Mass Observation 2013: all parts of the campus

Mass Observation Writing

The building that houses the swimming pool is tiny, modest, and was built some time ago.  It sits in the shade under trees and is dwarfed by the neighbouring business school.  Even the sign that indicates that this little old building is in fact the swimming pool is obscured by a bush.  The business school has glass walls rather than brick, and its sign is well away from any imposing vegetable life, and can clearly be seen, even drawing unwilling eyes to it.

The sun is blinding, throwing light and dark into extreme contrast, but the air is made crisp with cold by the blustery wind.  If you look up, you will see a blue and white dome that serves as the backdrop to everything in the distance, its colours of the sky are simply defined and consistent.  The campus grounds do not have this simple consistency; it is comprised of many textures, colours and shades of colours.  Dull grey concrete.  A bright orange staircase rising up three dimensionally, unlike the two dimensional sky, and worming its way up the side of a building.  A flower bed, with an even more striking shades of orange, as well as purple, white, black, green and yellow.  Blue jeans and tracksuits, flowery headscarves, checkered shirts, yellow-soled shoes, constant and bright movement.  And the sky remains still.

 Posses of students moseying on past the library, the sun blazing down on them, phones in pockets, ready for the draw.

 It’s not a good idea to have long hair and then go out in the wind.  As a young woman is drawing to the climactic conclusion of her story, real of imaginary it does not matter her friends are completely hooked, the wind suddenly picks up in a localized area around her head and whips her hair into her mouth.  She can no longer speak, and she must stop the pull the hair out and she exclaims, “Uuugh!”  Her friends laugh, but not unkindly.  The story she was telling has been forgotten as they complain about the elements.  That story may never be finished.

The Moon is still up, and is blue in the sky.

 Phones are out, feet stop, faces turn to the campus map.  They are silent for some time; eventually one of the students raises a finger and points out that they “Are here”.  No sarcastic comments are made, they are new here and can’t afford to lose a single member of their expedition, lost in this young peoples’ colony.  Further silence, more peering and tapping at phones.  At last their destination is spotted, a great smile breaks out on the face of the most observant student, like the sun reemerging after an eclipse.  But they must make sure this is right, time cannot be wasted following a false trail.  As his accuracy is put into question the smile drops miles to an uncertain death from the observant students face.  Eventually the students shuffle off, not sure what they may find.

 The path is smooth, but tilted.  The people walking down it are almost perfectly vertical, meaning that they are not standing perpendicular to the ground.  From the pedestrians’ viewpoint they might assume that they are at a ninety-degree angle. 

The paths stretch far back, but there’s always something blocking their way, preventing anyone from seeing just what there is in the distance.  The paths can’t reach out as far out as they should.

 He can’t carry the kid anymore, and he can see that the kid has energy, his head is pointing in fifteen directions at once, taking everything in. 

“I’m going to put you down now”

“No!” yells the kid.

“Come on” the kid is being put down whether he likes it or not.

“No!” the kid yells again, but this time with greater anguish.  He’s down, and miraculously he does not cry, but trundles quite happily along beside his parents.

 

Helena Masiak

 

Awkward

So there I am, minding my own business when my world suddenly came crashing down. Well, “crashing down” is a slight exaggeration. I saw him. My ex (the ugly one). It wasn’t as awkward as expected, but I got that feeling, you know the one, when you feel like you want to shoot yourself, then let the ground eat you and take you into the fiery depths of hell, well yeah. He approached me, a slight smirk staining his face. It was awful. I remember that mouth, the one that he cheated on me with. He walked past me, suddenly becoming the only person on the whole stretch of path. It was strange, I’ve never wanted to simultaneously strangle and kiss someone at the same time. As he walked away and the world came spinning back, I snapped back into focus. I needed to concentrate on the task at hand, I had to write this god damn creative writing piece.

Right okay, muse on the trees dancing in the wind, or the sunlight bursting through the window panes, the small splashes of rain on my face, or some shit. Ugh. This is so difficult. There’s so much more going on than people realise. Take for example, the infamous “walk of shame”. It’s almost an art form in itself, the smudged mascara and last night’s dress, a common sight in the day to day activities of a fresher. The girl herself, immediately puts herself up for judgement. We all know what she’s done, and she bravely stands there and accepts judgement. She walks past with a slight limp in her walk and a wedgie. The irony of these observations hit me as I see HIM.
I could deal with seeing my ex, but what I couldn’t deal with was seeing last night’s conquest, also doing the walk of shame. Immediately panic took over, a million things running through my mind, most which involved the word “fuck” or ways in which I could slyly roll out of my seat, all mission impossible style. I could do a backward flip, hide behind the fat girl that was eating a burger and use her as a decoy as I roll into the safety of the hub. As I was planning my escape he spots me, smiles and walks over. All I can think is “this so is fucking awkward”. With a nervous laugh and a hungover smile a quiet “hello” escapes my lips. For god’s sake. Ugh. Why me?  He smiles breathlessly. He looks so much different now I’m sober. In the cold light of day he was a lot more orange than I remembered. His clothes, creased and smelly, loosely cling to his body, which without the influence of alcohol, was a lot less impressive. After a brief conversation about the weather he leaves, much to the humour of my friends. A quick check of the time and I realise its 10.28. 2 minutes to return to class and possibly reveal my notes, and all I’ve wrote is “Seen the ex” and “Last night’s conquest…shit”   - hardly the stuff of degree level prose.

Shaun Castle

 27/09/2013

Turning left from the main road and walking up to the main entrance to Edge Hill University, you feel less like you’re in the North West and more like you could be anywhere and in any state of North America. The large building that stands profile to you, resembles that of an American Elementary school, though it still exudes a certain amount of quintessential English charm.

From the ‘entrance’ (consisting of revolving doors that often travel faster than your feet), there is a driveway, stretching down to the main road that runs through Ormskirk. On the left hand or right hand side, depending on which way you are stood, there is the shuttle bus stop. Frequently throughout the day many students bombard this area. They bustle and talk and push and shove. On this particularly sunny September day, there is an overwhelming feeling of peacefulness. All that can be heard, apart from a few mumbles from the men in high vis jackets ushering traffic ahead, is the low mumbling sound of an aircraft high above in the cloudless sky.

In the left hand garden, which is again adjacent to the main building, a flashing yellow light moves slowly along the perimeter of the turf, avoiding the large tree situated in the centre. The yellow light travels along with another sound: the sound of an engine stumbling along dully. It is one of those sit on top lawn mowers, a mini automobile of sorts, which cuts each blade of grass in an attempt at up-keeping the aesthetics of the majestic main building.

In the right hand garden (the one opposite to where I am sat), stands two garden statues made of metal. One is a boy and one is a girl. The boy stands motionless, bored and almost wary of something as though he is on guard. To the right of him the girl is in mid motion of skipping and her rope is high above her head. Her stiff metal hair hangs before her face while the hot sun is high up in the east of the sky, and the rustling of the wind blowing through the leaves of the central tree soothes anyone in its presence. This particular scene reminds me of a scene that has perhaps been lost in time. A scene where children play happily outdoors in that typical English summer sunshine, situated in fields, near to oak trees and farms. The frozen yet lifelike figures almost act as a reminder in their stillness and position. It is a reminder of a childhood long gone and the beginning of a journey into the adult world, where choices become that much more important and your future prospects are determined in those rooms ahead.

After a long twenty minutes of peace the shuttle bus pulls up. Behind him the exhaust pipe splutters out a cloud of dirty smoke and minor pollution. Students climb on, looking for a seat by the window and there is a relief inside them as they contemplate their journey home.

The morning proceeds to get even warmer, and deeper into the University campus is ‘The Hub’. This is where the contemporary consumerist pleasures of life can be purchased. By this I mean Starbucks. The Starbucks takes a centre stage in The Hub, being one of the focal points and main annoyances due to the long queues. Countless Iced Frappé Lattes are handed out generously topped with dollops of cream. The smiles and satisfactory emotions that students openly express, is the result of parting with a decent amount of money and receiving a calorie packed, luxurious and sickly sweet coffee in return. Their thoughts on the expensively priced drinks are soon balanced out with the remembrance that a student loan has just made itself comfortable in their bank accounts.

The Freshers Fair which began on Wednesday has slowed down almost to a halt. It is now quiet and people fumble around looking for means to entertain themselves. One event worthwhile mentioning however, is the Macmillan coffee morning. Strolling through, your eyes lay upon rows of cream teas and coffee soon to be served. This is all in remembrance of those who have been unfortunate enough to have caught cancer and have lost their lives due to it. Though that is the heart and soul of this particular event, and I myself have lost people close to me because of the dreadful thing, I can’t help but wonder whether there is any cake. I have a weakness for cake.

Back to The Hub. It is something that you could describe as a large greenhouse. The glass encasement makes for an open plan and bright dining area. It is something that you immediately notice and that some will appreciate more than others. This is what makes the main building so impressive: the mixture between old and new; contemporary and historic. There are old corridors and old windows juxtaposed by large glass doors and brightly coloured dining equipment. There are also many smells that pass through. Smells of breakfast: juices, toasts, fruit, coffee. These smells are then reduced when you find yourself nearer to the Starbucks counter, where everything is either caramel or vanilla flavoured. There is definitely not a lack of choice and the idea of starvation is a far cry away. Finding your way around however, is a skill that as a new student may take a while to perfect.

The wind is picking up now. The branches on the trees are thrust forwards and backwards as leaves rush to the floor. Autumn has already landed. The day looks to stay warm, but there is a chill in the air. In a late September week such as this, sunshine should be praised and should be made the most of.

Elle Rossall

 

 

Observational Exercise

 Leaning against a stone brick wall, smoking. Full and bright strokes of sunlight chop the shadow of trees onto the lawn. The bowl of blue sky shows no weather. Dotted only with sporadic seagulls, a single plane leaves no visible trail and the very present day-time-moon looks perfectly between the wax and the wane. Through the trees the bricks of buildings look a deep red. A Deeper red than Liverpool’s bricks can stuffily muster from behind the gradient miles.

Groups of students wander the edge of the green space with obvious purpose, searching here and there. A tutor sits on the grass not far from me and guarding their various bags, rucksacks, satchels. They look like full and bright scholars all. Do I look the same to them sitting here quietly writing, smoking?  

To the right a muffled eared gardener walks his gently chugging blue smoking mower, eyes down, intent upon his own lines.

The groups of students gather as one, full and bright around their tutor, around their bags, rucksacks, satchels. All seem to have gathered leaves and twigs or some such object. Props for the stories they now recite in a very performing arts style. Each performance gets a round of applause. They seem much more extrovert than us creative writing bunch. They walk the lighted boards beneath the strings writers pull from dim lit rooms. Writers smoking, creating avant-garde microcosms with stone walled backs … writers with imaginations that can pull up daffodils in autumn.

I love autumn.

Each easy gust of wind blows leaves from the branches above and all around. They land and take the floor, centre stage, only accompanied by white feathers. Not long to wait for footsteps. Steady. Full and bright!

 Peter Bruffell