I SPENT the day of the Big Two-Five taking exams at college
Despite no longer being the educational establishment for Brighton’s finest delinquents, my college still retains all its juvenile detention centre charm. With plastic bucket chairs bolted to the canteen tables, swarms of 16 year old trainee beauty therapists are forced to huddle around tables for 4, eyeing-up gangs of 16 year old decorators standing cross-armed and freshly paint-splattered by the vending machine tables, as my fellow postgraduate journalists and I try to squeeze in amongst them.
Flashback.
When I was 15, eating lunch with friends, chatting away, there would occasionally be the uncomfortable moment as we’d catch sight of a teacher gravitating towards our table. As the stool-legs scraped backwards, the red plastic tray met white plastic table, rotund bottom met with decidedly too small seat, all eyes met food and conversation ceased. The teacher briefly attempted to interact, but was inevitably left with one dining companion, their direct neighbour, as a Mexican-wave of teenagers abandoned the table in hot pursuit of the nearest exit. So there they were, squirming school girl and ‘hip wid da kids’ teacher, unsaved by the bell.
And here I was. Looking at two pairs of eyes dart from food to each other, speaking the unspoken language of ‘lets get the hell out of here’.
Am I really that old? Hey, I still get asked for ID!
But I’m really not that old. I’m 25 goddamit, yet I have somehow ended up worrying about life. I am in quarter-life crisis it would appear, and I’m not alone.
So how did I get into this predicament, and how am I going to get myself out? Good question.
Despite no longer being the educational establishment for Brighton’s finest delinquents, my college still retains all its juvenile detention centre charm. With plastic bucket chairs bolted to the canteen tables, swarms of 16 year old trainee beauty therapists are forced to huddle around tables for 4, eyeing-up gangs of 16 year old decorators standing cross-armed and freshly paint-splattered by the vending machine tables, as my fellow postgraduate journalists and I try to squeeze in amongst them.
Flashback.
When I was 15, eating lunch with friends, chatting away, there would occasionally be the uncomfortable moment as we’d catch sight of a teacher gravitating towards our table. As the stool-legs scraped backwards, the red plastic tray met white plastic table, rotund bottom met with decidedly too small seat, all eyes met food and conversation ceased. The teacher briefly attempted to interact, but was inevitably left with one dining companion, their direct neighbour, as a Mexican-wave of teenagers abandoned the table in hot pursuit of the nearest exit. So there they were, squirming school girl and ‘hip wid da kids’ teacher, unsaved by the bell.
And here I was. Looking at two pairs of eyes dart from food to each other, speaking the unspoken language of ‘lets get the hell out of here’.
Am I really that old? Hey, I still get asked for ID!
But I’m really not that old. I’m 25 goddamit, yet I have somehow ended up worrying about life. I am in quarter-life crisis it would appear, and I’m not alone.
So how did I get into this predicament, and how am I going to get myself out? Good question.
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