Mass Observation 2014: As Seems Always to be the Case

Entirely

“They don’t look like this in the city,” she says – or rather sighs, as a wistful expression clouds her warm, pale eyes.

She’s not even from the city.

I said I would walk her home. We stand now outside her accommodation and I sense she is reluctant to retreat indoors.

Gazing out across the water, a cluster of angular buildings dominate our view, surrounding the lake as though they are huddled around it for warmth. Were they human, I imagine they might be heavily-built businessmen: their sleek brick exteriors perhaps crisp grey suits, their sharp translucent window-panes maybe dark aviator sunglasses. They assert their presence yet fail to command our attention, for our eyes are directed skywards.

Laced delicately across the impenetrable purple sky is a patchwork of constellations, sparkling with the fleeting fragility of a wind chime caught by an autumn breeze. The stars, tiny flashing lights many leagues above us, hold in their gaze the comfort of home and the promise of future adventure. The same stars watch over us all. Hope. Reassurance. Excitement. Romance. In this instant the sky is at peace, yet concurrently alive with fiery energy.

If I tilt my head backwards far enough, the walls of the buildings all around us appear to enclose the celestial scene like sides of a photo frame. I tell her this. She smiles and wordlessly agrees.

And now her head is on my shoulder and there are tears in her eyes. I’m taller and she has to stretch a little to reach.

All she wants is a chance to let her feelings out, she sobs. Some time alone, the chance to discover if her infatuation could lead to anything more. But she knows she isn’t the only one vying for her beau’s affections, and she can’t wrestle with the omnipotent guilt that comes hand in hand with doing anything for herself. Her happiness depends on others. She makes those around her feel good yet denies that privilege to herself. She stays quiet. Her feelings remain a secret, whilst she watches others steal the rewards that should be hers.

I hug her, wishing for her sake that she was hugging the one she loves instead. She is amazing and yet she has no idea. I am intensely grateful to have made such a wonderful friend in these short few days.

The stars are so beautiful.

And so is he.

He strides past. Even intoxicated he is beautiful. Neither of us have seen him before, but his impressive, muscle-bound frame catches my eye instantly. His hair, a somewhat untidy shock of dark brown, dances across his forehead in the wind. Despite the lateness of the hour, his eyes are clearly identifiable as blue, and glittering. Their expression loiters in the no-man’s land between mischief, incomprehension and innocence, but as they pass over us for a fraction of a second, I feel the familiar rush of blood through my veins. Longing. I wonder if he knows he is beautiful.

She wrestles with emotions for one male of the species, and I sink into an impulsive fixation with another, yet again. It’s always the same.

Hello. One word. A start. Simple.

I can’t say it. I can’t say anything.

Even in the unlikely situation that I let my feelings slip, he would not remember in the morning. And even if he did, he would not want to hear it from me.

All of a sudden I realise I share her sadness entirely.

 

James Sayer

 

RUST

 

Discarded, rust-covered leaves lie scattered like fallen soldiers in the war against shifting seasons, stuck fast to the glistening slabs by the falling rain.

A man stands with his back resting against the brickwork of a building with his face upturned to the slowly sinking sun. His eyes are closed, letting the sun warm his skin. He takes a final pull on his cigarette, flicks the stub nonchalantly away from him and swaggers off, leaving a cloud of grey-blue smoke behind him.

A girl of about nineteen hands leaflets to passers-by, a smile spread broadly across her face. When she is alone again her smile slides from her lips like water over ceramic tiles.

A young child whizzes past me on a siler scooter, grinning widely and yelling ‘wee!’ Her mother follows close behind as if caught in her slipstream; eyes open wide darting left and right, seeking potential obstacles in her daughter’s path.

Two lanky teenagers in football shirts, Liverpool and Everton, stare each other down as they pad towards each other from opposing ends of a corridor, Lions fighting for pride.

Harry Snape

 

A snapshot of life

 

The atmosphere feels still, damp.  A light breeze filters through the trees carrying a distinct autumn chill.  It seems to signify that summer is over and winter is rapidly approaching.

 

The trees rustle in acknowledgement of the breeze.  Crisping leaves show a visible strain under the relentless succession of raindrops cascading down from a sombre, murky sky.

 

It is raining.  Under the trees the incessant patter sounds as though we are in the middle of an Amazonian rainforest rather than a small English town.  This is a misperception, for when you step out of the relative shelter of the trees onto the stretch of grassy lawn the raindrops land so gently on your skin you barely notice it is raining at all.

 

Three ducks waddle contentedly around, quacking amicably.  Their feathers have an oily sheen which is accentuated by the weather, but they don’t seem to notice the rain either as their razor sharp beaks peck greedily at the lush, green grass beneath their webbed feet.

 

The rain suddenly intensifies; I rush into the comfort of a warm building.  There, from a large window, I watch the dull sky disappear and a crisp blue one emerge, filled with fluffy white clouds.  The sun’s rays reveal themselves once more and illuminate the surroundings in a haze of brightness.  The world is rejuvenated, revived, returned to joyful spirits.  I step outside and continue my journey. 

 

 

Elizabeth Richardson

                               

PERSPECTIVE FROM THE CANTEEN

I am sat in the canteen at Edge Hill University with the task of describing what I see. Something I haven’t done before so I am looking and listening in the hope that I can describe this in a way that is interesting.

My first thoughts as I take in the atmosphere and surroundings are how vibrant it feels. Young, excited people talking and laughing as they sit with friends. And I can plainly see the difference between the ones that have long term relationships and those that have recently met and it is lovely to see friendships forming and others blossoming as they get excited about the new life they have embarked upon.

And it is a nice place to be. The selection of the furniture is absolutely perfect. The pleasant, stylish beech bistro chairs are pleasing to the eye and comfortable.

Some are all beech, others with a blue soft cushion, some with a grey blue to add more contrast. And they are mixed so there is no real pattern as to their layout.

I am pretty sure that when they are first laid out they are neatly placed around tables with all the seats matching. But this is better. It looks more natural and relaxing because of the way they have become separated from each other.

Behind me is a glass wall separating me from the walkway and I feel energised by all the natural light this allows.

Young students walk by at different paces, some alone, some in groups laughing and chatting, seemingly unconcerned by the light rain on their faces, in fact, enjoying the feel of it.

In front of me is a young woman and a middle aged man quite deep into a discussion that I cannot make out.

It is friendly and they clearly know each other quite well. But there isn’t the intimacy of a father and daughter relationship so I am curious as to what it is. Possibly he works for the college and she may be an account manager helping him through his requirements as she doesn’t seem to be a student and looks quite professional.

Beside me is the TV and I can hear Mr. Cameron trying to excuse his latest plan to murder more people in the Middle East.  No one seems concerned by what he is saying and it appears that no one is listening or watching.

I feel sorrow that I am in this wonderful place, safe from harm and embarking on yet another new chapter of my life and at the same time thousands of families are living in mortal danger as the man representing me takes the decision to bomb them.

Maybe my new skills I develop over the next few years will give me the tools I need to change this world in some way. Maybe the pen is mightier than the sword.

There is a young man in front of me, about 24 years old I would guess. And he has such a beard! Beards seem to be coming back in a big way. I have one today, but just through laziness. His is well groomed and months old.

There is a very well designed serving area just to my right that draws people to it and seems to be the meeting area as I see various people stand near to it and then wander off as their friends arrive. At a table near it Ailsa and James are sat having a relaxed conversation and obviously have a great relationship.

Ailsa is, as seems always to be the case, smiling.

There is a very pleasant aroma in the canteen of coffee and toast. And it makes me hungry.

I could spend hours in here describing this place but I have run out of time.

 

Adrian Gannon

 

LIKE BULLETS

The rain came down like bullets falling from a gun in slow motion, covering the crowds of people stood below in a fine coating of the vapour as they waited for the bus to take them the short trip into the small town centre. While some wait in the rain, huddled beneath umbrellas or using hands to protect their hair, others walk, not seeming phased by the rain falling from the sky above them. A group of girls walk past, laughing at a joke that no one else would understand, arms waving as they talked animatedly. Shortly after they walked past a lone boy walks past, head down and not looking around him, lost in his own world of thought. No one pays him much mind the same way he does not pause to look at them from the corner of his eye. Too absorbed in their own worlds and to care about someone else’s in that single moment.  As the bus pulls around the corner the people who had been lining up begin to move forward, bags over shoulders and cards in hands. And then they’re all gone. The side of the road is empty. 

Rosie Hurman

 

 

A BLONDE GIRL…

    A blonde girl half-runs by in a streaked skirt and flats, failing to beat the fine rain – wet chunks of her hair stick decidedly to her forehead. Another girl takes a different approach, speed-walking past me. She hoists a leather jacket over her head, although this does nothing for the sodden ends of her jeans, now black instead of blue. I wonder if she knows. The running track curves away from us, looking more brown than red. Few people are around, perhaps on account of the weather.

    I take a seat in the makeshift foyer of the sports centre, sheltered from the rain but granted a perfect view of those caught in it. It looks heavier now, but more people pass by the window: interchangeable gym-goers in grey/black sweatpants and trainers; underprepared students in thin t-shirts and dresses; even a girl in a blue raincoat who had been taking notes on these same strangers. She’d stood under the protection of an entrance for a while but had since moved on. I didn’t recognise her, although I suspect she was charged with the same task, just with better-suited shoes for the wet terrain.

    The rain stops and starts. Indecisive, it stops again. A blind man and his guide dog pass twice in both directions, the dog’s jowls and ears flapping in sync with his lithe bounce. The reed-like plants beyond the window sway in the breeze and the tops of trees ruffle as one fluid entity. The latter circles the running track outside and throws stray leaves onto its path.

    A pair of cyclists appear on the far end of the track, too far away to see properly. A woman in an offensively blue coat and black leggings jogs out from behind me – the automatic doors open a minute before she arrives, as though triggered by a ghost.

    From inside, I hear the familiar whir of the Starbucks’ blender, although it sounds more like a violent vacuum. Blurs of conversations are hidden beneath this and what seems to be a 1980s marathon on the radio. The doors shut again.

    As the woman stops outside, I get a closer look at her. Her round face is set in determination, highlighted as her dark hair is scraped back against her head in a ponytail. She sets off around the track. I wonder if she and the cyclists will collide, having started at opposite ends of the track. Both parties disappear behind the reeds. I wait a minute or two, but neither reappear. Strange.  

 

Hannah Price