Lillie Arnott hates on being a grown-up and mourns her childhood.

IMAG0375

A structured and timetabled life begins to infringe upon the spontaneity of the young. I know a guy who thought that last semester he was the son of God and the re-incarnation of T.S Eliot, it turned out that these false beliefs did not help him do any better in his Theology and English exams. Therefore, in a desperate attempt to, “sort my life out” with regards to my perpetual lateness in every aspect I, along with a lot of my friends, have taken to, “being organised”.

It looks to me that most people judge the meaningfulness of their adult lives upon a perfectly timed day. In an attempt to feel more organised and therefore more content with my worth as an “adult” alone within the  timetabled world, I purchased a diary. Immediately I began to feel more worthy having opened the crisp new diary marked 2013, within which I began to furiously scribble apparently important notes under the dates of another year – Monday the 18th of March: first English essay due. Then however, I paused and began to frown and gnaw on the end of my Bic biro looking upon the diary with confusion, questioning the monotony of organised Time. I suddenly began to feel like Indiana Jones in The Temple of Doom, with a rebellion of attitude I narrowly escaped through the small gap left as the stone door of the organised world began to trap me within its square walls. I saw myself sliding like a new born baby through the gap triumphantly but turning back, as Indy would grab his fedora, I stopped myself from throwing the diary from my window instead resorting to destroy its monotonous organisation by writing something against the norm: ‘Time in itself is a construction’. Having looked back over my dates I realised that in actual fact my first English essay is due on the 4th of March not the 18th and I am now once again resigned to my perpetual lateness.

The revelation of being young rather than organised succeeded more than once within the first week of the semester. In a particularly dull Buchanan Theatre based lecture, I looked at my watch in desperation: 11:08 a.m. The three minutes of the lecture seemed to have dragged so slowly that I had that thought that often occurs in every bored person’s mind, ‘I may die’. Writing notes of no use I took to distract myself from the cruel slowness of time. Having definitely felt that at least ten minutes had passed I looked upon my watch again: 11:08 a.m. I looked about me to check that this wasn’t an episode of Bernard’s Watch where all the characters stop moving as Bernard stops time but no, everyone else appeared to be extremely engaged in whatever waffle they were recording. I again grabbed the trusty Bic and began to ram the nib into the side of my watch attempting to start the battery again without luck. I concluded, rather overdramatically, that time for me was forever going to be 11:08 a.m. With my over metaphorical mind that often helps both within an English degree and daydreaming I realised that I never have to grow up as long as the watch remains on 11:08. 11 + 0 + 8 = 19, therefore, to prove The Courteeners song ‘You’re not nineteen forever’ wrong, I can, at least in my mind, remain nineteen forever (or for as long as I avoid buying a new watch battery).

 

Lillie Arnott