Sandcastles

Sandcastles.
1.
‘When you choose Bournemouth University, you will be starting on an exciting and challenging course of study. We are an innovative, international university that offers high quality education, research, enterprise and professional practice’.
I flipped languidly through the glossy, commercial booklet whose words bounced nauseously around its pages with every step, ten paces behind Mum and Dad. I tried to focus on the relevant passages relating to finance and accommodation and library opening hours and on the reams of smiling, youthful yet oh-so-independent faces sitting in their neatly arranged, blue-walled rooms in blandly named buildings. I tried to get excited by the exclamation made by Amber from Cardiff, who studies primary education, that the nightlife is ‘really awesome!’ and by the quite frankly grossly presumptuous statement made by Tom from London (who studies physiotherapy if you’re interested) that ‘you’ll be friends with everybody by the end of the first week!’. I tried to feel comforted, career-confident and reassured by the message from the vice-chancellor, who boldly states that over ninety-five percent of graduates find a job within six months of completing university yet unfortunately, none of those feelings transpired; most probably because I was far too lazy to make them come about.
I gave myself a break from feeling guilty about not feeling inspired and passionate enough about learning things which people don’t believe that I’m interested in, by turning my attention to my mother’s wellington boots slopping rhythmically in the sand ahead of me. The pattern which adorns said boots really is rather too garish for a woman of her age – fluorescent pink seventies-style flowers and hearts - and they do nothing for her portly figure and short legs. I can’t help thinking also that the quilted Macintosh with hood pulled around the face and skiing gloves are a step too far for a dry and mild August day, but really, my short life has been so well saturated by maternal embarrassment, that this mere fashion misdemeanour is barely even picked up by my shame-radar. Each trundling step churned the sand around her heel into little mounds which I, in turn, petulantly kicked into ruinous and meaningless disarray, which did not do much to preserve my own far less sensible footwear. I looked out over the bay and saw but three black, threatening clouds and a used condom bobbing on the scummy-looking shore. On the verge of plugging in my iPod for a dose of The Smiths to really make myself feel authentically moody and teenage, all hopes of listlessness and procrastination of decision were dashed when the mother jogged annoyingly (as mothers do) backwards, thus invading my pleasantly plodding and, crucially, personal path, for the standard lowdown, probing and painful, on our latest university visit. Heaven knows I’m miserable now...
Mum took down the hood of her Mac with a great deal of ceremony, as though fighting against some kind of nonexistent wind and turned to me with a wide, encouraging smile ‘so, what did you make of it?’. I braced myself and drew breath to plunge into an avalanche of bullshit, but was cut short when Mum decided to do all of the hard work for me; ‘well I thought that the course looks brilliant – Ibsen and Beckett and Bronte all in the first term! How wonderful! I wish I was in your position – all of those lovely books to read’ tch. What does she know. The only books I ever catch her reading are always headed with such enticing titles as ‘my husband has two penises!’ and ‘why I decided to sleep with my step-dad’s Rottweiler’. Again, I opened my mouth to put a hum of approval towards the content of the course I’ve applied for into the salty ether, only to be stopped dead by another enthusiastic torrent ‘well I think that you should definitely go for the more expensive rooms - I mean, you need your own bathroom I think’. With my student loan? But I have so many, many shoe-based plans for that delicious sum. ‘And you’re bound to meet, you know, nicer people there – god only knows who’ll be living in those dirty little shared rooms off-campus’. Classic look of disgust. Turned up nose and everything. Beginning to get frustrated purely with the fact that she seemed to be making all of my life decisions for me, I cut in with the first individualistic thing I could think of ‘well I think I’m going to join the hockey society’. My voice came out surprisingly loud and high, but the blurted statement succeeded to shut her up for a few blissful moments. ‘Hockey? But you’re terrible at sport, and can’t catch to save your life. But, you know, that’s a good idea, maybe you’ll get fitter and meet some nice new people. Societies are always a great place to meet people. I saw an advert for a cheerleading society – doesn’t that sound like a laugh?’. I nodded and smiled, yet am safe in my own personal knowledge that I’d sooner take a corkscrew to the eyes than be a cheer-leader. ‘Ooh, you’re going to have such a great time. I’m so jealous!’. And thus therefore, as everything concerning my future happiness is settled in my mother’s head – it must be so. Her pleasant expression and complete obliviousness to my evidently troubled mind irritated me beyond measure, and so I took her brief silence as an opportunity to hang back and wallow in my own inner panic.
Being from decidedly dry Nottinghamshire, a visit to the beach situated near my future university was inevitable. I was quite happy to bolt straight back home after the torturous open day and lose myself in some quality television, yet the parents insisted on a stroll along the prom. Beaches are quite nice I suppose. All of that pretty sea and skyline mingling together like tie-dye on the horizon and the gentle, constant whooshing of the tide, the soft, crumbly sand cushioning my steps and the pleasantly salty taste of the air meant that I didn’t mind the trip too much. The constant word-vomit on my mother’s part, however, made me seriously consider throwing myself off the pier as a veridical option to bring an end to this heinous day of thinking and deciding and being pragmatic. ‘Well, it’ll be lovely for you to come down here with all of your new friends... and maybe even a boyfriend!’ Mum said, playfully punching me in the arm. I responded with cool silence and a cold look which was interpreted by her as a joke, but actually had much backing in reality. It’s not that I hate my mother. For the vast majority of my time, I think her fabulously attractive for her age, glamorous and fashionable, warm and affectionate, boundlessly enthusiastic, sickeningly positive, socially fantastic and always armed with exactly the right thing to say. For the small remainder however, I find her insufferably over-dramatic and loud, rather stupid and prejudiced, inherently selfish and above all, resonating with a resolve that I, her daughter, am not quite good enough. Sometimes I feel like no more than a curiosity to her, no more than her funny, quiet little offspring whom she may observe and love, but never really respect, because I’m far too passive and private and reserved. Far too much her other.
But really, what am I leaving behind? Why do I begin to feel so attached to and so painfully nostalgic about a life which I’ve never really rated much before? That Maria, Sophie and I, firm friends from the age of four, will be living hundreds of miles apart is a mere geographical inconvenience, as I know that we will inevitably stay connected in hearts and minds forever, united in silly dances and a love for hummus. Plus, we all simply know far too much about each other to allow convergence with others. Mum and Dad will always be there and the old house will always be there and my green-and-purple bedroom will always be there and Charlie the dog will always be there, and so I don’t mind discarding all of that momentarily. The things which will change and dissolve into life’s atmosphere are those which I am suddenly more reluctant to let go of, despite their being far less dear to me. Secondary school was a fairly uninteresting place – a big, square, sixties, concrete edifice full of basketball courts, vending machines, hazardous girls’ toilets and shoals of people of various ranking who have never really bothered to notice me for the most part. I had always prospered academically at school, bringing home top results every term with little effort whilst simultaneously ploughing through paperbacks, which meant therefore that my parents also had little reason to pay me huge amounts of attention. The GCSE period had almost been enjoyable, as I found the exams easy, had a laugh with my friends and dodged the bullies like a pro. I did what I did best, in short - I had blended into the background and taken the easy route to moderate success. Ah, those heady days. A-levels presented rather more of a challenge to my laid-back, unthinking outlook on life. I loved the books that we studied in English Literature (my choice of Politics and Psychology to accompany this subject shall not even be commented upon) but that never seemed to be enough, as I constantly missed the top grades and therefore the top universities, which did nothing for my dwindling ‘passion’ for books and secret assumption that Cambridge would welcome me as I was with open arms. The parents began unsurprisingly to sit up and take slightly more notice of me at this stage of my life. Things became pretty difficult as I was forced to get a grip and decide what to do with my life, not to mention the hallowed progression into that most desirous era of life – the university years.

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