Notes From an Elderly Schoolboy: Part 5

 

Well, it’s been a while. How’ve you been? It’s September and I’ve got school tomorrow.

Yes, we all thought university for sad sack ol’ me was just a one-year trick, then back to the salt mines, but Student Finance England finally buckled and allowed me to borrow another twenty grand that I’ll be paying off the interest on for the next forty years. Considering that any offal of this Parlett unit still recognisably human by then will be held together by machine parts and universal basic income payments from the paperclip overlord, I’m not too worried.

Last week was Freshers/Induction week. The younglings seemed to be enjoying themselves but my fellow elderlies didn’t join me at the fair and I recognised no one. I used a couple of free drinks coupons at the pub then went and scored myself a bunch of sponsored tat: A Pompey FC flag, an Amazon hat, unribbed condoms, a ‘Get into Teaching’ notepad, and a brochure on mental health support.

So far the university haven’t attempted last year’s tactic of stopping any potential Russell Brands in their tracks with pastry bribes for Qonsent Quizzes.

The Armed Services were there in uniform taking names but the queue for free Domino’s Pizza was way longer – I avoided them both. Gulping a pint of cider, I spoke to two lovely men about Socialism and bought their newspaper. To be honest, I was just happy to talk to people who were older than me. Then I went and sat on the beach.

It was surely a thrilling day.

Lessons begin tomorrow. I haven’t heard back from the MOD about Chinese and Russian spy balloons over Portsmouth Naval Base because all they keep telling me is that aliens don’t exist. Instead, I’m waiting sensibly to be given a task by a teacher before I lose myself in anything unusual – such as a dirty protest against my estate agent.

I have no idea what this year holds, other than my geriatric balls in a vice. I’ve some thoughts for articles and interviews and reviews – all of which take me out of my comfort zone, so that’s nice. The typical anxiety and imposter syndrome have returned – no shock there, I’m out of practice and soft – but that fair was aversion therapy enough to prove to myself I’ve not become my father just yet.

If I’m oversharing it’s because of the wine. But I’m living in Southsea again now – close enough to the water to feel it in my bones and heart – so I should be able to wrestle the demented paranoia into something constructive and worthwhile.

If not, then I’ll at least try to be entertaining.

xX