The Girl Who Was Wednesday

Varnished winding pavements lead me away from the stalwart,
London matriarch of St Paul’s Cathedral down passages that I set my
first novel in. Alone in rain as always I walked over my own
stories. On this bench I laid against a guitar with no sleep and
nowhere to live. On this piece of river I had read in the sun,
danced for tourists…. There is a residue of me everywhere in
London. Last night I read of the cathedral in the snow of a spy
novel called the Man Who was Thursday. All of the anarchists are
named after days of the week. I am undercover as a literature post
graduate. I say undercover because on my first day, despite
lavishing the ideas and theories my dull life craved, i haven’t the
intelligence. The class was great; being in a place to learn again
and the lecturer made what seemed confusing on paper, make sense
and make me question the subject more. People with understanding
and enthusiasm of their subject always make me enjoy studying. In the seminar I knew I had to say
something, couldn’t sit at the back and say nothing. But my words
were short and ill educated with no academic terms. Every author
spoken of I have not read. I haven’t even read Dickens! Even Mary
Shelley’s monster had read Milton. The books they are reading for
pleasure I haven’t read either and the course material plus 6 hours
work a day takes up my entire week. I read every night until 1am
making notes I shan’t share. I read Frankenstein. I wanted to prove
my intelligence. Dumbly I enrolled at uni with no money for the
fees and no career goal. I read Jane Eyre aged 10. I stole
Frankenstein and got through the opening letters before getting
caught aged 12. I read Little Women, Wuthering Heights, The Bell
Jar, 1984. I read Frankenstein. I adored Frankenstein. Where will
it ever get me? I’d love to write something on Victorian London or work in archives somewhere.


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