So, hunched over my notebook at my semi-job in the art gallery back in Lincolnshire, I bristle at a man who wrinkles his nose when I tell him I study English Literature. He sniffs as if I am leprous, taking a step back, although it could be my ghost-pale skin - I have been trying a write-by-night technique, which attempts to force my brain into submission by depriving myself sleep until I write something bearable. If we actually rewind the past five minutes he has been making conversation, whilst eyeing my electric-blue tights, you will understand why I was not his biggest fan. After casually sauntering over, watching me scribble for a few seconds, and then asking disdainfully 'you're not one of those university types, are you?', I knew our conversation was going to be 'interesting'. When I had said, as sweetly as I could with my teeth bared, that yes, in fact I was one of those 'university types', he then nodded knowledgeably, and announced 'ah, well you'll be doing medicine then'. Medicine. Is that the only degree that people 70+ think is on offer? When I corrected him, AND gave the double whammy of my study location of good ol' Newcastle, he positively flinched and walked into the next exhibition. There I could see him taking peeps at me while he recounted his wife, who seemed to be telling him off.
So, back to the drawing board. I decided that the morning's writing was a waste, as I was clearly going to be attacked on all sides by irritating members of the general public (I was accosted by a child about to urinate on the floor, a pensioner who had forgotten who she was travelling with, somebody who wanted a wall-hanging different to every single one we had in stock, and a lady asking if she could take a cutting of our decorative rope for her washing-line). It was only a few days later, when I sat down (again) at my cluttered desk, with a cup of tea and some blackberries, that I realised I had casually been sketching my accosters into my notebook. And so, I decided to work them into my writing somehow - watch this space. Suffering for your art is one thing, but turning pensioners into poetry is entirely another.
