Days Like This

Brian McDermott

Stumbling into a room full of unforgiving jurors; sweating and flustered; an apologist for my very existence and with an eye befitting the latest Rocky movie - think more eye of the overweight, inept boxer, rather than eye of the tiger - who would have thought that in this room, at this time, in this condition, in such a state of mind, I would meet the wonderful girl I am now going to share the rest of my life with.

Well. . .I arrived late. This was progress. . . of sorts...five minutes earlier I hadn't intended on going in; regardless of the two stage bus journey lasting over ninety minutes; conveniently ignoring the reality that attendance was obligatory and non-attendance would prove problematic; I wasn't going in. I paced the corridor, up and down, up and down, trying to keep a low profile and trying, more than anything else, to avoid eye-contact with any of my peers - this proved especially difficult given the circumstances.

You see, I had never really felt at home among my fellow west end undergraduates. I had attended school in Glasgow's 'tough' east end; I wasn't particularly academic but far from being a lost cause. . .that type of thing. I was never going to be a 'traditional' entrant to one of our country's more prestigious institutions. I left school and muddled my way through some college courses. Then, out of nowhere, I decided to enrol on a degree course at university: English Literature and Psychology. I had watched my fill of Cracker, I'm Scottish and I was overweight - I decided that I was perfectly qualified to train to be a crack criminal profiler. Why Literature? I can only assume that I wanted to be a well-read criminal profiler.

Year one of university involved a great deal of keeping my head down in one sense, and fighting to keep it above water on the other. I was skint and I was struggling to come to terms with the feeling that I was an alien in a foreign land. During the summer holidays between years one and two, I took on a nice little part-time job in a cinema serving popcorn, hotdogs and other selected confectionary. This was a great little number and I met some great folk; cleaning cheesy nacho sauce from a sodden carpet is a great leveller. I was feeling a lot more at home. I had met a few other people who attended the university on the hill in the west end and had been delighted to find that they were really rather pleasant folk when given the chance. I found myself starting to look forward to year two. . . . Cue the Rocky theme music. . .

Let's get one thing straight: there was no boxing of any kind to speak of. I would love to spice this account up with tails of bloodshed and violence as I brawled my way up and down the Gallowgate. Sadly, the reversal of my newly established self-confidence - still in its infancy - was down to a fight of another sort - between my eye and a bottle of bleach. Upon receiving said surface cleaner, my eye almost completely closed over and was incredibly swollen and bruised. This lasted around ten days. Having satisfied myself - via a trip to the eye infirmary - that my sight was not in any danger, I focused (if you'll pardon the pun) on geeing myself up for the return to university.

I spent the day avoiding everyone and everything. If human contact was forced upon me, I ensured that a swift and comprehensive explanation for my disfigurement was put on record. I tried to hide among the masses in the crowded lecture theatres and make my exit after they had gone. I looked absolutely terrible. It really did look as if I had been in some kind of bar room brawl - and lost. . .badly. In my mind people would be putting two and two together and labelling me as a bit of a baddie. . .a fighter. . .a thug. Then there was the first tutorial. I had felt pairs of eyes staring at me; I distinctly remember hearing a gasp as one girl noticed my car crash of a face for the first time. I just wanted to go home. I was full of self-pity. I paced up and down the corridor outside the seminar room. I didn't want to go in. The class had already started as I walked up to the door and placed my ear against it. I could hear the standard introductions being made with all the other niceties. . .now I would have to walk in late like a right heid the baw. Why hadn't I gone in early and sat myself down when the room was empty? I was about to turn around and run off when another latecomer brushed past me and opened the door. Now there was no turning back. I entered and sat myself down in the only available seat, mumbling something about my eye being 'bleached'. I wasn't happy at all. The lecturer was waffling something about ice breakers and getting to know the person next to you - I didn't hear much of what she said, my head was mush. I turned around to speak to the person in the next seat, apologising for my existence as I did so - but she didn't grimace; she was lovely and just sat there being. . .well. . .lovely. I instantly felt as though I had known her for a long time - (I should stress that at no point, was this used for chatting up). We chatted and she laughed at everything I had to say - which was highly unusual, believe me. I fell in love that very day. I had never met anyone so absolutely stunning and charismatic in the flesh. In one conversation she convinced me to change me degree specialism, my career plans, and to propose to her five years later. I didn't see that coming. . . but then I had a dodgy eye.