Yet More Wonderful Mass Observations

OBSERVATION WRITING- THE HUB

 

People look lost and confused. Some perhaps dazed and tired, others

possibly still nursing hangovers as it near the middle of the day. For the

moment it isn't raining outside so the marble floors are still reasonably

dry. People pass me with their first meals of the day. Others walk alone

with earphones in. Either blocking out the drone of chatter or avoiding

talking to anybody and pleading ignorance to those who call his name. There

are most with thick coats fastened to the top. Others with scarves and

hats. It must be cold outside, though it is most likely only because of the

floor of people wandering inside that it is any warmer in here. The cage

tills are as understaffed as always. Something all residents have or will

grow accustomed to. TV's, signs and artwork are visible in all directions,

but nobody watches or reads them. Other than the seats on the balcony

above, everyone’s clothes seem to match the weather. Dull and grey. The

excitement and nerves of new students has quickly subsided.

 

Kirstie Macmillan

 

Books lay in piles

 

Books lay in piles ready to be purchased; their pages turned, their spines bent. Two women stand at their desk in idle conversation, chatting mindlessly about something

unimportant. It’s so peaceful here – not like most libraries I’ve been to. There’s something very comforting about being completely alone but amongst people who are all striving towards the same thing. Two girls have just rushed through the library doors, flattening their hair in an attempt to fix it from the wind. I feel young but old at the same time. Inexperienced but ready. After being here for only two days I feel a part of something very important- almost familiar. As I sit here and watch other students read, chat, write, daydream, drink
their daily coffee, I finally feel completely in my element. Accepted. Normal. Like I was supposed to be here three years ago. So I drink my own coffee and I write. Write about what I see. And to be honest most people would say there’s nothing to see at all right now - as I sit and observe- but I see it all. I see people like me and it feels good.

 

Hannah Severns    

 

Observations

 

Just as I put pen to paper, about to tell my page of the lack of activity

occurring around me, an almost impressively loud belch erupts from

somewhere nearby. The culprit is uncertain, though he who wanders not far

from my chosen perch is a smartly dressed man copping a steaming paper cup

in one hand, the other grasping firmly the leather strap hanging from his

shoulder. He doesn’t look the type to make such noises, at least not in

public, but people have a tendency to surprise you.

 

Copious numbers of people are walking past; a young man with immaculately

styled hair, a second comparatively shoddy in appearance as he half

heartedly pushes a rusting luggage trolley before him. A swarm of bodies

rounds the corner from the lake, awash with brown chinos and Peter Pan

collars, eager to keep up with fashion, as per. As they pass by they create

a brilliant contrast with the brown haired girl walking the opposite

direction in her camo combats, head down, a lone gummy earbud dangling from

her pocket. A pigeon stirs in the tree above, burying its head further

under its wing, trying to sleep as two staff members stand chatting about

everything and nothing a mere few feet to my left. One has a blue golf

umbrella slung over her shoulder, a balancing act as a banana, two books

and a shop bought sandwich rest in the crook of her elbow. She does the

majority of the talking, her stance relaxed as she natters on, blissfully

unaware of the other woman’s discomfort, whose short replies and fidgeting

feet makes it clear that she’s eager to move on. They eventually part ways,

the escaping pace of the latter double that of her colleague.

 

Human activity has died down now. A minute ladybird crawls across my leaf,

its wing case only just large enough to fit a single black dot on either

side. I find myself strangely transfixed as it stops briefly every few

seconds or so to clean its antennae or flutter its wings, evidently unsure

as to the safety of its new ink clad environment. It seems to follow my

hand down the page, daring itself to get closer and closer to the ball of

the pen. My ability to concentrate on the happenings around me has

disappeared completely; I reckon it’s time to relocate my new companion and

move on.

 Carolyn Pollard

 

 

 

27/09/12  -  Observation

 

She takes a seat in the foyer of the Arts Centre, close enough to the box office to observe and listen to the exchanges that take place at the desk. Her surroundings  are aesthetically pleasing, the clean lines and clear contrasts in colour : the mute greys and vibrant red. No not red, she realises as soon as she writes the word that it is lazy of her to describe the colour of the chairs as red. The colour reminds her of the nasturtiums she grew from seed and planted out in her tiny yard the previous spring. The colour of the chairs is ‘nasturtium red’, she decides.

She isn’t expecting the hum that builds up to her left, in the area she has just walked through to reach the foyer. From where she is sitting she can’t see anybody but she pictures a group of students gathering there; as their numbers swell it is as if someone is increasing the volume in the room. The door opens and a stream of chattering faces pours in to the foyer and she is surrounded. It is difficult for her to focus on any one individual or small group as they merge into one homogeneous mass. She starts to feel mildly irritated. Another Creative Writing student, she recognises him as somebody who had been sitting in front of her in the lecture theatre earlier, approaches from the right and takes a seat. He will struggle to concentrate there, she thinks, and as if he has had the same thought he stands and exits left.

As the group in the foyer moves away she suddenly feels very tired and realises she would rather stay where she is, now the noise has subsided, than move on to experience a fresh perspective. To counter the guilt that she fleetingly experiences at choosing the easy option she strains to see what the lady in the Box Office is doing. A vase of yellow flowers on the desk obscures her view. What are they? She knows they cannot be daffodils this late in the year. Reaching in her bag for her glasses case she finds a banana that she put there yesterday and she makes a note to eat it while she is walking back to meet her tutor group. Even wearing her glasses she can’t make out what flowers they are. The glasses go back in the bag.

Just when everything feels still again, a young man, barefoot and wearing what look like a pair of black and white pyjama bottoms, strides purposefully through the foyer.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Turning her head she tries not to worry too much what state his feet will be in if he doesn’t put something, if not shoes then just a pair of slippers, on. Time to leave. Reluctantly she gathers her things and exits right in order to check out the flowers at the Box Office desk. They are roses, of course, this is after all what was the Rose Theatre.

 

Christine Riaz                                                                                                                              

 

OBSERVATIONS

 

I walk past the small statue of a pig. I remember being told about it

during a tour of the campus, but I don’t recall why it’s there. I didn’t

understand it then and I still don’t now. There is a plaque, but the grass

is too wet today. I’m also aware that other writers are around waiting to

pounce on oddities, like a girl with shoe laces untied walking across

sludgy grass to better see a pig. I wonder if I’ll ever take the time to

read it in my whole three years here, but right now I need to sit down

before I trip over those laces.

 

 

People stare and I stare back. I’m sat on a low wall, shielded from view by

some bushes and small trees from the other writers behind me. A taller

person might look strange, their legs would be all bunched up and awkward,

but as short as I am it’s as though the wall was made for me. Of course, it

might look a little bizarre that I decided to sit on a wall rather than the

many empty benches stretched out in front of me, but their cold design

don’t seem as comforting.

 

 

The sun has made an appearance and the wet slabs of stone light up the path

to the Hub and beyond. It seems to lure out the people who are still

dressed for summer, unwilling to let go just yet, holding on with golden

skin to those rare tendrils of September sunlight. A student walks by

wearing shorts with a crazy pattern, a mismatched combination to his upper

half. The light reflects off the fluorescent jackets of two police women

walking away. The campus is thrown back into dull, grey tones, the clouds

now engulf the whole sky.

 

 

“Mornin’,” a student raises his hand in pleasant greeting but the girl

either doesn’t hear or blatantly ignores him. Maybe her mood has been

dampened by the sudden loss of light, perhaps they live in the same

building and he annoys her to no end. If this were a film, they might

someday set aside their differences and marry. We will never know.

 

 

Most people are quiet as they walk by, slightly nervous and looking a

little lost, even in large groups. They crowd together, not knowing one

another but subconsciously seeking safety in numbers.  Others are loud and

their laughter and conversations bounce across to me, but they all scream

the same thing – ‘I don’t have a clue where I’m supposed to be right now.’

 

 

The two policewomen are back, but they must have arrived a different way.

Now they’re behind me and looking at the map. They’re going back the way

they came. Even they’re lost.

 

 

Another student walks by wearing a sort of trench coat, a cigarette in his

hand, and, coming from the business building, his appearance cries

gangster. His stride is confident and relaxed, a perfect mix between a

cocky swagger and a casual stroll. He could take on anyone, any situation

and he isn’t intimidated by all this change in the slightest. Maybe this is

who the two policewomen were looking for.

 

 

A man wearing white overalls, paint splattered all over keeps walking back

and forth, disappearing and re-appearing. He’s small and quick like a

rabbit hopping to and from his burrow, to and from a hat, with paint

supplies.

 

 

It has begun to rain so I make my way inside. To warm my hands I stick them

under the hot taps for a couple of minutes. After slapping the underside of

the hand dryer repeatedly, sending a spray of water across the walls, I

realise the hand dryer isn’t working. It is the first time I’ve had to warm

my hands up like that this year and the small tradition makes me excited.

It means that summer is gone, no matter how much shorts-boy clings to it,

and autumn is here. It’s the time many other students and I meet new

challenges, new places, friends, enemies, more-than-friends and

experiences. They say spring is the time for new beginnings, and that might

be true for nature and religion, but for me the beginning will always be

autumn.

 

Abbie Phillips

 

Observations

 

What hits me first is the strange juxtaposing mix of people trickling

around the campus. The rain has finally let up and so everyone is less *

dashing-from-building-to-building* and more *calmly-strolling-around* or

stumbling bleary-eyed through their morning routine. The brief pinpricks of

sunlight that break through the clouds hit our eyes periodically and I pity

the hungover Freshers among us.

 

There is a lady sitting in the window of the building opposite. Headset on,

her eyes flicker between her screen and the people passing, a wistful look

passing over her face. A girl rushes past me, feet thudding on the wooden

deck, keys jingling in her hand. A couple walk past clutching coffee cups,

swerving around three men seemingly just loitering around in their matching

white overalls. The wind picks up around me, carrying voices from all

around; snatches of conversations, strangers lending lighters, a girl

humming under her breath. I recognise the song and carry it on in my head.

Someone walks past with an energy drink in one hand, sports bag slung over

one shoulder. Bundled up in a winter coat, hat and scarf, I wonder how on

earth he can walk around in *shorts* and a *t shirt*. I at tug my scarf

sympathetically.

 

I worry my observations are too dull so I move around to stand near a bench

just around the first curve of the duck pond. The leaves are starting to

collect at the bases of the trees and it makes me smile; I love this time

of year. Another couple walk past, this time swinging their joined hands

between them, a group of girls discuss their antics from the night before,

heels click and clack behind me, a girl reapplies her lipstick as she

passes on the other side of the pond.

 

I move along again, away from the smoker who has struck up a conversation

with the stranger with the lighter. I wonder absentmindedly what they are

discussing and marvel at people’s ability to naturally converse with

someone they have never met before. I narrowly miss a man sweeping leaves

out of the path and return his smile. The girl with the keys returns at a

much slower pace, her sense of calmness contrasting with her previous

franticness.

 

The wind picks up even more and I tighten my hold on my notebook, cursing

myself for not wearing warmer clothes. A girl walks past wearing shorts and

I feel less ridiculous. Two men in matching uniforms pass, quietly

acknowledging each other with identical tired expressions and a slight head

tilt. I wonder to myself if the recognition was for each other or the

uniform.

 

Some of the other students have huddled together in groups but I stand

alone, trying to not get distracted by more mundane sights and attempting

to make this more interesting. I think I’m failing.

 

The sun peaks out again and I feel it warming one side of my face

immediately. The trees tilt to one side with the force of the wind and a

few drops of rain hit my forehead. I walk further around and a tree catches

my eye. Tied around various branches are strips of torn cloth; printed,

plain, small, large. There is writing on them and on the first one I try to

read the rain has caused the red ink to bleed across the material, making

it illegible. It makes me stupidly melancholy that I cannot see what the

writer ‘*wants to be’* in the future. I try another and see the optimistic

phrase *‘I want to see the world’* in small, neat handwriting. There are

little Biro stars drawn around it and I find myself hoping it happens for

the writer. I hope they see the world.

 

Jess Ackerley

 

The Rain has Stopped....

The rain has stopped. That’s something at least. I don’t know how I feel about being able to sit outside without getting an impromptu shower, it’s disconcerting is what it is.  The sun has yet to make a debut but I feel that would be asking a little too much. This is England after all.

It’s quite nice here. I’m sat by the lake on one of the wooden picnic benches, one which unfortunately hasn’t been sheltered from the elements and I can already feel moisture seeping through my clothes. Way to make a good impression girl. First real day at university and you’re going to be walking around with a giant wet patch on your behind for the next few hours. I’m so proud of myself right now.

The ducks are making rather a lot of noise. On closer inspection it appears the wind has picked up slightly and is causing quite a stir in the Land of Beaks. Most of the ducks are across the other side of the lake, living it up in the shelter of the reeds and, I don’t speak duck, but I think they’re taunting the two ducks on my side of the lake. I’ve named them Dave and Daisy. Dave has decided that he doesn’t like it on the Education side of the lake and wishes to be in the Land of Beaks with the rest of his kind. Despite Daisy’s obvious disapproval, Dave makes a beeline towards his fellow ducks and is promptly blown off course by a large gust of wind, resulting in more angry quacking on his part and muffled giggling on mine.

A cough nearby startles my attention away from Dave and his exasperated friend, looking up I realise I’ve been being watched by my classmate and am probably going to live out my uni experience with the nickname Duck girl or something. Wow I’m just two for two today aren’t I. Okay so I’ll just smile and introduce myself.  There we go. Sorted. I’m still going to be duck girl but now she knows I have another name maybe she’ll feel guilty enough to use it. Don’t they say to do that if you’re kidnapped? Say your name a lot and tell them personal details so they see you as a person and not just a victim? I’m getting a little off topic her and she doesn’t look like she’s going to go all Hannibal on me so I think we’re good.

I’ve just now realised people are starting to stream out of the buildings near me. Classes must be over. Darwin! How long was I watching those bloody ducks. It’s definitely got colder in the last few minutes and I can feel the bite in the air now, the cold is starting to leach through my jumper and into my bones. I really hate the cold. By the looks of it so does everyone else. From my vantage point I can see most people are struggling with files and books, trying not to drop them as they fight their way into coats and jackets. One girl, at the entrance of the Health building, fails in the most undignified way possible and manages to drop most of her belongs and fall over her own feet in the process. Brushing her bottle blonde curls away from her face she gathers her belongings, looks to see if anyone noticed and walks away head held high. Kudos to her, when I fall down I usually manage to do it in the most densely crowded area, she managed to do it in a dimly lit doorway. She’d be doing so well if I hadn’t got in down on paper. Never underestimate the weirdo with the notebook. Always watching. Always waiting. Always lurking in the shadows ready to record your most embarrassing moments and write about them on a blog. (Insert evil laugh here)

The more I watch people, the more they start to blend in to one. There is, however, a distinct difference between the girls leaving the Health building and the girls leaving the Education building. The education girls are all sweet little things, with soft features and an air of innocence which makes you just want to hug them. As I watch, a petite girl with auburn hair and flushed cheeks dips her head against the wind and rushes into the building behind me, giving me a small smile as she hurries past. In comparison the ones emerging from the Health building all bare a canny resemblance to one another physically. Most of the students leaving that building have their hair up in buns, with make up so thick I fear the orange glow may blind me from my vantage point across the lake. Is it like a uniform? I hope the Ducks are faring better against the borderline solar flare. Do they have sunglasses in the Land of Beaks? Resisting the urge to make Willy Wonka references. Must not make references. Singing the Ompa lumpa song under my breath doesn’t count. Oh goodie. One of them has noticed me watching. Maybe she’ll smile and wave and we’ll be best friends forever, there’ll be hair braiding and sleepovers and, nope, she’s just flipping me off. Lovely. Just lovely.  Ahhh she’ll make such a good nurse if her people skills are anything to go by. She scowls a bit more, at least I think she’s scowling, the glare from her orange skin makes it a little hard to tell.

 I think It’s getting brighter now, the cold is still biting but the sun is really trying to break through the cloud barrier. I feel like I should be cheering it on, encouraging it. Come on sunshine you can do this. Just a bit further. A little more and we may have a chance of getting over a countrywide vitamin D deficiency. Just a little more….

Yeah it’s raining again. God I love England. Just when you think you cant get any damper, British weather never fails to prove you wrong.

 

Laura Goodchild

 

Finally 

Finally, the golden spears of the sun have cut their way through the darkened sky. Although, I highly doubt it will make much of a difference to the people who have lately been forced to live like canal folk due to the relentless onslaught of rain, resulting in mass flooding. To be honest I can’t understand the relevance of the water tower in the distance, I’m surprised it hasn’t been rendered obsolete already.

 

Seeing people walk past me, heading for the gym is actually quite depressing, I’m quite envious (and admittedly jealous) of their physiques. Then again, even the thought of what they are doing in there makes me tired. Now I’m sitting on a rather uncomfortable table, getting fairly annoyed by the constant noise and draft when the automatic doors keep opening and closing for now apparent reason.

 

The room is now crowded as a lecture has just been finished, although I may as well be invisible for all the notice they are giving me, not that I am bothered by this. Although I must admit the Wilson centre does have some interesting features, the posters around it for one thing. Some of them are pretty weird but others are… uplifting, the one of a typical English pier set by a summer sunset for example, it’s nice, though rare in this country. Were as the one behind me is a little more accurate: a teenage boy with red dyed spiked hair whilst smoking a cigarette with the pier in the distance next to a grey beach co-existing with a blackened sea.

   

I glance out the window and what a shock! It’s raining. Again. People all over campus run for cover, a large margin of them without coats or jackets which I do think is quite stupid considering the latest weather, in fact considering this country I think people should be prepared for wind and rain at all times.   

  

Matthew Toale