Perran has one day in between getting back from Cornwall and
Bristol and heading on towards Swansea for a weekend with his friend Lou, now
an undergraduate there. Half term homework
is being mopped up and a great deal of mellow tootling is happening on the sax. Finally, a tube of Pringles, a box of Carenza’s
cookies and a bottle of his father’s elderflower wine are loaded into his rucksack.
As he helps me lay the table for tea, I see him smiling to
himself.
“What?”
“That tutor who gave the introductory talk at Bristol…”
I know what he means – we had been sitting stiff and
awestruck with hundreds of other candidates and their chauffeurs/parents, all dwarfed
by the lofty imitation mediaeval hall.
Along with the others, we were craning our necks and goggling at the fan
vaulting, arcades and traceries, all dramatically uplit in red and purple. I opened my bottle of coke and it made a slight
hiss. Dozens of people turned to stare
at me.
Eventually, the tutor stood up and addressed us,
“I don’t know what’s come over them with the lighting today –
it looks like a Gothic brothel in here.”
As one, the audience slumped into relaxation – however scary
the architecture, the staff were clearly friendly.
No comments:
Post a Comment