Over indulged pauses, and a slightly confused facial expression, do you remember what you were supposed to be talking about? The flush of interest first inspired this morning had well and truly died after exactly 50 seconds of this inarticulate dribble. The overpaid and over weight pauser at the front of the room reminded me of a mole, I found myself tilting my head and observing him with a dedicated thought process to turn him into a character for a children's book. His eyes squinted so much behind the glasses I couldn't determine the colour, I was certain though that my mole character would have better things to say than a long and slightly off putting pause. At least something came from this lecture.
That settled my eyes drifted off, the view framed by the dingy windows wasn't all that glorious, trapped in a room that was bloody cold! Paying £3000 a year and they cant put the heating on?, stuck in the middle of a dingy disused industrial city where our heritage has practically gone down the drain with the rise of technology, and now what do we have over once green grass? (I know there was a lot of grass because they're are representations of this place in the museum "Birmingham as it used to be" now there's nothing to take in but the grave yard of crumbling factories and whatever else is down there. I started counting the pylons, comparing them to the poem we were supposed to be academically excited about, Spender was right, they were everywhere, I counted eight and imagined from the poets point of view, 1930's and these massive constructions grew like metal trees over night, when there was none of this built up misery, when it was stretched out; a rug of greens and golds, yes I could well emphasize with this poet. If only the Mole was more interested in Spender, no, as all modernist idiots he was more concerned with the piece of scrap that was fourteen lines long. fourteen lines is not a poem, its half a sentence and not a very interesting one at that! It really was bloody cold in this room, the chair and desk all compacted together were the most uncomfortable combination I'd had to endure. I imagined my character Mole, lets call him Duncan, Duncan in a boring shirt, and the collar looks like it's cutting off the artery in his podgy neck, is that why he keeps pausing? Duncan would live in the country that once was, he'll sprout out of the ground one night and squint and squint and look as if he has no eyes at all, just two crinkly holes in his podgy face, sheltered by a reflective pair of glasses, he'll discover these tall ugly pylons erected in replace of trees, and so the story shall proceed.
Fifteen minutes to go...classes for discussion are separated, I shrug my bag on, listen out for the room number...I'm in the moles class. Damn.