Mass Observation 2013 The Running Track and Other Places

Behind the running track

“Jay-sus!” A broad, possibly Irish accent breaks the tranquil silence behind the running track. Swiftly followed by a builder, in an orange hi-viz vest, jumping back from a man hole that’s surrounded by wheel barrows and mini diggers. A hornet and a wasp hover and land on a bottle of Mountain Dew. The cold breeze blows them away just as they take off.  The wind carries in a strangely familiar smell, like wet chippings; bringing back memories of visits to parks in childhood. It also brings the cold that ceases the heath from the sun immediately. Why did I leave my coat in my dorm?!

Sand is concealed in the cold gust, either from the pathetic excuse for a beach, or the work men digging. Streams of people filter behind me, their chatter almost drowned out by the buzzing of a drill on stone, or a hammer on nail. Hammers remind me of Thor, and ironically, maybe, a girl walks by in an Avengers Cat’s t-shirt. The same one I purchased yesterday, the same time I got my new coat, which hangs, unused in my dorm. The wind blows from a different direction, and the sun burns my shins and chest. The builder in the orange hi-viz vest holds onto a tree like a venerable child onto a teddy. His work mates beat a supporting piece of wood next to the skeletal tree with a hammer like a giant hour glass on a pole.

Funny how they’re planting trees in the countryside; replacing what they ripped down to build a fake beach and lake. Above, a plane fly overhead, just under the faintest outline of a half moon, hanging, alienated in the baby blue sky. Behind me, seagulls sit in rows, like builders on iron garters. A contrastingly beautiful butterfly passes overhead, flapping frantically in beat with the hammering.

The clusters of grass planted by the manmade lake lean in the gale, like hands of the dead reaching for the builders; maybe for disturbing their peace. A girl dressed head to toe in black walks by and I am envious, she must be so warm. She walks across the bridge opposite me and her black figure is reflected in the rippling water below. Walking back to my dorm to get my coat, a student sits with a large cup of Starbucks something, writing in his notepad like myself. I hope he isn’t writing about me.

 

 Lauren Butler

 

Wander

 

We were sent out for a wander today- to different parts of the campus- to find things to write about. I’ll be honest, at first I didn’t think much of it at first; I kind of assumed there would be nothing interesting to write about and then I had a mini-panic thinking I would have to turn something really boring into this amazing masterpiece so that I could impress my new tutors, but, hey ho…

I started off by The Hub; a garish building with floor-to-ceiling windows that was pretty modern looking, with the exception of the odd old architecture that joins it to the rest of the main building. I sat in there for a while, The Hub I mean, and people watched. Not that there were many people to watch. There were two men outside doing what looked, I joke you not, like they were watering the floor. Not the plants, the floor. After staring at them for a little while I turned my attention elsewhere, thinking that there was a good chance that I looked a right stalker. To my left was an older man, not old just older than me. He was alone and watching with wide eyes the BBC News on the TV that was hung high on the wall in front of him. I couldn't quite make out what was going on and I was practically on line with the TV so I couldn't see the picture that well. Not that it mattered, I weren't meant to be watching TV!

The Hub was starting to fill up a little when I spotted a familiar face; God, what was her name? Anyway, I got up from my table and made my way towards the actual main building passing a group of girls, one of whom had quite a large floral tattoo rising up her leg from her foot, that were chunnering away about their drunken episodes from the night before. There was a woman in a long white science coat walking in the opposite direction to me, I freaked out a little and did a double take before realising that a) I wasn’t in some sort of lab experiment and b) that I wasn’t in a film either and that watching a woman walk around in a coat I've never seen in ‘in the flesh’ was definitely not something I had experienced in my general day-to-day life therefor qualifying it to definately be something of interest. The woman nodded and smiled and went on her way- nothing abnormal there. Except maybe the science coat; I’ll have to get used to that.

Walking through The Hale Memorial Hall was like walking through a time warp. I looked behind me and saw a normal, everyday kind of atmosphere then I turned back around and saw something that would look modern in the 1800s. High domed ceilings that casted slight shadows at the peak were lit up by the blinding sun that seeped in through the large windows. Old wooden (were they oak?) pillars separated the long walls into sections as the room stretched out in front of me. It really was quite a sight. The only thing that was out of place was the charity tea and cake stalls that were set up in the middle of the room. Hmm…

I made my way outside of the main reception area and took a seat on one of the stone benches on the grass. I looked up at the building in front of me; it was old and powerful looking. I remember when I first came to look at the university, when I drove up the driveway to see this great building stood firm in front of me; at first I thought it looked like Hogwarts, but then sitting on that bench in the front garden I changed my mind. It was more sophisticated than Hogwarts- to compare it to such was an insult- it was more along the lines of a stately home, or maybe something similar to what I imagined Mr Rochester’s house was like in Jane Eyre, I don’t know. Either way, I'm putting my money on there not being a two headed dog hiding behind the accommodation blocks right at the back.

 

Stephanie Mills

 

Dance on the Wind

A Large staircase painted a violent shade of orange looms in the distance, a curtain of soft green foliage sways in the wind in front of the stairs often obscuring parts of them. Consequentially the gently brush of nature acts well to reduce the angry modern architecture, the staircase sits there, pointless, leading to nowhere, proud as punch. It lords itself over its older and smaller counterparts, their wrought iron frames creaking in the wind.  All of a sudden the hush of campus is disturbed by a stampede of students, so very many of them, all rushing around eager to get to where they are going, living life at such a fast pace they don’t have time to slow down and look at the world around them, all believing that there is not enough time to look out at the buildings or watch the wind blow through the trees.

As the melee of students move across campus they talk and laugh with each other, discussing classes past and future, one girl turns to her friend and asks in a thick northern accent “Have you done the assignment yet?”

“Of course not” the other reply’s in an equally strong accent. Peals of true, friendly laughter trail after them as they continue on their way, melding with their laughter the ring of applause comes pouring out of a nearby window, a muffed voice speaks out to the room, saccharine sweet laughter follows their speech, a false laugh delivered by those who are keen to be liked by all others around them.

Workmen and grounds keepers emerge as if out of nowhere, toting their heavy tools and machinery, ready to begin the days labours. Task one, cleaning the pale cobbled paths of the campus. High powered jets of water assault the ground, stripping away the evidence of late nights and cheap alcohol. A group of four boys strut around the work men and their never ending battle with the remnants of nights out; the boys meet their friends on cobbles still darkened with grime. Like peacocks pluming the present themselves to one and other showing that they are worthy of a place in the group. Their greetings permeate the air around them, warming the chill wind that cuts across campus, rushing around buildings, cutting around corners to catch unsuspecting students with a chill breath.

The wind begins to pick up, lifting the first of the pale, crisp, golden autumn leaves and sending them skittering across the ground. The leaves dance together to a silent melody, a bitter sweet song that only they can hear, oblivious to the world around them they twist and dip intertwined in a beautiful dance. Jealous of the others beauty and grace more leaves begin to release their deathly tight grip to the branches high above, dropping to the ground where they too can dance on the wind. Sensing the leaves desire to dance the wind blows harder, filling his lungs with a great breath he exhales lifting the brittle leaves from the ground. Full of joy the leaves embrace the wind and welcome him as a friend whilst students pull up their collars and wrap coats tighter to their bodies. Like shimmering gold the leaves dance madly brushing over each other, rustling with joy, they are happy to dance and be free after so long anchored high above the heads of people, ignored by all of those who do not take the time to look at them, the people are busy constantly moving, never still, like ants swarming their nest. After so long high in the tree tops only ever watching and wishing, the leaves are finally free, finally they can dance on the wind.

Keshena Capell

 

 

Here Come the Ducks Again!

A moorhen comes darting towards the bench I sit on, the top of its beak bright red in the sun. It walks on two legs in a fashion I always imagined prehistoric raptors would, leaning from side to side ever so slightly as it moves. Aren’t raptors supposed to be distantly related to chickens or something? I can't remember. Not that moorhens are anything like chickens. The moorhen doubles back before it can come too close however and disappears into the shrubbery around the lake.

There’s a pathway winding around the back of the bench and with the sun high in the late morning sky you can see people’s shadows approach almost before you hear their footsteps. There’s a shadow coming closer now and I wait a few seconds and yes, there’s the footsteps too. I raise my head to spare the owner of the shadow a glance. Student, around my age, he has a backpack and I watch as he veers off the concrete path to stroll across the grass taking his route directly across. I don’t bother to watch him until he’s out of sight, instead turning back to stare ahead of me. With the wind blowing the way it is, a kind of music is made by the rustling leaves on the trees around me, punctured now and then by the loud quacks of the campus’ resident ducks. As a long procession of people continues down the path behind me, I hear snippets of their sentences as they pass, a mismatch of words, phrases and exclamations that I forget as soon as hearing them.

I see the moorhen again. It’s pecking around on the ground in the distance. Out of the corner of my eye I spot another moorhen. It moves almost cautiously towards the other. The first moorhen looks up and sees the other and darts away off in the opposite direction. I glance up at the sky and note that I can still make out a quarter or so of the moon, faded against vibrant blue.

A group of friends hover in front of the peculiar statue to my right, chatting. I see that some of them are clutching twigs and sticks for some reason. They coo over the moorhens and one comments on how she gets ‘baby moorhens’ on her farm. The other girls gush excitedly at this and ask if they can visit. They walk off together and soon their chattering fades away completely and it’s quiet once more. Or it would be if those damn ducks gave it a rest.

Suddenly a loud shout erupts across the lake. It startles the ducks so much that they take flight, quacking in surprise.

Just then a girl with a cigarette walks past behind me and as always the smell of the smoke reminds me of my grandparents. The memory is fleeting as the wind blows the smoke away. The sound of a far off rumble above me makes me look up at the sky in time to watch the progression of a plane flying overhead. It leaves a white streak against the blue sky in its wake. It looks so small up there against the vast expanse of the sky.

I lean over the back of my bench and see a rusted hair pin lying on the ground, discarded and forgotten who knows how long ago.

A new moorhen had appeared. There’s three of them now, all carefully steering clear of each other. Then three ducks appear, invading the moorhen territory, and come right up to the bench. They are so close that I can make out the wet sheen to their feathered bodies. Fresh from the lake then. The three ducks make their way past and waddle over to the next bench along. They wander over there for a bit before making their way back over to where I'm sitting, this time hovering in the shade of my shadow. They stare at me, quack once and waddle off. Curious little things they are.

Three girls walk past, their conversation centred on potatoes. It reminds me that I still haven't eaten today. Two more girls walk past and one laments how she’s ‘actually starving.' It’s a hyperbole of course but I understand her sentiment.

Here come the ducks again. Two girls stop to watch the ducks for a moment and start to name them. Susan, Margery and Cecilia. I look down at the ducks. The names fit well enough I suppose. Susan and Margery take flight suddenly, leaving poor Cecilia behind. She quacks indignantly, clearly not pleased, and takes off after them.

 

Alexandra Worthington

 

 

Mass observation exercise

I walk round to the wooded area behind the Arts Centre and find a place to sit on the steps.  Colin the gardener says ‘morning’ as he drives past his noisy little wagon.  It definitely feels like autumn now as there is a cutting wind brushing through the trees, chilling an otherwise sunny day. Colin starts to mow the grass beside some students having a lecture. It appears they are having a lecture similar to ours as they soon disperse to different areas amongst the trees.  They start to take pictures of various points of interest. One group are instantly drawn to the mock Las Vegas sign that has been erected.

It reads:

“To the fabulous Anthropocene era,”

       I remember this sign being brought in last week. An artist named Robyn had commissioned it to celebrate the 80^th anniversary of Edgehill. I remember this because I coordinated the several trucks that it took to bring the sign in. After getting them all in Robyn thanked me and left. Just as she was leaving my manager came around the corner and bollocked me for being stood there doing nothing. Sod’s law I guess.

       Colin is now feeding some birds near his wagon. It’s a couple of Coots, those weird little birds that remind me of Velociraptors from Jurassic park. They squabble over pieces of bread, their little legs flurry with excitement, moving faster than what is logically possible.

       The group of students have now reconvened and 4 or 5 of them are performing some sort of choreographed dance whilst another films it on their phone.  They finish and receive a round of applause. I don’t think they quite deserved a round of applause but thats just me.

       The trees around the area all average around forty foot in height but vary in shape and type.  In between these trees there is a metal statue.  I have walked past this statue before and thought it rather ugly. I realise that it may be a conceptual but without knowing its origin or intentions I just find it out of place.

       The group of students return to their little spot after another outing around the area. I wonder if any of them feel conscience that I’m staring at them and writing in my note book. They are all intently focused on the tutor, so I think not.  I become suddenly aware that someone could be watching me. I turn around to see a group of girls sitting at a table inside the café in the arts centre. The reflections of the trees on the glass that separates us makes it easier to see out than to see in.  I am self-conscience now. Have I been sat here the last half an hour with my arse crack out? Very possibly.

 

Phil Donnelly

 

 

Light Breeze

                A light breeze ripples through the reeds, the trees whispering softly to themselves as a couple of girls walk by, smiling and enjoying the warmth. The occasional leaf tumbles forward a short distance before pausing as if to examine its new surroundings. A van goes past, its engine no louder than a soft purr as it navigates the twisting road. Someone, a woman, sits on a bench in the sun, studying her newspaper, kicking off her shoes to warm her bare feet. As a couple of girls pass, chattering about their class, she pulls out her mobile for a swift conversation as she watches a mob of people exit the red brick building, waiting for someone.

     A moorhen releases a lone call, seemingly announcing the tide of people suddenly flooding from the building. Most chatter in a large group with the occasional loners satisfied with the company talking on their mobiles provides. A flock of birds slowly circle overhead, diving low behind a plain looking building only to return a moment later as if searching for something. The swarm of people slows to a casual passer-by, immersed in the world inside her phone. She appears to have dressed for warmer weather then hastily donned a jumper noticing the cool wind.

     Swooping low overhead a plane heads to a location unknown, a delusional bird attempting to pursue it. A woman walks by, her heels clicking loudly on the path, rarely tearing her eyes away from her phone for long enough to avoid tripping over a wondering duck.

      Loud giggles announce a group of girls wondering  towards the lake, seemingly searching for a place to sit, oblivious to the moorhens that go to meet them. One of them deliberately places a twig on the ground, laughing about putting it to rest before the group slowly turn and return the way they came, seemingly unsatisfied, trying to act as if a brief visit had been all they had intended when they arrived.

     Another plane flies past, higher than the last, leaving a trail of white behind as a group of ducks noisily chatter about it. A girl possibly dressed in her pyjamas lounges on a bench, enjoying the sun. Her phone catches the sun and reflects it in a dazzling flash, a moorhen strutting past either oblivious or uncaring. Satisfied with her short stay, she swiftly leaves, keys clanking in her hand.

     An excited shout from across the lake startles the ducks into a brief fight. Walking with a purpose, a man and a woman stride by, well dressed and discussing law. Their presence seems to have triggered the arrival of others heading in the same direction, split into several smaller groups. An elderly woman with white hair made even brighter by the sun stops for a rest, taking a quick drink of water from her handbag before slowly wandering on her way.

     Among a casual stream of people walks a man, his shoes squeaking with each step. A sad looking girl passes in the opposite direction looking cold and uncertain followed by a more confident girl with hair a shade lighter as if an echo of a past persona.

     The wind picks up again, encouraging a small cluster of ducks to stray from the water, approaching the nearby benches in pursuit for food. One wags its tail, shakes itself then moves on, undeterred by the failure, methodically searching the grass for scraps. The reeds bend in the wind, waving to the ducks patrolling their grassy domain. There is no doubt that the ducks are the kings here. A swarm of minute flies circle, keeping a respectful distance, pulsing as if dancing to an unheard beat.

     Momentarily finished begging for food, a duck settles itself on the grass, getting a brief rest before its friends notice and encourage it back to its feet. A male with brilliantly orange feet pauses by the bench, its whole body lurching with each call. It tilts its head to study me in return, his emerald head almost glowing in the sun, before re-joining its friends.

     A couple of girls arrive to examine the strange sculpture but leave swiftly, laughing at the unidentifiable swirling block. Rooting through her purse, a girl passes with a yellow t-shirt so bright it is almost blinding.

      Another plane passes, practically silent, only a twin set of white trails indicating its presence. The sky is almost cloudless, the few there are appear in rough lines as if painted by a giant brush. As time passes, the shadows move until finally all three benches are warming in the sun much to the occupants’ delight. Discarded feathers are scattered in the grass, no longer needed.

      Two women stroll along, the younger one dressed brightly in pink, the elder in black, a contrast to each other. A flock noisily rise into the air, startled by a source only known to them.

 

Chloe Wood

 

 

MO 2013: Task is such an ominous word...

Outer limits

We all leave the room on a dispatch order, like lost and confused parcels, or sweet wrappers blowing off in the breeze. Some of us stick together; some of us branch off on our own. We are connected by our assignment and the pens and paper we clutch to. I might belong here, I’m not sure yet.

Sunlight glints off water covering the flagstones, as men in high visibility vests hose down the floor, potentially jealous of those before them that built the lake. The same sunlight is reflected from the bonnets and windows of rows upon rows of cars. Their colours cannot be seen from here, they are all as one beneath the sun.

Peacefully extended lawns, bridges and blocks of just-different-enough flats have sprung up at the edge of campus. Either a 50’s Americana style community is taking over without our knowledge, or we’ve wandered onto the creative edge accommodation and construction site.

We sit at benches and try to make sense of what we have seen. Cool, clear water splashes at the edge of a beach made entirely of soil. It feels like a harbour for ships that will never come. A half moon is dimly visible in the morning sky. The sky itself is scratched by vapour trails. In most other circumstances I would think of planes, but our walk through the surreal has put me in mind of comets.

I wish this area could stay as it is, but soon the beach will be covered with sand, the accommodation will be finished and everything will look as it should. At least I have this record of a moment in time when things were new and strange and unexpected.

Jack Bye

 

MASS OBSERVATION 2013

I am sitting in the shade, in a corner, in front of the main building. I am surrounded by a reddish brick wall with many windows, the sky unusually blue and cloudless, and around me there is a large area of green grass. There are some small white feathers and many crisp brown leaves. Really close to me, there is a big tree which branches keep swaying in the gentle breeze. Two sparrows jump, it seems they are looking for something. They look lost, as some of the students may be feeling this week.

A bit further away stand two big metal statues which have caught my attention. Due to the distance I can’t see them properly, but the boy seems to be leaning forward, and his mouth is open. He must be impressed by something. The girl is playing with a rope and looks happy.

I can also see the main entrance, around which there are some cars parked. Small groups of people are constantly coming in and out, either new students who may be trying to get information about their course, or other people who might just be interested in the university.

There isn’t much noise, despite the constant movement, the nerves and the excitement of the first couple of days. I can only hear the sound of the yellow lawn mower while it keeps cutting the grass. The atmosphere is peaceful, and the sun is out however there is a chill in the air and I am feeling a bit cold.

The time is up, so I start my way back to the class. I wonder how the same scene will look through my eyes in three years. Only time will tell.

 Annia Acosta-Babores

 

Mass Observation

 

The sculptures stand like strange shop displays. I become increasingly tempted to throw my jacket over them. The library is quieter on the outside today, something I have yet to get my head around. After observing over a dozen humans I notice that not one turns to avoid another. There is an underlying pattern here. People are more than happy to turn over some plants or arc like space craft around the flowing orange stairs of the hub. They don’t look up from their phones but somehow navigate the growing hordes of others as they orbit the various buildings. They do not curve to avoid collision. Their trajectory is precious, set into the gravity this family of bricks seems to hold. A chimney becomes a nose and the outcropping roof lower down becomes a moustache.  It’s only human to attach false life to things. Otherwise we would find it hard to justify the verbal abuse objects receive when they fail us. It is quarter to eleven and I am willing to bed half the people here are still slightly drunk. Someone leaves the library on a trajectory destined to meet my chair. He stops and smiles for a second before leaving. I wonder if he thought the same as me in that second. If he thought about why I was sat here.

 Probably not.

 Now I begin to think back to my task thought the word “task” is such an ominous word. I wonder if I should stop half way down this second side of A4. Still I continue, I might finally play dress-up with the art now. A single leaf jumps into my bag and I consider it. I wonder where it was before, which tree it was from and if it I far from home. She sits there, nestled beside my books, sheltered from the wind.

 I see something in my peripheral vision. James asks for the time in gestures. It is ten minutes to eleven. I think how me, him and Kate, in our triangle; have captured a pair of people in seemingly perpetual conversation. Maybe it is like the Bermuda triangle and they will vanish, immortalised in my lazy handwriting, I dream of circles to which we are the epicentre, ripples of thought echoing out and capturing a slow exposure image of campus. Letters are pixels to us. I pull a face to James as I think how our intersecting circles must look like a Venn diagram.

 I finally realise what enables people on set paths to carry on without collision. Speed. Speed is the key. People keep slowing down to let each other past. Now I feel my observation tipped on its head. A young looking being slides into view and walks past one bin to put his gum in another. He stares at me and it takes and uncomfortable time for his gaze to lift.

Some sport people (or people obsessed with the clothes) pass by with confidence and purpose. I pause and people seem to stop turning up.

 “The eyes only see what the mind is prepared to comprehend” – Henri Bergson. I wind up talking to Kate and “borrowing” some tissue. I must be allergic to people. I abandon my reservations and scrutinise everyone coming by. There are a lot of pushchairs around today.

 I lend one of the sculptures my jacket and the wind gets her undressed. She only has one shoulder anyway.. It took just under a minute for her to be nude again. Her ebony skin showing infinite marks. The rings indicate the wood she was carved from is older than myself.

She has a scar on her hip, a knot in the wood. I picked her because she was closest, a series of words I heard a lot back home…

It gets me thinking, something someone once told me was a dangerous profession. We gravitate to those closest to us. Humans, timid xenophobes.

 A wasp seems to have become friends with the jacket ebony so rudely discarded to the floor.

 If it was jeans that hit the rocks, they would somehow increase in value.

The sun silhouettes people and in my search for a better position I decide on a plan. I shall become the observed, and the observer shall be those unaware of my scheme. I sit on the ground by the bench, defying convention to a degree above or parallel with modern day “anarchists”.

 There is a cigarette box which looks like a donation box chained to the bench. Yeah as I lean or laugh the bench itself snaps its placenta of moss and chuckles with me.

 An ancient hair clip rusts beside me just outside the protective ribs of the bench. A single human hair trails from under a tiny rock. My interest in passing people has dwindled. So this shard of documentation is now steered away from people. It of course has a human bias, but is referencing them in the proxy of the artefacts they leave behind.

Campus archaeology. And now I feel an urge to join other writers on the beach near my halls and begin digging.

James approaches, time is almost up.

 

Philip Carroll

 

Beyond the Edge

 

The cries of instruction were muffled and muted by the hydraulics of the toiling digger.

Verbal diarrhoea, overflowing and gurgling like a witches brew, spewed incessantly out of the festively plump parent.

Married, divorced, gay, straight, bitter, resentful. Who they will all become is yet to be determined, for now the sporting paraphernalia disguises much of what will be.

Having been there for much of the morning, his knees had now left a residing imprint of his presence in the freshly dampened earth. The toes of his outdated and dilapidated sneakers pointed reluctantly downwards.  

The surviving half of the earthworm nudged and kneaded its way through the soil to safety. Its counterpart, whom hadn't been so lucky, bucked and hissed against the blade.

A managerial father bounced with encouragement. His clothing, a somewhat sombre affair, may be symbolic of a failed or fading hope. Either that, or its simply the most effective camouflage for the middle age spread. Take note!

Digging his nails into the corrugated plastic, the release of fluids chilled his gums, shook his oesophagus and breathed life once more into his lifeless organs.

Your days are over pal, I know it, you know it. Hell, even the waistband to your overly burdened and strained denim trousers knows it. As far as you may push your doomed to fail son, it will never be you.

The breeze caressed away the dust, tossing it up in some kind of liberated brake to return from whence it came.

Waddling slowly under the stress of working the earth, the two wandered in unison and in search of sustenance. Their silhouettes differed. A tousled head of hair, reminiscent of a by gone musical era, fought back against the wind, bucking energetically The portlier gentlemen, glistened in the straining sun's reach, putting on his socks would be the toughest challenge of the day.

 The German marques shine and shout a measured level of social success. And on reflection, the decade old Vauxhall's have a lingering smell of disappointment. Like a fart in a spacesuit, the stench of unfulfillment is not so easy to ignore.

Philip John

 

A Farewell to Summer

It was one of those crisp autumn days as sat by the lake where the sun shines brightly and the sky is clear as a bell. Despite this the breeze had a slight icy chill that forced myself and those around me too pull our coats that much tighter. The lake opposite rippled gently as if speaking to the wind whilst the reeds nodded in appreciation. A waterfall nearby tumbled lightly in the background giving a soothing air of relaxation.

    In front of me a small, black bird with white-tipped wings and a scarlet beak pottered to and fro, occasionally looking around as though he was waiting for someone to arrive. A large group of people left the main building marking the end of a lecture, talking amongst themselves. Every now and then one or two would look across in curiosity at what I was doing; unaware of the fact I was writing about them.

    Another red-beaked bird joined the first one making me wonder if he had been waiting after all. A duck that was hidden from view, by the reeds, cried out in what can only be described as agitation as a student shouted in the courtyard. Meanwhile, behind me a silver car reversed into a parking space manoeuvring  multiple times until the driver felt satisfied he had mastered the perfect bay park.

    A girl strolled past me slowly over the grass wearing a grey jumper studded with sequins, as the sun hit the light reflected off them casting glorious rainbows in a way that drew your eyes straight to her. Behind me an older women marched forward, her heels clicking impatiently on the concrete, with a strong sense of purpose. Either that or she was running late…

    A gaggle of students shrieked from nowhere causing a group of ducks to fly off unexpectedly making me jump, there quacks echoing as the cried out in anger at being disturbed. An old lady in a blue coat and red shoes sat carefully on the edge of the bench next to me, standing out among the other teenage students. She seemed to be unsure of where she was going and rose from the bench after a minute or two, offering me a kind smile as she went that reminded me of my grandparents.

    Three ducks waddled up to where I was sat to investigate what was going on, the water from the lake beaded on the sleek feathers on their bellies. The male of the group lead the way clearly displaying his egotistical need to be in charge, before turning his gleaming emerald head away satisfied that I meant no harm and bored with my lack of movement.

    The sun grew to a high point in the sky as midday approached resulting in the shadow cast by the building to shrink and in turn allowing the sun to hit my back and warm me. The light also changed the brick colour from deep maroon to a blazing burnt orange colour. The glass from the revolving door reflecting in flashes as people came and went.

    Golden leaves sat on the grass drifting gently as the breeze ruffled them and hinted to everyone the unavoidable truth that the seasons were changing and that without a doubt, summer was over.  

 

Sophie Parkinson

 

 

Campus description

Writing away I become surrounded by ducks from every side, quacking towards me. Their eyes reflect hunger. The path next to lake is a walkway of conversation; group discussions, personal affairs can be heard faintly. The wind breezes past my left ear sending a brief chill down my spine. I find it difficult to concentrate, with the noise of the duck chorus. Two seagulls land abruptly on the lakes’ surface; ripples protrude in all directions disrupting the calm water. The buildings create a contrast against the lake, beauty of nature combines with man-made sculptures. Standing beside the lake I see a lone bystander, clutching a note pad and pen – clearly he is also documenting his observations of the area. For a second we catch each other’s eye another quack breaks our gaze. Now all I can focus on is the army ducks, even with all my ignorance they remain at my feet. One very brave duck nudges its beak against my leg. To my far right there is a little rabbit with a brown coat and a noticeably white tail, hobbling across the grass nibbling away at it. I feel time slipping away, the arms on the clock face tick towards 12 slowly I make my move, ushering the ducks to part. As I leave the lake I can still hear the squabbling of nature.

 Sophie Heng-Travis

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Observations continue...

Fear and Loathing in Edge Hill

 

The engine of a lawnmower revs as the gardener goes to work. Clad in all green he disappears through the shrubbery.

A cluster of students sit in the shade under a tall tree listening intently to the short female lecturer. They all soon disband into groups, meandering around the park, picking up twigs as they go. I rack my brain as to a reason for this. Biology students collecting them for research? Dramatists looking to build knowledge of how to embody the ‘perfect tree’? Or did I just not pay attention at the freshers fair and completely overlook the stick collecting society?
“This borders on stick pornography!” One remarks.
So that’s your sick game is it?

I divert my attention to sign out of the corner of my eye. A very glamorous mock of the famous ‘welcome to Las Vegas’ sign… only without the neon, sadly. Perhaps it is a monument to someone who got terribly lost in their search for the ‘American Dream’ and wound up at Edge Hill. At least the ducks would have cheered them up.

The students all come back into sight and meet at the shade-soaked tree, same as before. Finally, some clarity as to what was going on. They present to each other: stick people, stick houses and stick tables. A veritable stick society. They all laugh. Some dance. Then they all go their separate ways.

I’ve never been more confused.

 

Thomas Chivers

 

Standing

Standing by the multi-tiered pond as its waters tumble over shallow ledges, you could have imagined yourself anywhere else. If you closed your eyes and listened to nothing but the falling water, you could fool yourself into believing you were on a beach beside some warm, tropical ocean, or perhaps in a verdant forest glade. Then that brusque September wind washed over you, shattering the illusion while foreshadowing the cold to come.
Yet for the moment the warm sunshine filtering down from the pale blue sky is enough to beat back the threat of true Autumn. The wisps of cloud above look like downy feathers. Others resemble solitary strands of spider web, their pattern meaningful only to the spider who spun them.

A small group of people passes by, one girl asking of the others, “when you die, is it like before you were born?”. You try to ponder this awhile, but the only result is that you get sucked down into the mental black hole of trying to picture something existing before birth or after death. You glance over at the ducks floating on the artificial lake, wondering if ducks would ask themselves such philosophical conundrums if they were capable of conscious thought, or whether they would deem such fancies as a waste of time in their feathery brains.

People now trickle out of surrounding buildings, all their voices and footsteps coming together to form the unmistakable buzz of humanity, fleeting as it gives way to the pulse of nature; the resonances of the water, the sonorous song of the of the wind as it passes through the trees and sets the reeds to dancing.  

This little patch of nature appears dwarfed by the neighbouring structures of metal, stone and glass. An artificial and temporary Eden encroached on by civilization, a target waiting to fall prey to its progress.   

Merrion Haw 

 

IWill Just Note

A boy in a blue collared shirt checks his phone as he eats away at the remains of his breakfast, licking his fingers after the last mouthful, then looks around boredly. A girl arrives and he smiles as she sits down, dropping her bags to the floor heavily. They begin to talk but she looks far more interested than he does.

Behind them, an elderly man in a red and white plaid shirt is unpacking vase-like teapots of all sizes, some so small they could fir in the palm of my hand. After clearing away the boxes and containers he stands and waits behind the protective barrier of his stall, smiling politely as two girls pass him by. With no one to talk to, he stands alone, tapping gently on the table top, almost certainly conversing with himself.

The woman on the stall next to him is dressed in a bright silk shirt made of reds and creams. She does not talk to anyone but often glances over at the man selling teapots. With spectacles perched atop her nose, she straightens out fine pieces of string between her fingertips then places them out of view. Perhaps they are the beginnings of necklaces, as her stall consists of hundreds of glittering beads from rings, bracelets pendants and, indeed, a selection of necklaces made with coloured strings.

-

“I didn’t join any of the sports teams” says a thin girl to her more-than-slightly-larger friend. He replies,

“I’m not surprised.”

“Oi,” she exclaims with a smile, slapping him lightly on the shoulder.

-

A boy in grey sweatpants and a striped shirt paces around slowly with his phone pressed to his ear, his unshaven face fixed in a permanent expression of worry. He pulls the phone away, glances down at it, presses a button then holds it back to his ear. This same set of actions is repeated once more, and then he seems to give up. He stuffs the phone into his pocket and then runs out of the building.

-

A man in a ‘ROWDEC LTD’ uniform squints as he holds the smartphone to his face, his whiskery eyebrows drawn down into a frown. This reminds me a lot of my father and how he does the same thing with his new phone. Well, he will insist on buying the latest gadgets without figuring out how the less advanced ones work first. Perhaps it is just a man thing?

Over at the Starbucks it sounds like a Spanish dance festival as the workers make their fun, banging plastic mixing jugs against the coffee machines in a rhythmic fashion. More percussion is added when someone orders an iced frappe and one jug is filled with small frozen cubes, clashing together and bouncing off the sides.

-

Three friends walk by, two guys and a girl. The two guys raise burgers to their lips in sync, with as much gusto as naturally possible. The girl, on the other hand, clutches a small bottle of water in both hands, meekly lifting it to her lips to take a small sip.

-

A tanned boy in a clean white robe walks by, opening the wrapper to a KitKat like any other, shoulder bag held at his side. As he walks by a group of girls his head hangs low as if shy, as if he knows what is to come. Once he has walked past the girls, I notice that they are looking at him, laughing behind their hands.

I will just note, on my way back to the lecture theatre moments later I see the same boy again. This time he is smiling and laughing in a large group of mixed races and cultures, males and females alike. These people do not seem to judge each other by background, and I’m glad that this time the boy looks happy.

 Sarah Smith

 

Mass Observation: Outer Limits

 

A construction worker unties bits of ribbon-like plastic strips off of a metal bridge, their function is unknown.

The sky is blue, the moon is out.

A droning siren babbles in the distance, I hear no birds.

A young monkey puzzle grows in the plant bed, it will most likely grow to overshadow its peers.

The water's surface on a narrow lake ripples, maybe from the wind or perhaps some artificial current.

A group of students are gathered outside their tenements, they look like a bunch of prats.

There is what seems to be an artificial beach, wreathed by fake grass, the steep stone bank keeps the sand from meeting the water by a few feet.

I can see a life preserver in a case by the path, even though a bottle of hooch can break the water's surface at the shoulder.

Some architect clearly thought that fencing piles of rocks behind chicken wire doesn't look like complete shit.

Much of the grass here has been lain recently and hasn't quite settled yet, its surface marred by brown streaks.

 

James Forfort

  

Not Just Ducks

The sun is shining on a lovely Autumn day. The chatter of people milling around is mixed with the sounds of singing birds and ducks quacking.

The breeze in the air is wafting through the trees and the sound of water running is calming. The golden brown leaves ensure me that Autumn is finally here.

Clusters of people are walking over the bridge that leads to a bench near the pond. The greenery surrounding me is making this place as peaceful as it possibly could be. The plants around the pond are green, sprouting from the dry, muddy earth below.

The petals are bright yellow, their heads turning in the wind as if to be in awe of the beauty of the world around them.

Exploring the place, ducks cross my path, making noises as if to suggest they are hungry.

Ducks wander around the place as much as people do, it seems.

The emerald green of the duck’s head is a strong contrast to that of its beak, which is yellow.

A pathway of cobbles has been lined with greenery on either side. The path, as I look upon it, has leaves that have fallen from the trees above, deciding to make the spot where they lay, their home.

Above me, an overarching tree. Its trunk so strong but yet so green; it could be as old as time. The light peaks out between the tree branches. It is like a haven, sitting here, in complete harmony with nature.

Maisie McGarvey

 

A Stone’s Throw

 As I look at the figures dotted around the lake, I find myself focusing on certain physical details, pondering how they might be detrimental to the person’s journey to this point, like pins in a map.

 A girl sits, sipping her Starbucks coffee, her loyalty card still in her hand poking out between her fingers. She looks around every few minutes, as if she is waiting for friends. Her oversized sunglasses make her look bug-like, and I wonder whether perhaps a pounding head as a result of last night’s antics is making her dread the day ahead. I notice her grazed knee and a scene flashes through my head; the same girl, but jacked up on confidence, her hair brashly teased into superstar curls, her lips stained a deep plum. Her ankle twists over the edge of the pavement in her gunmetal grey stiletto, and her drunken laughter begins before she has even finished her descent into the gutter. The cliché ‘That will hurt in the morning’ is agreed all round, and her nights continues.

 A few benches down sits a couple, not yet comfortable to sit in silence. Every lull in the conversation finds her idly browsing the universe that her phone offers her. He pulls at the sleeve of his hooded jacket, and tries to think of what to say next.

 A group of girls sits in silence writing. Every few minutes one of the girls lifts her eyes from the page in front of her and feeds one of her crisps to the duck that is sniffing around her feet. Very quickly the number of ducks multiplies, and I see the girl’s eyes flicker towards the duck masses, her eyes widening in alarm.

I notice amongst the shrubs a large stone, closer to the water than people usually stray, but a perfect seat to gaze upon the water and reflect. The seat is unoccupied for now, and I can’t help but wonder how often people shun the traditional benches and choose to be drawn to the magnetic lake edge.

 

Harriet Hershman

 

Epoch

Alas, I have found my spot, my viewpoint, my vantage point, my … last resort. Across the field of green and golden blossoms, highlighted by the radiant sun, sits my nemesis. ‘Mr X’. He appears to be oblivious as he takes in the surroundings and completes the same task as me, but I know he’s feeling smug about having arrived minutes earlier to get the perfect spot. But I can’t complain. The weather is curiously warm, despite the time of year, and the magnificent glow of the sun is embellishing everything in its path, from the skyscraper trees to the sharp, pristine blades of grass.

Only an artist could create such a picture, and only a poet could adequately describe such a scene. But, of course, all good things must come to an end as a horde of students, led by a member of staff, clamber across the grass. Chattering, laughing and shouting as if they needed their presence to be known to the entire university. A plump girl, with brown scraggly hair, explodes in a high pitch cackle. A tall, odd looking boy walks solitarily, earphones in and excluded from the group. I can’t help but wonder, is that by choice or purely misfortune? To think, in only a few moments, serenity could transform into annoyance. I, perched alone on a shaded rock, have suddenly changed from being an unnoticed wallflower to an outsider. Twenty three pairs of eyes nervously glanced towards me. At first a hint of curiosity, then intrigue and finally, the inevitable (how cynical!) judgement. The fumbling and muttering amongst the adolescent pupils drowned out the once magical songs of the birds above. The only thing to take my mind off of this annoyance was a single duck. Potentially exiled from the rest of the group, or, most likely as it’s a duck, it’s just lost.

Ah, a familiar smell drifts from the unknown and envelops the surroundings and the once pure air becomes acrid. Cigarette smoke. Apparently ashamed of his addiction, he latches to the tree trunk and loiters amongst the undergrowth. Hidden in the shade, he hawks and spits. His pleasantness reinforced by a large stain on his shirt and the barbaric features of his face. A startled looks appears on his face as he acknowledges my presence, he resorts to the walk of shame (admittedly not the conventional one of university).

Very little has happened for a number of minutes. The trees remain intimidating, the blooms of
flowers are just as alluring and the faint breeze is very welcoming. Just as I begin to feel at peace, the mass body of students disperse, and, unsurprisingly, manage to cause more disruption in their little cliques. I find it ironic, in a sanctuary such as this, very few people spend time here on their own. However if students did do, then it would inevitably lose its appeal. So in a strange way I’m glad it’s underappreciated.

Liam McMahon

 As I sit here

The leaves rustle on the grey concrete of the floor near the library. A man stops to take a picture of the library building, his arms stretched out wide and his cheeks reddening slightly in embarrassment as he’s caught taking the picture.

As I sit here, I find my eyes drawn towards the glass on the side of the library building, which is to my right side; as the sun shines in the otherwise cold morning air, I can see the reflection of the tree which stands tall, swaying gently in the wind that blows through its branches.

The sound of the wind weaving in and between the leaves on the trees creates a soft symphony of sound that surrounds you, fills your ears and relaxes you without even having to try.

Identical twins stroll past together, their hair of the same red shade and curly/wavy length, which cascades down their backs, like the motion of water rippling against the surface.

Yet even though their hair is done in the same way, their clothes show the difference between them, simply by them wearing different tops, to show who they are. They walk past the business building at my back and head further out towards the hub and Wilson Centre.

A workman stands up a ladder, his arms working hard as he fixes the side window of the library, his back towards the Student Information Centre.

His cap on his head and his arms bare thanks to the T-shirt he wears underneath his work vest, he repairs the window before coming down the ladder, folding it and lifting it as if it weighed nothing more than a feather. He heads into the library building, unaware that he’d just been observed and written about.

The breeze is fresh in the crisp morning air and the wind isn’t afraid to blow the strands of loose hair back off the face of a young woman as she moves past the business building, her yellow chinos and black jacket making her stand out in the crowd.

An old man sits on the wall behind me; I watch between the flowers as his lips close over the cigarette in his hand and he takes a pull of nicotine into his system, before he releases it in a slow outflow of smoke.  His red jumper is visibly worn from years of use, the fabric of the cotton having thinned and the stitching slowly beginning to unpick itself along the seam.

His hair has greyed and his skin is wrinkled and sagged with age, yet he shifts his position on the wall with ease, a man used to the movements and limitations of his body. He moves away from the wall between one glance and the next; seemingly vanishing into the campus crowd without my seeing him do so.

A group of girls walk past heading towards the hub; a group of fifteen to twenty, all different in their own way and appearance, their hair colours various shades and their heights and weights all varying between one scale and the next. Yet as they walk, they all talk and laugh, gesturing wildly with their hands as they go.

The chatter of talk, the laughter and the shouts, it’s all a consistent stream of sound which surrounds you in a seemingly never ending circle of activity.

The business school has little activity at this time of the day and other than the few stray students who wander in and out, the building appears silent. 

The wall I am sitting on to write this faces towards what I can only guess is halls of residence, the library is to my right, the hub to my left and the business school sits at my back near the swimming pool.  As I sit here, I sink away from the crowd, vanishing into my own space like the sun behind the clouds.

The sound of water jets fills the air every so often as the workmen clean the pavement. Their work interrupted every few seconds as more students pass by and I can’t help but wonder, at least to myself, if they are getting irritated with the constant stop and start of what they may have assumed would be a simple task.

Two men walk around the outside of the business school, looking up at the roof and sides as they talk about something my ears cannot pick up from this distance. One of the men, whose head is shaved, looks down at the notebook in his hands, before he scribbles something down and as I look back towards them, they’ve walked on.

The sun has moved now, nearly an hour on and the shadows that were once long in length have now shortened in size. What was once in shadow is now bathed in the warmth of the sun.

No matter how hard the sun tries to warm the area, the wind blows in continuously and with it, comes the cold crisp air which wins the silently raging battle warring on between the sun and the wind.

A woman walks past me, the wheels on her pull along case banging over and over again on the small spaces in the concrete tiles.  Just after the woman has past, her walk brisk and her head high, a middle aged man moves by slowly, his head down and his backpack slung over his arm, but it’s his sigh that draws my attention to him, his head lowered and his shoulders hunched as he heads towards the library.  

The contrast between the two unknown people is vast, their appearances opposite of each other and as they walk past one another, I wonder what other contrasts they have between them and what similarities they may share.

Jade Lloyd

 

Postures

A man smoking a cigarette enters a phone box. He lifts the phone from the receiver and holds it to his ear briefly before replacing it. He pushes the door open with his foot and takes a drag on his cigarette before leaving.

A student lingers near the entrance of the library. He retreats back to the wall and takes a seat, watching as people pass by. He checks his phone intermittently.

Two members of staff approach the front of the building. One gesticulates as he talks whilst the other nods and takes notes. His pen moves furiously across the paper.

The wind picks up and dry leaves blow across the ground.

A young man with glasses looks intent as he enters the library. A woman hurries along the path. Her hair is blowing in the breeze.

I brush away the leaves on my page.

An overweight man passes, his gaze fixed on his phone. His shirt is too small. He laughs to himself before stopping and changing direction. As he heads back towards the main building, he’s stopped by a woman. They begin to talk. He takes a pen from his pocket and waves it as they converse.

A girl with a thick accent eats as she talks.

One of the library staff wheels a trolley across the pavement. Its contents rattle as he walks.

A small food van passes.

A man walks with purpose away from the main building. A woman stops him. They recognise each other stop to talk in the middle of the path. One nods and offers minimal responses whilst the other talks avidly. She removes her glasses and places them in her hair.

Groups of people begin to congregate outside the library.

A man in a long, dark coat and a flat cap strides past.

The overweight man from earlier emerges from the main building with a carrier bag.

A woman balances her shopping on the low wall near the library as she makes a phone call.

A man takes small, quick steps towards the Arts centre, his head low.

A group of girls walk past; one of them is carrying a gift bag. She struggles to control a foil balloon as the wind picks up.

A balding man with an awkward gait enters the library.

A man in a sports kit passes. He looks at my paper.

A sign near the entrance of the library has blown loose at one corner and flaps in the breeze.

Leaves move in circles across the ground.

A woman pulls a suitcase behind her.

It bounces on the brick paving and clicks as she walks.

A group of female students pass, speaking loudly.

A woman carrying a pile of textbook and a set of car keys struggles as she walks towards the library.

A student in a long coat and printed t-shirt is dressed as the tenth Doctor. He carries a messenger bag resembling the T.A.R.D.I.S which bounces on his hip as he walks.

A man in dark glasses watches me as he passes.

Individual students sit on the walls near the main building, hunched over books.

Two women, one of whom is holding a baby, pass by. The second woman coos over the child as they walk.

A tall man with a beard and printed t-shirt enters the library. His posture is poor.

 

Kate Neary