That's right everyone, Jack Forst hit full force last night and left the world under a snowy white blanket that is simply dazzling! I know it's a few days since I wrote last, but I do have some good things to talk about! Firstly, I had a wonderful day of rest on Wednesday, following a typically teenage pattern of getting up at 1:30pm. I wasn't all lazy though, walking down to Brighouse to gather a few things needed, especially the 50p bowl I have owed to Emily since I stayed at her house for the week of skint-ness when my bank balence hit it's lowest number on record: £9.59. I found said bowl in the Brighouse Wilkinsons as they seem to have stopped selling this brand of pure cheapness in the Lincoln branch. I managed to get a cable for my hard drive to show off the pictures from university to my parents and also enquired abut prices for emily's christmas present, which is starting to become worrying in it's lateness for delivery. I met my mum in sainsburies so she could give me a lift home, after buying a rather nice treat for myself, a bottle of Elderflower and Lime Kopperburg for a whole 10p more than I can purchase it in Morrisons.
Yesterday I got up quite a lot earlier as I'd made arrangements to meet with my old college friend Mat. A quick run down of the college friends:
Mat: Also known as Fat Man, my partner in crime.
Jack: The beloved gay best friend
Anna: As insane as ever is the only real way to describe her
H: real name "Heliconia", the gothiest goth I know
Laura: Best laugh award surely goes to her
Olivia: Unfortunately absent yesterday, as photogenic as they come
Michael: Well, Michael is just Michael. Horrifically unique, you would understand if you met him...
There were a few first years who I have never met before but we all certainly seemed to get on really well and it makes me wish I was still there to meet the next generation of street dwellers, but of course some must leave to allow the next generation their space to grow. I'll say one thing, the college itself has been improved massively with new and delicious foods and changes to the layout of the building itself. After a good natter, an hour or so at the local pub, a few reunions and a game of paper tennis we said goodbye and headed for my favourite shop in all the world, the friendly dragon. The Friendly Dragon is a wonderland (sorry, I know I'm repeating myself with this phrase, but at least it links with the title) of books, clothes, statues, mirrors, wall hangings, cutlery, goblets, tankards, jewellery, rather freakish underwear and all the things a young gothic woman could ask for to be entertained for hours, if not days on end. The owners or the shop are a sight unto themselves. The main owner, a man called Jon (no that's not a type error, that is how he spells his name) is about average height, with grey hair, stretched ear lobes, a blue goatee and usually leather or velvet clothes with giant new rock boots. His wife is all hooked nose and blonde haired witchiness and his daughter is pink haired, pierced and leather lovliness. I love every one of them and love the shop which I had not visited since before my birthday in August so you can imagine how excited I was to be going back. But me and Mat sat on the bus were chatting away and watching the scenery sluggishly move past at the highest speed the bus could reach; 10miles per hour, when suddenly everything went white. Every window was filled with the moving mass of a white-out blizzard with a mix of sticky snow, hail stones, and not the slightest hint of don't-worry-this-will-all-be-gone-in-an-hour-or-two. We did make it to the piece hall where the shop is, but I soon got a phone call from mum who was panicing saying "If you try and catch a bus back home you won't make it all the way" so she drove to pick me up instead of risking the 2 bus journeys home. I didn't get chance to look round everything I wanted to but I had a good old chat with the owners and got a book for Luke that he has wanted for a while.
That night was supposed to be my presentation evening for my A-Level results certificates and yearbook, but being that my old college is pretty much on a mountain, we decided it wasn't worth the risk and instead settled down to decorating the house. While we were going through the pile of cards, mum came upon one we hadn't opened yet that was addressed to me. We weren't sure who could have sent it but when I finally opened the envelope, it brought a tear to my eyes. You see, where my parents live is in a cul-de-sac full of old-peoples homes and we have one of the few semi-detached houses rather than he bungalows that the older members of the neighbourhood own. Throughout my lifetime I have always befriended these people from the next door neighbour-Mrs Bainbridge who has now moved onto a cared home right through to Tom, the kindly old gentleman who lived through the first and second world wars and died a few years ago aged about 92. My most recent friend in the cul-de-sac is Malcolm, who lived in the bungalow that was attached to where my uncle michael used to live. Malcolm used to work as a driving instructor and police officer so of course took an interest in my learning to drive and was always happy to give me advice whenever I saw him. We haven't spoken much but of course he knew I was off to university and had been as happy for me as I was myself when I got confirmation of my place at Lincoln University. When I received his card I wrote one back for him and took it over along with my mums card. He invited me in and we sat talking in his living room for hours! The story he told me last night was one of the most interesting stories I have ever heard and certainly made a difference to the usual banter the other residents of the cul-de-sac talk of... Not that I'm complaining, I would do anything for another afternoon of banter with Mrs Bainbridge, but her nurses are very particular about who visits and I think my mum is nervous about how I would react seeing where she is living at the moment. Apparently she's not the happiest of bunnies about having the oppertunity to do house work taken away from her, but she managed to get a bedsit with her Husband Wally. (I've never been able to call Wally "Mr. Bainbridge, just because his real name suits him so well, he really is a bit of a Wally!) But to get back to the original point, Malcolm was telling me all about his daughter who has been missing throughout his personal history many times and the story was just incredible. I admire his will power and the strength he has shwon his entire life to stay in contact with her so much. It just goes to show that if you listen to the ramblings of the older generation, you really can pick something up from what they tell you.
I hope the rest of my christmas holidays is as interesting as the story he told me!!
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