as one, like a wave washing over the stone path. The
white
helmets that clung to their head reminded me of mountains topped with
snow.
They moved confidently, with commitment. As they passed by, so did a
friendly
jogger. Surprisingly, he was not outside but inside. Like the
workmen,
however, he too was cloaked in blue. The only real difference was
that
dark patches stuck to the jogger’s shoulders as if the puddles from
outside
had leapt up at him like affectionate dogs but had failed to let go
of his
tracksuit jacket. As the jogger was, as you might guess, jogging
down the
corridor, he disappeared from sight fairly quickly He was not
missed
for long as my gaze was quickly drawn to something new. Nearby a
blonde
and ginger haired girl, both of whom had their hair wrapped in a
pony
tail, there stood another dark haired woman. Her dress was the thing I
had
spotted. The Wilson Centre, after all, was a nice place to be but it
was not
exactly a world of colour contained within a single building. It
was why
I was so surprised when I turned the corner and was greeted with
her
dress which flashed an array of colours. It was as if someone had
photographed
a sunset and copied the colours into fabric. The bright burnt
orange
sun crossed against the dark black border of the horizon and was
mixed in
with the occasional yellow flash creating a chaotic but somehow
soothing
collection of colliding colours. It blended together in odd
slashes
and stripes. On a second glance, it resembled a tiger’s fur coat.
The
bright combination of colours entranced me.
Michael
Turner
Mass Observation
I would sit down for this observation however; the bench
is coated in a shiny haze of raindrops, left behind and discarded by the
passing monsoon season that so graciously joined the Edge Hill campus this
week. As I stand on the bridge that
overlooks the pond, home to the almighty ducks of Edge Hill; I find no better
reason to have a cigarette, even if just for a split second I gain warmth from
the flame of the lighter on this bitterly cold day.
Across
the pond I see herds of students walking to and fro buildings, socialising and
integrating to either the return of student life or the beginning of the
experience. Bold and vibrant colours glisten across the pond. The attire of the
students giving hope that the sky, a grey so dark will pass and let the sun
prevail. It tries so hard to break free from the clouds, continuously battling
a war he cannot win, or at least I feel a futile attempt.
Just
now a tortoise shell cat proceeds to advance on the water lilies of the pond,
stalking any and every movement with delicate precision. He leaps from bush to
bush to avoid the passing humans. Gone with a blink of an eye the predator
disappears from sight.
As I
stand on the bridge I hear snippets of conversations between passing students.
Just as the cat had disappeared, the conversations are soon to disappear around
a corner, forever. They mimic that of a
newsfeed in the form of a racing car.
Now I
turn my attention and gaze to notice the other students observing their
surroundings. Each one completely enthralled with the task at hand, heads
buried in books and pens scribing the proceedings at hand. Each student
strategically positioned to capture the essence of edge hill life. I divert my
scrutiny back to the pond, to talk about the ducks but the cat had
returned. How that cat does love the
limelight.
Declan Fox
The Lake
The
ground is wet, but the rain no longer falls. What previously would have
been a
patter of raindrops is now silence; the only sound I hear is the
trickle
of water and occasional quack. The occasional quack is a mystery -
no ducks
are in sight.
Rays of
golden light stream onto the ground before disappearing again. The
sunshine
is clearly beginning to make a getaway after being locked away
behind
the deep, grey clouds for too long. Knowing the English weather, it
won’t be
on the run for too long.
The
delicate breeze is gently pulling on the reeds next to the lake,
gradually
creating a current in the water, causing tree branches to sway
softly.
However, what comes with this soft and relaxing breeze is an
unfriendly
chill that leaves my fingers with no feeling.
The
ducks have finally made an appearance, as have a few students, all in
small
groups of two or three. The chatter and laughter grows louder as they
(the
students, not the ducks) approach where I am sat, then this comforting
sound
fades as they walk off towards the dark, wooden bridge.
Five
minutes have passed and many different people have speedily walked
away,
none of them into the café for some reason. I wouldn’t mind going in
for a
hot chocolate if I’m honest. Winter must be on its way pretty early;
I only
ever feel the need to have a hot chocolate then.
Every
stranger that walks past can clearly feel this hand numbing
temperature,
too. Hands are placed into pockets or tucked up into sleeves.
Arms are
pulled up and pressed against chests. The desperation to keep warm
is
obvious - everyone is speed walking. Does anybody ever take their time
when
it’s chilly outside? Most likely not. I certainly don’t. The scowls on
faces passing
by also shows the bitter feelings towards this typical
British
weather, or they possibly just had a boring lesson. Could be a bit
of both.
I was
right. The sunshine wasn’t on the run for long. It has vanished and
the rain
is back. And my time is up. I too shall be speed walking back to
shelter
like everyone else.
Jasmin
Gannon
Mass
Observation
Maybe I
shouldn't have just sat down on a bench decorated with raindrops. A
tree,
green with the possibility of hope and life catches the wind, gently
dancing
as one. It blocks my view of a muddy green lake. Could it be called
a lake,
is it big enough? The guy stood with his notebook in the bridge is
a smoke.
Filthy habit, although now I seem to be intrigued by the idea.
Another
guy, dark clothed, stands around with earphones firmly planted in
his
ears. I’m slightly dizzy from a hangover. What time is it? Does the
buzzing
possibility of a text in my left pocket from an hour ago bear any
effect
on this location, this writing? 10:49 according to my phone. I feel
silly. I
always have. It’s only a matter of time, him realising that. Am I
taking
this too seriously? Everybody seems determined to tell me how alone
I am. Do
I believe it? I think so. The bitter air and cold bench implores
me not
to forget about the scratch marks on my arm. Self-inflicted. Drama
Queen.
See, I’m too pathetic to do anything but that, or starve myself.
Because
I have to be alone. No particular reason, just that I don’t get
nice
things and somebody has to be miserable. This doesn't feel like
observational
writing anymore, just another one woman pity
party.
I've never really been that good a writer anyway. I suppose you
would
wonder why I’m studying it then. Because it’s the only thing I’m half
decent
at. And I wanted to escape. I wanted to find, as stupid as it
sounds,
love. Yet I feel confined in this open space once more. I bring it
upon
myself. I’m scared. My hair falls in front of my face and I can barely
see what
I’m writing. I just smell him on me, still. I don’t know what I’m
supposed
to do. The blonde haired lecturer told us writing was solitary.
She
doesn't want me to find a sense of completeness either. People keep
moving
around and another author spies me. Oh, he’s turned his head away
now. One
brief flicker of attention. That’s all I ever get. The hair in my
face
will be good to hide my tears, should I start crying. I’m vain, in
that I
crave sympathy. Everything I do suggests it. Do you think I can ask
Kim to
help me? My new personal tutor? He won’t want me to cry to him, I’m
sure of
it. I want to check that text but I’m scared. That’s all I ever am.
What if
he flirts and I can’t do it back? I can’t be enough. No question
mark. I
still hear the faint swishing and words of two much more in place
and
prettier girls talking about health as they walk on. I need to be more
healthy,
I know. But 600 calories is enough, more than. I need to cut down
really.
I overate this whole freshers week. I disappoint those already skin
and
boned girls. I wish I could achieve that, but no. I’m stuck at a rather
large
10/12 size. I wish I’d bought a pair of scales. I bought a measuring
tape but
that won’t help me restrain myself as I see the pounds pile on. I
check my
phone. 11:05. Do you think he really cares? I’m ignoring his text
still. I
need to stop feeling so emotional. I just wish I could believe him
when he
says he’s here for me. I haven’t had anyone like that. I try to
blink
away fading tears as the wind bites back at me, suspicious coupled
with the
sun. Most people have moved on now, smoking, talking, leaving me
in that
solitude. Socialising. I burp through familiar hunger pains. I love
them
because they hurt, they remind me ‘eating is pure, starving is the
cure.’
I’d almost let myself forget that. Then again, it’s only a diet. Not
too bad.
The guy who looks like John O’Callaghan from The Maine brushes a
hand
through his light hair and what I believe to be a raindrop falls. More
now.
Frequent. People move and leave. A bustling of life. Some carefree
duck
quacks frantically. I should too. I've written far too much.
Kerry Andrews
A Bleak Day
It’s a pretty bleak day. The clouds are fresh out of
rain, sweeping across the sky in broad watercolour strokes, their edges
bleached of colour by the low-rising sun. Its rays are weak; they stripe the
lake’s surface glitter grey in rippling parallel lines that chase a group of
ducks to the relative safety of the mud-slicked bank.
I shiver in my seat and tug my sweater sleeves down past
my elbows as a biting autumn wind descends. It whistles through reeds that
huddle in cramped clusters at the lake’s edge, renders them hunchbacked, bent
into shaking arches like senescent spines. Hoards of ducks nestle between their
withered bodies in search of shelter, squawking erratically at bemused
passers-by with an enthusiasm that I find admirable in such depressing weather.
The rain starts up again, spitting concentric circles
into the murky body of water at its feet, and I am grateful for the awning
stretched over the bench where I sit with some fellow students. Still,
raindrops slant beneath the shelter on the sly, pricking the pages of my
notebook, and black ink bleeds into a sprawling mess that smudges the skin of
my fingertips.
The rain hammers harder. It elicits an outcry from the
lake, and I look up from my soiled hands. The ducks are yammering on in little
bursts of angry sound, emerald heads bobbing as they scuttle deeper into the
shelter of the reeds. Their smoky grey feathers are dampened darker by rain,
and ruffle indignantly under the onslaught of the sky. Poor buggers. It’s
pretty funny, though.
Shannon Eden
Mass
Observation
Upon reaching
the Wilson Building, I notice the weak sun has completely vanished behind the
thick fluffy grey clouds that threaten the chance of rain. The swirling path
leading up to the building is damp and wet under foot, with the occasional
puddle to step over, or if you really want to, step or jump into it, depending
on your attire of course.
As I stroll
along, the tall trees are still in full bloom, the green leaves are yet to
fall, blocking my view of the athletics track. I round the bend to see the athletics
track in all its splendour and glory…But no one is on it! It is unusually quiet
and empty, apart from the occasional student passing me on their way to
lectures, looking tired from the lack of sleep and too much partying, after all
it is freshers Week!
The automatic
doors to the Sporting Edge Building rattle and shake and seem in need of
repair. Entering the café I am instantly hit by the strong yet fragrant smell
of coffee and the sound of a fridge humming in the background, but the humming
is over powered by the sound of a coffee machine preparing and making a coffee
for a student. Only a couple of students are sat in the café, drinking coffee
and talking to friends quietly, as radio music is played in the background.
I venture along a curving corridor, there is
suddenly the rush and bushel of students walking and talking quite loudly to
each other and if I listen carefully enough I can hear the quiet shuffling of
their feet which they too lazy to pick up properly…Then the corridor is silent
again, only me and my feet occasionally disturbing the silence.
Joanne Wilson
Arts
Centre and Surrounding Area-
A man
hiding snakeskin boots under his denim jeans. He strolls into the
nearest
building: frankly I'm impressed.
A broken
light that causes a lot of confusion- Arts Ce_tre. "What does Arts
Cetre
mean? Is that French?"
Due to
the torrential downpour 12 ducks have relocated. To a makeshift
pond. On
the path.
Varying
fashion choices:
-Short
shorts
-Pink
Tassels
-Duffel
Coats
Students
in their element.
A single
student standing out from the crowd due to his unbelievable talent
for air
guitar. And for carrying on mid-conversation.
A
student sitting on the bottom rung of a fire escape, ingenuity for
escaping
the mud.
Alfie
Pitts
I don’t drink coffee!
The first thing that hits you is the tang of coffee. I
don’t drink coffee, can’t stand the stuff, but the smell is almost bearable. It
conjures up flashbacks to when I was desperately tapping away at a keyboard in
a Costa two years ago, trying to reach my daily word goal in the NaNoWriMo
challenge. So coffee, to me, is a good smell for writing. I might be in luck.
I chose to settle down on a low wall with my back to a
dining area, facing the twisting stairs that spiral upwards to a world of plush
red and blue comfort. To my left, people are queuing for the ATM (I nearly
wrote ATM machine until I remembered
that it would be redundant to do so) and I’m wondering if that machine actually
ever runs out of money, and how much of a fuss it would cause if it did. Maybe
you can get cash back in the shop… though of course that would require buying
something. Inconvenient.
Oh, hello. I’ve just spotted one of the tutors. He’s on
his phone. In here for a proudly-labelled Starbucks? Why, yes, it would appear
so. Oh! The other tutors are here too. I guess someone has to like coffee.
Ohh, I just looked at one of the television screens.
Summer work in a Disney Resort. I’d love
to, I really would, but I can’t really go gallivanting off to foreign climes
when I have a wife and child (well, girlfriend and pet cockatiel) to support at
home. As much as I would relish the opportunity to wear a big Goofy (!) grin
day-in, day-out despite wilting in the tropical heat like the delicate flower I
am… I really can’t. At least, not this
year…!
I’ve spied a fellow writer, perched upstairs where I was
originally considering going. She’s on her phone. Hm. Some people just can’t
break from technology, I suppose. Ooh, someone just dropped some money. I swear
I’m a magpie for these things. Like a cascade of crystals, a little tinkle of
appeal. Wouldn’t it be great if dropped pennies created a mad scramble for the
cash from everyone in the vicinity, rather than a slightly embarrassed fumble
from the poor sod that dropped them in the first place? Turning it into a game
would be far more exciting.
Curious, there are some PCSOs hovering outside the shop.
Are they here on a friendly visit, to – oh. Never mind. They’ve wandered off.
Maybe if I was typing I would have been able to finish that thought.
Someone in an Edge Hill hoodie just walked past. Now, I’m
enamoured by the blue and grey ensemble and can’t wait to nab one, but… purple
and yellow? Clash! Maybe bright,
juxtaposed colours are “in” now. I haven’t got a bloody clue. Fashion is
definitely not my forte.
Just spotted someone with a Peppa Pig doll and was very
confused until I noticed the young child with them. I’m not used to being
somewhere like this; it’s not just a place for people my age, after all. People
of every age are broadening their minds, and good on them. Old(er) dog, new
tricks, etc.
(Another purple-yellow hoodie, yuck.)
(Clearly I have no taste.)
Ah, sunlight. Precious sunlight. No doubt it will
disappear as soon as I get up, but for now it’s very pleasant and... yeah, it’s
already fading away. Sigh.
Allow me just a minute to have a sandwich. Being
surrounded by people eating is having an effect on me. Mmm, squished sandwiches
are fabulous. Hang on.
(Ahh, I always get fixated on devastatingly handsome
women. Grey hair looks so lovely on young people.)
(Ahem.)
Ooh, there are some lights on a wall upstairs fading
between gradients of colour. Very aesthetic; I could quite happily watch them
for a while – ah, a fellow writer’s just come up to me. Yes indeed, the time
has gone quick. I should probably head back soon. The girl upstairs has already
left.
All right. One last inhale of coffee.
Signing out.
Leigh Harlett
