Thursday, July 15, 2004
Ruination Graduation Day
Sunday Bested parents rush from champagne picnics on the falling lawn to take shelter by a folded, yellow-steel sculpture, trying to carry chairs, holding hands over wine glasses. Barefoot girls, twenty-two and gowned & gartered (I like to think) with tiny sods between their toes, suddenly taken with shivers, blue sashes over shoulders – HALT; an excitable and gay Chinese man has just beamed at me about Peter Cushing’s death (can sci-fi fans be gay?), it was like Big Gay Al in some alternate dimension where it’s acceptable to wear green khaki shirts open over black t-shirts, keep pushing yr glasses up yr nose and say sassy and effusive and camp things like “Hiya! Got an exciting project for you! On August tenth – no, maybe eleventh – the sci-fi society is… OK! Brilliant! Thank you! That’s great!” (where the fuck did this come from?) – and little brothers, dressed by mothers, in tow (you can age a man by how high he wears his trousers – mine are around my arse but I think I must’ve lost weight – pity the ten-year old with flies stretching up beyond his belly-button).
Graduation Day was weird last year, and this year it is weird again. A band play bad 60s covers on the lawn behind the union bar.
I never went to mine.
NJS
7/15/2004 02:04:00 pm
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4 Comments:
Me neither. What's all the seven years stuff?
That will become apparent as soon as I'm told it's OK to talk about it properly. Which will be sometime after I get back from Dublin.
give your fans a clue? is it health, stylus or work related?
All and none of the above...
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