Area around Edge Hill library
After a brief discussion with fellow course-mates (and a flatmate, hello)
regarding the likelihood of us all being branded creepy stalkers for lurking
outside buildings – or just getting funny looks from people – I home in on
an unoccupied bench outside the doors of the library. The other is occupied
by a young man who, it turns out, is also on my course and will sit with me
when Dan and Kim wander past fifteen minutes later asking how things are
going, to write what we see. It feels like Catchphrase ('Say what you
see!'). Only… well, not quite.
It's a pretty grim day; ashen clouds dominate the sky, quietly threatening
us with the daunting prospect of rain, and a cold wind, not quite icy, blows
across campus setting off tinnitus in my ears. As I sit and observe, I
notice that the majority of students walking by are swathed in shades of
blue, grey and black (much like myself although they're all wrapped up
warmer than me. This is the last time I forget to bring a coat, I swear). It
comes to me that no one really stands out. Do all students really look the
same? Ironically, as the thought crosses my mind, a flash of colour steals
my attention. A bleach-blonde girl in a hot pink coat strides confidently
past the cacophonic noise of the workers in equally bright yellow safety
vests. A girl on a mission. It feels like a moment from the first Matrix
film (the one with the girl in the red dress, remember?). Perhaps this means
I'm the Chosen One.
I would have laughed quietly to myself at that thought but given that I have
company… probably not the best idea. Beneath me, the bench is uneven and
rocks back and forth at the slightest movement or jarring of a leg. The wind
breathes across the campus, raising goose bumps on my skin. Glancing at the
other students, it seems like they – sensibly – decided to wrap up warm
today.
A furniture truck backs up in front of my seat, the warning beeps loud and
almost as incessant as the workers drilling across the path. Observation
time appears to be over as it's blocking the view.
Carmen Edge
Untitled
Sitting on the cold, colourless, concrete pathway the morbid clouds determine the dampened atmosphere around the Rose Theatre; the vibrant green blades of grass the only colour starkly contrasting with the pale environment. A large group of students walk out from the performing arts centre to my right, all smiles, calm and cheerful. This somewhat breaths a breath of life into the dreary dull surroundings although the majority of non-performing arts students around don’t seem so chirpy!
Around me stand sizable steel structures peering over me like a tall headmaster due to my insignificant position on the concrete. Above them, I see the sun desperately trying to push its way through the miserable clouds, never quite managing to achieve its aim. I sense the nerves and tension collected in those around me through the cool calm air; new students in the same predicament as me, uptight, sat in similar insignificant positions on the concrete.
Luckily, the sound of jet engines hurtling behind the clouds over our heads hands me a talking point allowing the mould to break between me and my, now, new friend Dan sitting to my left. Ahead, in the distance towards the marvellous splendour of the main building, of which I do not yet know the name, a strange man walks across. This man appears to prefer fluorescent jackets, high top boots and a small pencil behind his left ear than a more moderate dress sense. He is carrying a large plank of wood, presumably for a new building of some sort which somewhat contradicts the largely steel surroundings I sit in.
After my conversation with Dan dries up, the screeching of the largely annoying diggers in the foreground take control of my ears drowning any conversation from passers-by. A mysterious dust ball then rises and falls almost instantaneously to the side of the theatre, half hidden by the brick wall like some sought of mini atom bomb exploding then imploding in on itself! I can only presume this was a direct result of those tedious diggers.
By Christopher Hatton.
Mass Observation Zone 3 - Halloween
The first bites of winters chill float along the air effortlessly, each breeze lapping on your skin like a gentle tide, sending gentle shivers through your body. There is just enough strength in the air to stir loose strands of hair framing the faces of new students and old, seducing them to secure the multi-shades of hair behind their ears. Newly purchased Edge Hill jumpers are worn like fancy dress above tights and skirts by those unprepared for the change in weather.
The sky is like a water painting in light pastel greys, waves of highlighted patches in the clouds like scares are lit up in pale whites by the suffocated sun. A crescendo of darkening clouds billow in the distance, threatening the music of crashing rain, strong, angry winds and darkness.
Leaves dried up and exhausted of all their summer green days lay scattered like litter at the feet of the trees, the skeleton shape of bare branches begin to take shape ready for the new season. The remaining leaves hanging to the branches seem to dance in the gentle breeze, shifting from 9ct gold, brown copper of 2ps, pumpkin orange, romantic reds and the final greens, a reminder of the summer just passed.
The sound of students walking passed, glimpses into conversations, the silence and absence of those alone connected like robot zombies to their mobile phones, not looking, not speaking a word on the outside, though texting an invisible platter of words for the chosen receiver. The drone of industrial tools of progress and change as the hub in created in the distance, competing with the constant echo of ducks as they create water features and fountains as the bath in the lake.
The feeling of the unknown haunts you, the developing geese reflect your stage in life, your insecurities and academic weaknesses in their deformed appearance, feathers hanging painfully from different directions, representing your journey and efforts to get here, their black eyes staring, like the wide eyed students, awaiting their future, begging for a scrap of bread like students awaiting their student finance. Moorhens watch curiously with their black, worm like toes, the murky water rippling with a question, will you swim or drown in the opportunities Edge Hill University offers you?
Laura Barton
I Feel a Chill
I feel a chill. The air, it makes my eyes sting. The grass shimmers with the first drops of dew; autumn’s has arrived. The gardeners are here, keeping the flowerbeds at the entrance to the university presentable, as they should be. The soil crunches ever so slightly as their trowels grind into the ground, and their hands pit pat against the bases of the newly planted.
I’m sitting on a wall. On one side it is peaceful, quiet. Huge trees loom over the grass, almost hiding the grand, main building of the university from sight. Students walk quietly, clutching folder’s to their chests in an attempt to keep the chill from attacking their necks. On the other side, buses and cars rumble, builder’s machine’s hum and beep noisily, echoing in the morning air; chaos.
It is still. A breeze filters its way through the trees, making their leaves flutter and their branches tremble. I’m surrounded by the university colours of green and white; a red postbox makes its mark, a pop of colour.
Again, beep..beep..beep..beep, the machines sound uncomfortable in the cold. Clip..clip..clip, a woman’s shoes click on the hard, stone ground.
I feel a chill.
Grace McEwen
Observations from the Rose Theatre
As I approached I spotted the unmistakable sight of Creative Writing students – they were poised in uncomfortable sitting positions and glanced up only momentarily to note my appearance.
Settled on the floor I could see scatterings of gum and cigarette butts that lay abandoned on the floor, their sight both ugly and pitiable.
There was a strange, still silence that surrounded the theatre, marred only by the constant death throes of the construction work. The sound of machines was animalistic as they screeched and purred across the site.
A green fly settled on me as I wrote, oblivious to my observation of it; all too soon did it nonchalantly bound from my arm to continue what purpose it had.
Positioned outside the Rose Theatre lies a circular edifice whose reason escapes me. It is encircled by small, strange topiaries that alternate from balls to eggs that have a single aerial protruding from their tops. They are almost alien in design, each of their forms differing slightly from the others.
It is cold here, there is little wind blowing, but the overcast clouds prevent the sun from permeating the chill that has settled.
A female student with a bright yellow bag passes us by, her Mp3 is connected and she has the earplugs only in one ear. She has a smile on her face as she passes us by, perhaps ponderous at our situation.
Walking along the road is a construction worker in a high visibility jacket; he is carrying something in his arms, but I cannot make it out. Soon he walks past again, returning to his work.
Deja vu as ‘hi-vis man’ walks by again, carrying a similar load of unidentified objects. I wonder if he is taking them somewhere they might be used, or if they are simply refuse to be removed, like so many other things in this world.
I spot a familiar face entering the Rose Theatre – Craig – a friend of Gemma who lives in number 30 down my hall. He glances over in my direction, but does not wave; I wonder if he saw me?
Hi-vis man walks by again, a yellow trolley transporting more items that cannot be identified.
The clouds part slightly; the sun pierces through and blinds me with its radiance.
A girl waves regally at her friends as they meet.
The yellow trolley is transported back to the construction site to begin its journey again.
Emma Johnson
Untitled
It’s a cold and breezy Friday morning and I’m sitting alone at a window seat in the Water’s Edge café. I can see several other students sitting at the tables outside, heads bent over their notebooks, writing sporadically. It feels too cold to be sitting outdoors, but they don’t seem to have noticed.
I drink my lukewarm tea and bend my head over my own notebook, in imitation of those on the other side of the glass. Every now and then, I look up and watch them for a few minutes, and then I continue writing. I notice that they look up occasionally and watch me for a few minutes, before they bend their heads again and continue their own writing. We don’t exchange smiles, or nods of recognition. We just look around, bend our heads and write. I look up as I drain the last of my tea and notice a student watching me, watching him, watching me. And then we both bend our heads again and continue writing.
Outside, one of the students finishes his sandwich and brushes the crumbs from his lap. He leans back and notices that his gesture has invited a group of ducks to investigate closer. A girl sitting next to him is smoking as she crosses out whatever she had just written down. She pushes her notebook away and concentrates instead on her cigarette.
It seems that every single person who walks past has a bag slung over their shoulder. I notice one woman who has two shoulder bags and a bunch of papers. I wonder if she’s a tutor. Or maybe she just likes to carry a lot of stuff around with her.
Three female students are huddled together nearby, smoking and chatting enthusiastically. They seem a little nervous to me, and I assume they’re all first year students.
I get up and throw my empty tea carton in the bin, wondering whether or not I’ve written enough for now.
Brian O’Reilly
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