Having enrolled in a new Art Class... I am waiting patiently in the hall where I reckon the Klass is to take place. Having avoided the brown-clad dusty teachers and the grey-haired matrons. Togas and memories of Olympia. Now is this where the Klasse ist to begin? Let's wait unconcernedly and see. My brown eyes, my clever fringe, my Art School jumper.
A large symposium-type hall, like in latter-day schools would be a gymnasium. ie, with marbled lacquer, squeaking floorboards, porticos of Christ-like learning personified in pictura.
I have a bunch of biros, pencils, and paintbrushes in a glazed mug on the desk. How sweet and thoughtful.
But ye know when the drudgery and intellect Junges come in, like bejumpered Oxfordensians, to take seats, and all betiding me keenly. I begin to bethink me is perhaps an examination about to commence?
I sit, and speak not to no-one.
After a period of say ten minutes when the shady lads n lasses are a-coming in to choose seats and lift pens, the idea comes into my mind to take a longsome stroll, say of fifteen minute's space, to kill time and ascertain the veracity of the concurrent programme.
Accordingly, I leave my seat wordless and traipse out.
And gaining the dark lowdown groundfloor corridor. I mope strolling, my draping schooltie and shoddy shirt, the perfect postmodern schoolboy, complete with hundred dollar perspex glasses. To add a shade of intellect.
And entering out I come to the packed entrance foyer. Which is packed with the hangout schoolkids and young student types slouching Angus Young-like in doorways bedraggled.
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