For The Count

I have decided to start blogging. I reckon this would be a good place to keep my thoughts in order and I figure writing a little something regularly will help conjure some discipline and a blog seems a rather good focus, rather than my bedroom wall.

It is Tuesday and I am at the top of Leeds Central library which is, to my eyes, the brownest place on earth. The floors, walls and pillars are great swathes of brown in tile, mosaic and marble. It gives the unfortunate impression that you’re walking around a museum of dirty protests. The IT suite smells like the unwashed operator of a waltzer ride and old men are playing giant chess outside.

After a brief visit to the IT suite I am currently sitting in a room marked ‘Study Room’ posing as…a student? I came in here in the hope that the actor, from The West Yorkshire Playhouse’s current show, The Count of Monte Cristo would be in here…
Reports earlier this week suggested that this floor is one of his recent places to visit during the week and due to my recent stalking habits I thought I would check it out.
I walked into the room, out of breath, hot, rained on and actually thanking God that Mr Rigby himself isn’t in the room due to my current appearance. Of course if he were in here there is no way on this earth that I had any plans speaking with him.
I am unsure of what led me to believe that there would be no studiers in The Study Room but after making quite an entrance it was too late to turn back. I didn’t want these middle aged male men thinking I was simply nosing at the room and so I decided to become one of them. I sit; unpacking my bag, praying that there is something in there that suggests I can blend into the silence. Luckily I always carry a bottle of water, a sketch pad, a pen and some kind of book. This week it is one of my all time favourites: Ian McEwan’s Atonement. Unfortunately I was nearing the end of this book and within the next eight minutes I would be finished. Looking around I see four middle aged men, all terribly unattractive and not one of them is, much unlike myself, forcing themselves to appear busy

Remembering I had my laptop in my bag I checked for an Internet connection. Bingo.
Three blissful minutes pass which allow the opening paragraph of my blog to take shape before two hands forcefully squeeze my shoulders before one swiftly moves to the centre of my back. It made me feel as though I was about to be sexually abused by a stern Victorian school ma’am who is dabbling in medical experiments. After a swift turn around, heart thumping after the unexpected harassment, I am soon to hear that laptops are now banned from the top floor of the library due to complaints of ‘loud tapping noises’.
I asked for a complaint form in order to complain about, well, the complaint.

In a fluster, I slap my laptop shut and resume the blog on paper. With the blood rushing to my cheeks, I look around to find sixteen male eyes on me- not one of them The Count of Monte Cristo. As a single tear roles down my hot cheek, the room returns to it’s silent state and I wonder ‘was it all worth it?’



I shall type this up later.