A collection of last times
May. 18th, 2005 10:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ravenI went into the library yesterday to begin returning my stacks of books. As I was walking out again, Mrs Barry said, "You didn't read every book in the library."
I said nothing.
"I remember when I first met you, you were about this high" - her hand was three feet above the ground - "and you said you'd read everything you could."
"I had," I said feebly. "All the good ones." I had, you know. I'd slowly worked my way through every good book I could find. "But then you came and the new books came in and I couldn't keep up."
"You lost track! And now you never will read them all."
"No," I said forlornly.
"There'll be other libraries," she said soothingly, but I didn't want to be soothed.
"There won't be this one! And I won't be librarian, and there won't be fiction..."
And there won't, and I won't, and there won't - and she was laughing at me as I left but I can't believe I'm leaving the place I've lived and worked for seven years. It started to sink in this morning when we did a banoffee pie taste test (really, an incredibly long story) instead of having an actual Chemistry lesson. In the end I ambled into a GCSE lesson to feed Mrs Colvin pie - she ate it with pleasure while the class pointed out you shouldn't really eat it in the labs.
On Tuesday, I did what I do every Tuesday and wandered out of Biology with the chemgeeks, pausing the usual moment for someone or other to grub for a lunch pass, and then walk down the corridor, with its posters and Shakespeare quotes on the walls, to the door, where you show your lunch pass and skip the queue. Only it was the last time, and I never noticed. Afterwards, I realised that I went into lunch when I was eleven, scared beyond belief that no-one was going to sit with me, the food would be inedible, or worst of all that I would drop my tray. Seven years on, I have never dropped my tray. And if I could communicate only one thing to my younger self, it would be: if no-one sits with you, it doesn't matter; you're going to grow up and be bright and interesting, cut off your hair and find fandom; you're going to survive this.
Speaking of my younger self, I found my hymn book today. On the flyleaf is a bookplate - "This hymn book is presented to:" below a Merchants' crest, concordia parvae res crescunt, and my name and the date: September 10th, 1998. This Friday will be May 20th, 2005 - and ohmygod, it looks like we made it.
Friday: leavers' lunch; drinking wine and eating sandwiches with our teachers (except Rice-Oxley, who is on DofE); hopefully taking Mrs Stubbs and Mrs Peppin to the beach to feed them ice-cream and sending a ransom note to the school; doing a massive Art Attack with chairs in the quad; putting manganate (VII) down the toilets; in the end, dragging all our teachers to the pub to finish off.
Looks like we made it.
I said nothing.
"I remember when I first met you, you were about this high" - her hand was three feet above the ground - "and you said you'd read everything you could."
"I had," I said feebly. "All the good ones." I had, you know. I'd slowly worked my way through every good book I could find. "But then you came and the new books came in and I couldn't keep up."
"You lost track! And now you never will read them all."
"No," I said forlornly.
"There'll be other libraries," she said soothingly, but I didn't want to be soothed.
"There won't be this one! And I won't be librarian, and there won't be fiction..."
And there won't, and I won't, and there won't - and she was laughing at me as I left but I can't believe I'm leaving the place I've lived and worked for seven years. It started to sink in this morning when we did a banoffee pie taste test (really, an incredibly long story) instead of having an actual Chemistry lesson. In the end I ambled into a GCSE lesson to feed Mrs Colvin pie - she ate it with pleasure while the class pointed out you shouldn't really eat it in the labs.
On Tuesday, I did what I do every Tuesday and wandered out of Biology with the chemgeeks, pausing the usual moment for someone or other to grub for a lunch pass, and then walk down the corridor, with its posters and Shakespeare quotes on the walls, to the door, where you show your lunch pass and skip the queue. Only it was the last time, and I never noticed. Afterwards, I realised that I went into lunch when I was eleven, scared beyond belief that no-one was going to sit with me, the food would be inedible, or worst of all that I would drop my tray. Seven years on, I have never dropped my tray. And if I could communicate only one thing to my younger self, it would be: if no-one sits with you, it doesn't matter; you're going to grow up and be bright and interesting, cut off your hair and find fandom; you're going to survive this.
Speaking of my younger self, I found my hymn book today. On the flyleaf is a bookplate - "This hymn book is presented to:" below a Merchants' crest, concordia parvae res crescunt, and my name and the date: September 10th, 1998. This Friday will be May 20th, 2005 - and ohmygod, it looks like we made it.
Friday: leavers' lunch; drinking wine and eating sandwiches with our teachers (except Rice-Oxley, who is on DofE); hopefully taking Mrs Stubbs and Mrs Peppin to the beach to feed them ice-cream and sending a ransom note to the school; doing a massive Art Attack with chairs in the quad; putting manganate (VII) down the toilets; in the end, dragging all our teachers to the pub to finish off.
Looks like we made it.
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no subject
on 2005-05-19 04:38 pm (UTC)I think someone's nicked the manganate already. Should be good!