Although we often wondered, it was no thing of wonder

I step out of the exam hall first after we've been told to stop writing. I had written a fair amount of crap but at least I was never stuck. Unlike the fatty who wedged himself in front of me and when he left 20 minutes early threw my desk up in his effort to escape. I was covered in ink. But that wasn't from the exam, that's just me being clumsy with pens. I got a fright in the shower one day when I had a perfect line across my belly and thought I'd cut myself somehow until it washed away and I realised I'd slept on a pen again. Today it's limited to my fingers and the top of my chest (stupid low cut tops).

So I'm covered in ink, my hair has exploded in a curly puffball in the rain, my glasses bring everything into more focus than I like and I'm just that teeny bit taller in my heels that echo through the arches. It's like I left Catherine in bed this morning and stepped into someone else. I always feel that after exams though. It's the glasses and the head full of dates and being aware that I haven't written my middle name since the last exam and it always looks a little weird. I linger just a little at the edge of the cloisters, pretending to wait for the rain to let up while really standing beside the huddled smokers with their sodden white sticks and checking out the guy who looks like someone I know but I'm pretty sure I don't. He has good sideburns.

I take a shortcut through the carpark and get that thrill as I look down on the museum, if I take my glasses off the view is vaguely Russian. I get a romantic thrill but that could be hints of memories of what happened in the park one time. My heels clip over the bridge and I pause in the middle and watch the water rush. I've got time to dawdle, but the rain is seeping through and my thighs are starting to shiver, being the only part of me not protected by layers. I debate an ending in my mind. I know what she is going to do but I'm not sure if he will make it in time. I'll see how it goes when I get it on paper.

There's nobody on the bus so I stretch out. Reasons Catherine is not a real girl number 4: she sits like a man. I wish I still had that list, I was goddamn proud of it.

I bump into the Thunderbird, or 'my first kiss that never was' as he runs from his car to the barbers. He stops to chat but I don't stay long. It's not really appropriate for me to start rubbing life back into my thighs and if I don't make it home soon they might just shake themselves out of my hips. He's grown some sort of fuzz on his face. It's adorable, but not in a good way. He looks like a little boy who stuck some felt on his chin. It's not a good look.

And now I have all the time in the world to decipher just what it is I wrote down in notes last night.