Despite how much we may moan or even despise obligatory activity like work or school, we can't help but be overcome with nostalgia when it all comes to an end.
As for my stint as a print room boy at Bevan Brittan, it was perhaps as significant a 2 months as I may remember. At the start of it all I was still clinging onto an one sided love affair that never got started, hoping in the tail end grey mist of January the much desired she would reconsider the dynamics of our relationship without me prompting. It would all end with a tear-fuelled breakdown the Saturday after my first week at BB, where the mounting pain of being an unrequited lover forced me into a late night ultimatum.
The subsequent week was a dirge of constant despair lit up by a few moments of optimistic thinking fuelled by the self-denial necessary for temporary reprieve from an awful situation. But I was up against it. The boyfriend was visiting for Valentine's Day. Poetic justice was served by torrential rain and wind that echoed the desolate howl of my inner voice. Yet it did little to state my cause for love.
The rest of my time at BB seemed a long drawn out recovery process from this heartache. Helped initially by repeat listens of The National and Arctic Monkeys, empathising with every word of 'Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High', 'Terrible Love' or 'Do I Wanna Know'. Even briefly thinking I had anything in common with Hemingway in Sun Also Rises. The lunchtimes toing and froing between Holborn Circus and LSE for complimentary vegetarian lunches did what it could to cleanse the soul.
No comments:
Post a Comment