Playing spit in the common room..

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I’m experiencing withdrawal. I went cold turkey on my writer’s site. I had to. I was sure I had to. The minute I left, I was sure it was the stupidest thing I had ever done.

Cold turkey pah! I just needed a little willpower. I could write and still frolic in the forums..

I think this is what addicts tell themselves..

Its not like the chat was that great, lately its been infested with some kind of virtual spam-worm. And I wasn’t actually proper, real life friends with them, all they offer is virtual cake and I am supplying the music.. So why is it so hard to walk away?

Then I realized. It was my common room.

In Scotland, or at least my wee soggy corner of it, school kids are quad bound during break times. The quad was a Victorian style square, so not square at all, but brick walled, with icy-cold toilets tucked in one corner and a roof of rainy Scottish skies.

For five years we could try to beg, bribe and break-in all we wanted but come rain or rain, we found ourselves shivering out in the Quad. Then came sixth year and with it the concept that we should prepare ourselves for university. This meant flexi-time, the teachers may have called it study time, they may have intended, some perhaps even sweetly, naively, believed, that we would spend most of it in the library. It was large, airy, well stocked with everything we would need to prepare for our future.. and invariably…

We were in the common room.

A rundown old classroom, with too few chairs, but plenty of laps, there was a blackboard at one end turned a dirty grey from too much chalk, a few faint white lines depicting dirty limericks from years gone by; the victory flag of those who marched before us. In the corner was a small cd player covetously guarded by whoever had won the morning skirmish. The house/garage/gutter brigade were often triumphant, plying their nailed-the-cats-tail-to-the-wall sound like a last offensive, while the Take-thatter’s attacked with an-ever-decreasing-skirt-hemline –  most were female – CD’s stock-piled under the table’s gammy leg. The Smashing Pumpkinheads rocked themselves in the back, too depressed to even try..

The chat was rehashed, the windows didn’t open. We played cards endlessly like jailors waiting out our shift, dogged, diligent…Fights rose and broke like the tide. Plans were made, futures dreamed. We became like the faint white lines on that blackboard, the carpet grew up over our Doc’s, lining our shins, threatening to claim us..and still, we sat.

That writing site was my common room. I don’t understand the allure. I just know I miss it.

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