Disgruntled of Windermere

It is being a difficult day.

The marks were supposed to be given out today for the most recent university assignment. I might not have mentioned that I am studying at Cambridge, that’s Cambridge University, you know, not just any old red-brick, for a Master’s’s degree. Well, I am.

The last assignment was to write a short story and then to critically analyse it explaining it in the context of its influences and other important things which I have now forgotten, and the marks should have been out today.

I wanted to know these marks very badly indeed, because although I am an indifferent and uninspirational poet, I like writing short stories and want to be good at them. Indeed, I like writing short stories more than I like writing anything else and when I grow up I would like to be Roald Dahl.

I am not nearly so interested in the next thrilling instalment of the course, which is screen and playwriting, as I think I might have mentioned. Despite this, I am looking forward to it because of the opportunity to tell the director of The Crown and some person from the BBC exactly what I think of them. For those of you who have been waiting with amusement for me to be booted out of Cambridge, coming soon to a cinema near you, folks. At the very least I imagine I will be able to find myself on some cinematography black-list before Valentine’s Day.

Of course the black-lists existed. We all remember McCarthyism. Actually I don’t remember McCarthyism but I have it on good authority that the whole point to it was that if you thought that political orthodoxy was rubbish nobody would let you have your name in lights any more.

I don’t care about having my name in lights. I had that once, it said Sarah’s Taxis. That was sufficient.

Anyway, the thing was that the marks did not come out.

We waited all day and dinged one another breathlessly on the Group Messaging thing but no marks emerged.

I took the opportunity of telling everybody that the camper van was not going to be mended in time and I would be obliged to stay in the college, and also that the dog, who has faithfully tagged along with me during my studies, was now dead. This cheered everybody up no end, as you can imagine, and they consoled me with inspiring suggestions about alcoholic parties now that I had been released from my caring role and also from the need to be responsible for a vehicle.

I must say that this helped quite a bit, and I am now sitting on the taxi rank hoping to earn enough money to become intoxicated in Cambridge whilst I am getting booted off a screenwriting module. So far I think I am about a glass and a half of wine up. This is a good start, there is still an hour left to go.

Anyway, to add to my difficulties, I made some cakes yesterday and manufactured some cream for them today which entirely and completely refused to set. In the end I just dumped it in the cakes anyway, and it all leaked out in a revolting sticky mess which is probably dribbling all over the fridge shelves as I write. It was a recipe from the BBC website which is another black mark in their absolute disfavour, and yet another thing to mention to their hapless representative when she or he or possibly Zie, you never know with the BBC, no kind of peculiarity should be discounted,  turns up in Cambridge.

I can’t even take a sticky cake with me because I will be in a stupid College room without anything useful like a fridge and some mopping-up cloths and not being in the camper van. I am being very brave about it but I am Disgruntled of Windermere today.

My gruntle might not even be restored when the marks turn up if I have made a pig’s ear of the assignment.

Dearie me, what a difficult day.

Let us hope for a brighter star to shine upon the morrow.