When the last of the Italians had finally gone we went back to the classrooms, moving tables and chairs back to their term time lay-out, pulling down posters and picking Blu-tack off the walls. Then the non-residential teachers left and there were just the two of us, sitting in a kitchen eating our summer school packed lunch (crisps, a bar of chocolate, four slices of bread spread thinly with tuna, an apple and a bottle of water), watching the rain fall outside while we killed time before the early evening train.
Steven got off at Sheffield, where I changed platforms for the two-hour journey home. At Central Station I met Martin, who I shared a flat with in Riga. "How was your summer school?" he asked. "Mine was a fucking disaster."
2 comments:
I'll be peeling the blu tac off the walls on Friday. No disasters on this one. So far. Can't wait to be on the train home, mind.
Summer school, I've started thinking, is like a really shitty hangover. "Never again," you tell yourself, knowing all the while you'll be back regardless.
What a joy it is having no responsibilty for anyone other than myself.
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