Mass Observation 2016 Ducks in All Directions of Buzzing Students

In the midst of a swarm of buzzing students

 

In the midst of a swarm of buzzing students, stands a woman. Alone. Anxiously scanning the crowd for a familiar face, she paces and shifts her weight to create the illusion she is moving, going with the swarm. Clutching her phone to her ear in a desperate attempt to find her friend, her presence is amplified by the constant blue of colour and faces washing around her. A familiar face emerges, her tense frame instantly relaxes. She becomes another face in the crowd.

The smell of coffee drifts through the room, carried through the air with the quiet hum of voices. One deep voice seems to raise above the rest, echoing around the walls and separates itself. Its owner is sat at a table, mug in hand, talking passionately to his companions. He speaks fondly of ones he calls “the kids”. Sparse hair fluffs outwards from his head, glasses perched on his long nose. Eccentric hand gestures are made by his bony and sinuous hands. He must be a tutor.

Gabrielle Langridge

CW – Observation

The eastern campus was aloud but still, tranquil yet alive. On the northern shore a brood of ducks sat, all facing the same direction. They were either basking in the sun’s radiance or, from the flow of the glistening lake’s ripples, enjoying the gentle breeze. Perhaps both, perhaps neither; it will forever remain a mystery.

Thus far, the docile brood had only been disturbed by the galosh of a distant fountain and periodic flush from a wave-making machine beneath a bridge. Alas, it was an ephemeral utopia. Peace, much like the wings of a duck, is fragile, needing only the passing of a frantic student clutching his phone before him and sprinting in a mad dash to break it. His raucous invasion shattered the amity, and scattered the ducks in all directions. The drums of war beat once more and the largest mallard charged into another, asserting his dominance. Emerging victorious, he approached the nearest female. But with a flap of her wings, she dove into the lake and away from his advances, clearly unimpressed.

On the southern shore, a trio of American football players swaggered through their kingdom, each of them branded with the word Vikings across their green back. One tossed a pigskin higher and higher into the air, hurling it in a vertical corkscrew movement. On his fourth display, his grasp failed him and it rolled haphazardly on the floor, much to the delight of his shield-brothers. He parried their scorn, attributing it to a night of drinking and dancing in his favourite mead hall, Level. He asked his fair-haired comrade his excuse, to which the giant claimed a sleepless night with a wench. His claim was refuted by the others.

Outside of the great glass structure labelled Creative Edge, a woman in uniform placed a row of tables in the salmon-coloured square and covered them with white sheets. The display went mostly ignored by the comers and goers entering and leaving the building, and those sitting by writing notes on their surroundings.

 

Oliver James