Lots to say
Friday, February 17th, 2006So right after I typed out that last update I embarassingly set off the fire alarms. Basically, I bought a wok in town with the intention of making a slightly more authentic stir fry. Upon getting it home and excitedly reading the instructions for ’seasoning’ (the process of making the wok non-stick, or something.. essentially, oiling it) I found that I didn’t have any paper towels to rub the oil with as the instructions suggested. I left the wok on a medium/low heat with a small amount of oil rubbed into the surface and went downstairs to borrow some kitchen paper.
I got back a minute or two later to find a) the kitchen rapidly filling with smoke (windows shut) and b) my flatmate Kathryn standing and just watching the pan smoke. I pulled it off the heat and she opened the windows, then the smoke detector in the kitchen started off and like a death knell, was followed by the main fire alarm. I opened the kitchen door in time to hear the alarms for the rest of the block (3 other flats, so 20 people in all) start, each one making a different noise, very very loud. I swear several times and head downstairs for the intercom on the wall to inform the security staff that it’s not an actual fire, as apparently the fire service are automatically called a minute after the alarms, or something.
Whichever genius was involved in the design of the block clearly didn’t consider the practical difficulties raised by situating the alarm box right next to the intercom, which effectively meant that the person on the other end couldn’t understand what I was saying, and vice-versa. By this point, everyone is outside in the corridor except the new American exchange student (who’s leaving tomorrow after less than 2 weeks here) and I’m trying to explain over the alarm noise that it’s not a fire. Luckily, everyone was pretty relaxed and found it funny if anything. Someone calls the site office and they tell us a warden will be there to turn the alarm off shortly.
We wait around an in ten minutes a pissed-off looking postgraduate shows up and yells at us all. Apparently we weren’t far away enough from the building. When someone said “but it wasn’t a fire”, she shouted that if there had been an actual fire while we were waiting around, we wouldn’t have known, so we have to evacuate the building anyway. All the while she was talking she didn’t shut the alarm off, although she did eventually and threatened us, saying we could be kicked out of university if it happened again. Lee said he thought that was overly harsh and that it was the first time it’s happened to our block, and she made some lame response about making the rules. She left saying we would be getting a letter from the warden, and here we are weeks later with nothing. Everyone speculated later that we interrupted her and her boyfriend or something, which was why she was so angry.
When I got back in the flat my wok had burn marks on the inside and bottom, so the non-stick lining was useless and singed. I’ve kept it as a memento of my foolish laziness, but only managed to replace it just today, a week later. I’ve yet to use the new one, I’m kinda scared still.
I started my second elective course at Leeds. Here, you have to do 40 credits per year in ‘electives’, which are basically modules outside the degree course you’re currently doing, in my case English. This year I picked Introduction to Programming and Beginning Writing. I almost thought I couldn’t do the writing one since it clashed with my timetable, but we figured stuff out and I went along to the first session last week.It was really great.
The teacher is cool, he’s weird and quirky in a cool way; tall and thin wearing all black and Converse. He paused every time a van went past (we were right by a window) and remarked if it was late/early. There were only about 10 of us there, probably less, and despite it starting at 9 (meaning 7:15ish wakeup time) I really enjoy it; I’m about to leave for it now. For the first seminar we had to bring “an object that represents you”. The responses were pretty cool/weird/boring. Some girl brought a flower which was “beautiful, layered, intricate, delicate and erotic”. Another girl brought a tiara. This nutcase on the front row brought pictures he’s drawn of “a machine that makes dogs”. I brought the last setlist my band used onstage before I moved to Leeds. It’s all ripped and covered in footprints so it’s seen a bit of life. When asked, I said it represented my musical side as well as my friendship (with the guys in the band), and also my emotional attachment to the event since it’s the last gig we’ll play in a while. It was really tough/interesting, he asked me what the first song was and I said “Sound Of Honesty”. He quickly said “What’s the sound of honesty?” to which I replied “err.. five guys onstage playing to thirty people and trying to make it original and interesting” or something. It was a challenging question and I really think I’m gonna enjoy the class. Any subject where 70% of the grade is my creative writing is good in my book.
I also had my second Creative Writing seminar. This time we were looking at narrative, and the task at the end was to write a paragraph of metafiction. Basically, it’s like the literary equivalent of the drama concept, the “fourth wall”, which is ‘broken’ when the actors onstage acknowledge the audience or the fact that they’re actually in a play. In writing, metafiction is when the author is writing about someone telling a story, and refers to the fact. An example is Catcher In The Rye, the way Holden is telling his own story and introduces it in the beginning.So anyway, our task was to write a paragraph of metafiction from a choice of three genres; crime, romance or fantasy. Although I read some of the less-cliché fantasy, I didn’t want to write it, and romance is a no-no, so crime it was. Fixing images of film-noirs and smoky jazz soundtracks, I wrote my paragraph:
So I’m sitting here trying to figure out how to begin recording the events of last autumn in the city, with the late-night grocery store and the Chinese immigrant. It’s dark outside and I can barely see the array of photographs laid out on my desk. They’re there to jog my memory, but truth be told, I wasn’t about to forget those faces. Some jazz drifts in from the bars down the street, and there’s a dog barking somewhere, distracting me from the blank page.
On the other side of the cheap wall a phone rings and a woman answers, and for a second I’m swept up in a conversation about restaurants, casino halls and that goddamned Louis who’s been out with that blonde again. I tap my foot vaguely, then it strikes me and I write down the first line before it escapes:
The hotel had no record of a Mr. Brown.
It wasn’t much, but I was damned if I could think of anywhere else to start.
We all wrote our “paragraphs”, and five of us volunteered to read. I went second and read slightly fast, stammering a little as I’m prone to do (I’m not a huge fan of reading aloud, unless I’m comfortable with the people, I guess). The last guy read out over a page of stuff, clearly not a paragraph. At the end we had to vote for our favourite, and to my surprise, mine won. At first when the teacher asked for a show of hands for mine, nobody put their hand up and I felt awful, at least one vote would have been nice, then about half a dozen people raised theirs. My reward? £2 from the pocket of the teacher, who said “Crime pays” as he tossed it to me (I fumbled the catch, he’s just too cool for me. When he took my name for the register he asked “What’s fallen down?” referring to the newspaper on my desk, which caught me stupidly off guard for a second or two).