Screenwriting, Secretaries, Monday Madness And So On

Copied and pasted from my external blog

I’ve just started my second week back at university, and I’ve already developed cranium-throb. The work load has doubled, and although it’s managable, it’s still dawning on me that this time, there are no second chances. I can either get it right the first time, or be miserably second-class. I know, I know; writing isn’t easy – you think I don’t know that? I pride myself in the knowledge that I’ve only taken a few steps further into the writing world than most of the students on the course right now. That’s not to say that I’m more talented than them, or harder working at all; just more experienced. So the fact that I still find myself worrying about ending up with 2:1 at the end of next year, rather than a glittering first, is a little bit silly. I should know by now what it takes, and that once the work has been handed in, the ball has rolled right out of my court.

However, I’ve made plans to make life for myself a little easier. I’ve decided to get up early, and stop rushing to class with one minute to spare. I’m going to keep on top of my work, and be bright eyed and bushy tailed, even at the ungodly start of 9:30 am. Don’t think that’s early? Well, I never said I’d grown up – just that I was trying to be more responsible.

So anyway, this experienced writress was a big idiot and set her alarm for 8pm instead of 8am this morning. After being shaken awake, I had fifteen minutes tops to spare, in order to go to the loo, get washed, dressed, smellified, straighten my hair and apply make-up. As well as this, I had to email my tutor to tell him I was going to be late, to avoid the humiliation of bursting into the room, red-cheeked, just to be marched back out again.

I then had to dash out of the door without my obligatory diet-breakfast-banana, and walk briskly (I don’t run) for 15 mins to the Cat Hill campus. Sadly, there were no cats when I arrived; just a grim looking secretary and a few 3rd year students who’d lost so much heart in the business that they couldn’t even be arsed to help me find my new classroom. After two tries finding room 172, I went and asked the secretary if she knew where I could find it. ‘Down the ramps,’ she said. I blinked and replied, ‘I’ve already been down there, and couldn’t find it. Can you be more specific?’

She pursed her lips and retorted with, ‘I’m not sure. Just go down the ramps.’ Yeah, really helpful, moron behind the desk. So off I trotted, the face of the clock on the wall practically burning a hole in my back as I went. I went down the ramps yet again, turned a few corners, looked bewildered at passers by and begged a few others, all to find myself outside. So I turned some more corners, and ended up back where I started. Time was ticking. Now I was pissed.

‘I’ve been everywhere, and I still can’t find the room I asked for. Do you have any idea where it might be?’ I ask the pug-faced secretary once more. She folds her arms, narrows her eyes, and says, ‘I really don’t know. You might have to go down the spiral staircase.’

A spiral staircase now!? I just give her the stink-eye and march off again, just catching the words ‘That was the girl from earlier…’ being hissed maliciously to some other member of staff, before making my way “down da ramps” once more. This time I find myself turning into a corridor of freaky self-portraits, apparently by photography students, and go through the maze of corridors to search for the mysterious spiral staircase, which the middle-aged bitch at the front desk had conveniently forgotten to mention the first hundred times I asked.

It’s only when I peek into an open door that has a sign saying, ‘Stairs to lifts’ that I catch a glimpse of a stairwell going down, and somehow, by some miracle, I find this spiral staircase. I decend, probably looking as lost and enchanted as the kid from Pan’s Labyrinth, and find myself in a some Jacob’s Ladder inspired basement.

I was afraid. But I wonder along and eventually find some large red doors, and at the very end, is room 172. What a ****ing battle that was, I think to myself. So I breeze in, trying hard to be silent and respectful, only to hear “It’s actually past the 15 minute mark, so…” behind me. I plonk myself down, and, quite ****ed-offedly yet reservedly say, ‘I sent you an email explaining I’d be late.’

I was let off, and although I wanted to add that I’d just had to treck through ****ing Nania just to get there, so he should be grateful I arrived in one piece, I decided against it. I got on with the class, and actually really enjoyed the excersizes. I just made myself a mental note to climb the front desk and take a massive, steaming, satisfying **** on the secretary’s head on the way out. That’ll show her, I thought.