Daisy Staples
Observation – Creative Edge
R&B music is drifting from the speakers in the corner of
the vast room. Sixteen screens are hanging on the wall, displaying a mirage of
designs, from stars in a midnight sky to a kaleidoscope of iridescent colours.
Students are spread out amongst the red chairs, some heads bent into the
screens of their phones and others chatting with friends over a steaming cup. The
expansion of the room holds two levels above and one below, with spiralling
staircases and a glass lift like the one from Charlie and the Chocolate
Factory. One student is pacing back and forth across the room, appearing to be
lost but buried in his phone, possibly in an effort to show himself as composed
in front of the strangers milling around. Directly in front of me are the glass
doors where the fountain cascades, blending in with the rain. Though the music
changes the constant trickle of conversation remains, which builds in volume.
So far I have counted eight people on their phones, all stood together and yet
so disconnected like strangers. The design, as I walk around, is minimalistic
and modern. On the second floor there are meeting rooms, computer rooms. I can
tell this because the walls of each room are made up of glass, giving the
illusion of open plan. In front of me, the glass of meeting room reflects the
people walking across the room. I can hear the whirring of the hot drinks
machine and a moment later the smell of coffee wafts up to the level I’m
currently sat at. The coffee seems appropriate considering the thick coverage
of grey painting the sky and the trees getting thrown about, signalling the
cruel weather despite my being inside and watching from the window. One more
floor up and I’m sat at a mustard yellow table covered with leaflets scattered
about, while overlooking what could be a meeting. But due to the nature of one
woman’s enthusiastic nodding and easy-going smile, it appears to be informal.
Observation – Second Floor – Catalyst Building – 21st
September 2018.
Edward Price
The loaned laptop rested on the black table which, for a
newly renovated building, I can’t help but notice the amount of marks and
scuffs already adorning it. There are patches were stickers had been hastily
removed, probably by the builders who were working to a strict deadline, and smudges
of grease. Had someone eaten a burger on here? The laptop is silent, but the
second floor has a hum about it. Various groups are huddled together, chatting
and discussing in whispers. Others are playing on their phones or scribbling
hastily with their headphones in. One guy is even bopping his head to a tune,
tapping his foot whilst typing on his funky red laptop, completely oblivious to
the hammering of rain against the landscape outside. It has a cool vibe in
here, which is reflected by the slick and stylish carpet before me. It fades
from a bright green along the walkways into a slick grey between the isles of
books. How many books are on this isle to my right, 50? 100? I have no idea.
It smells fresh. Like a brand-new book that has just been
opened. Like a box of polystyrene. I take a deep breath and the taste of stale
smoke and coffee linger in my mouth but a sharp crack later and I open a can of
Pepsi which solves my current pickle. Several people glance at me curiously
before turning back to whatever they were doing.
To my left I can look out the wall-sized window and sitting
back I comfortably watch the world battle against the strong, wet gale that heralds
the end of summer. Umbrellas, trees and bushes all bend and sway as they are
assaulted, but the buildings hold firm and strong, offering respite and
shelter. Some folk are walking slow and steady with their heads bowed, others
are jogging with disgruntled expressions. If the ground level was a
battlefield, then the sky would be a playground. It tells a different story. On
the first level, streams of lazy clouds go sailing by, fluffy and white, not a
care in the world. Yet higher still are thicker, darker clouds which ominously
crowd the horizon, as if they are watching the earth below in grim
satisfaction.
Peering over the top of the laptop, I can see a busy
table where a girl is thoroughly searching her bag and taking out various items
which she carefully and quietly places onto her desk. Her keys scrape along the
table, which probably left another mark, and a water bottle top gets popped and
she takes a quietly controlled sip. She eventually sits down, takes a deep
breath, glances around, then gets to work.
Kyle Spencer
A water feature spelling out environmental disaster isn’t all I have in mind, however. Three ducks
sit by the man-made canal, their heads tucked into their spines. Poor things.
When the weather lightens up, one might imagine they’d arbitrarily use the set
of stairs that just lead in to the river. Seriously? What is the deal with
those things. The ducks have wings. They can fly out. You cannot convince me
that those weren’t meant to invite students in for a dip. I even see some
rubber rings strewn on poles around the Edge Hill Nile. It’s begging me for a
paddle, but perhaps when the clouds let up.
Emma Coyle
Emma Coyle
Even on the greyest of days, it's difficult to forget the
astounding environment we are in; our microworld is incredible, a hustling,
bustling place of living and being. The driving rain and battering winds that
soak your books and bones doesn't seem so bad, but on this day, they drove even
my proud Mancunian blood inside.
Sanctuary. Sat by the stairs of people to-ing and froing,
coming and going, there is less hustle, less bustle and a real sense of calm.
The atmosphere is silent and still, but not heavy. You couldn't cut through
this atmosphere with a knife. It is a silence so fine, it flows and freely
envelopes every space. It is a warm, kind silence, bringing you in. Disturbed
only occasionally by faint chattering, feet clattering and workplace mumbling.
For this is a workplace. It is easy to become so lost in
thought, but this is where the formal and the informal come to meet. The
straight-spined rigids, fresh-faced freshers and old-timers in pyjamas come to
dance.
A conversation between the inside and outside world with the
window as a mediator chatters on. A friend, with flames for hair and green
snakes for laces, a fellow writer. She prowls the aisles, looking for her next
prey, her latest edition. Blank screens line dull, white desks with empty
chairs sitting by them. It's funny to think in a few, short weeks, the hustle
and bustle of today will seem like a silence.
All around, people's busy lives continue. A pair sat close
by gossiping about life, music and some topics that aren't so appropriate for
public listening. Across the way, someone is being eaten up by her book.
Headphones in, head down, absorbed in her own world even smaller than ours.
Out of the window, people meander, people speed along, and
people fight the battering wind. Some are well put together and ready to tackle
the day, some are ready to collapse at the first week hurdle and some are still
rolling around from the night before. A gaggle gathers outside their house; one
poor soul in just his shorts and t-shirt, with legs, now like icicles dangling
from his body. A man passes, easily mistaken for a tortoise with his backpack
as large as his entire body. As a selection of girls goes by, it's easy to
believe I'm seeing things. Matching hair, outfits and walk; looking the same,
walking the same, being the same. One lone wander braves the elements.
Overhead, the sky changes from grey to blue, to grey again.
The sun peeks it's head through the clouds, checking if it's safe to come out.
Unfortunately, not today, sunshine. The wind is so harsh, it beats the poor
grass to submission, or are they dancing together? The wind and the grass
flowing in a beautiful, passionate dance of nature. I think I'll stay here; my
new book-filled home.
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