Back in the Union, the next day, and I am alone. Walking to the society room, where I have people to see, an event to organise, and three days left as a member of the guiding committee. It seems like it probably won’t make much difference. Perhaps I should just go straight to the bar. In first year, Woody had asked, when he, I and someone else long since forgotten from the flats had collided after a lecture, if anyone wanted to go for a pint. I had wanted to. After noon and its not rude. He liked that attitude, and we’d remained best friends until evening.
Can’t do it. Even though whatever happens in the next few minutes is bound to succeed in nothing other than my annoyance, I still decide that I should go through with it.
Open the door.
The room that we’ve been given is, or was, bare brick, coated in a high gloss varnish that must have seemed a good idea to someone, somewhere, one time, and without windows or hope. We’ve covered it with posters of the various shows, but really, this is not a room that you would want to spend much time inside.
Having spent two years on the committee, at times even thinking I was doing some good, I live in this room.