Write a list consisting of 6-10 lines describing your journey to and from university then swap with a partner and write 200 words based on each of their lists.
Bus stop < solitude
Abruptly startled, I blink uncertainly and flash a grin as ridiculous as spilt Tipp-Ex at the lollipop man before bounding down the gym stairs like I’m a fourteen year old delighting in the first fifth of vodka on a Friday night. The next crossing is undeniably a nightmare but I’m perfectly content -going over dance steps in my head.
I scurry on before backpeddling, which I think only I and cartoons do. I’ve just discovered Blackwells. It’s not in my nature to know those places utterly familiar to the rest of the world. I half-laugh at myself, pirouette, and spring into a dash along the city. I have to slow for the next crossing but I’ve got brilliant music resounding in my ears. The Suits look at me strangely but I’m happy. When the pure strength of my smile causes their tight lips to loosen into hesitantly friendly smirks of their own I feel a familiar glow in my chest.
I run past the museum for the sheer delight of running and halt at the empty bus stop. I feel a fantastic urge to practise backflips off of the shelter walls but refrain. There’s still no one around but I’m not lonely. I listen to the words and beats being pumped into my ears and my thoughts just blur.
I like to walk but take the bus with my friends for the pleasure of their company. I love our conversation and nothing –very little- feels as good as laughter. I drink in the sight of the dress shops we pass as we banter and try to keep note of the stops. Saying reluctant goodbyes, I snicker at whatever my remaining friends call after me. The solitude feels bizarre for a moment but then I switch my music on.
I bounce past the library. I keep trying to read the multitude of scribbles my friends have inked on my rubber toes and I am far too clumsy for this to be a good idea. My Converse slapslapslap down those worn stairs and I have to stop looking at my lurid laces before I distract myself and trip over my feet. Is it possible to descend stairs without looking down? I hate falling down stone steps even worse than wooden ones.
I tumble through the Royal Mile crowds and rush through a tunnel. Almost home. Inside, I skirt past the lift and head for the stairs.
My hand quivers as I open the door and reluctantly switch off my music.