Can't touch me!

Creative Writing tutorial, Level 2 John Medley building. I stepped into the room tentatively. A very Russian looking man sat there smiling, with a pair of large gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. There were about 10 other people in there, all ang mohs except for one Asian girl, who I later found out is also from Singapore.

"You look familiar!" the Asian girl whispered as I sat down next to her.
I squinted at her and racked my brain. "You're Kimberle, aren't you?" I say.
"No." She replies. "You're a friend of Wai Ling, right?"
"No." I shook my head. "Are you sure you're not Kimberle?"

For the next few minutes we try in vain to place each other, a conversation we are to continue after the tutorial, all the way down the stairs, all the way to the library, then all the way to Union house, across South Lawn and back to the John Medley. (Who says Singaporeans aren't persistent?)

But first things first. Back to the CW tute. The tutor begins, launching into the regular, tedious formalities of introducing himself and describing the joys of creative writing in sentimental babble. (Which I do have an appreciation for, mind you.) He asks everyone to introduce themselves with a short explanation of why they decided to take up creative writing, and I am mid-way in my rant against the constrains of Professional Writing when Toilet Boy walks into the tute. My eyes must have popped out of my head; though certainly I had enough decorum to continue speaking while giving him a quick smile, which he returns. Toilet Boy slouches into the room in his leather jacket and stubbly stubble and sits down two seats to my left. Carrie, the other Singapore girl, separates us.

After Carrie and I finish our introductions, it's Toilet Boy's turn.
He stares ahead for a while.
"I like writing." he says, shortly.
"What kind of writing?" Russian tutor asks.
"I like writing... stuff." Toilet Boy says morosely.
Russian tutor presses him further,
"I once wrote a piece set in the desert." he mutters with a certain finality.
Russia tutor looks delighted. "And what's your name?" he sing-songs.
"James."

After about 15 minutes of dancing around the OHP and extolling the virtues of an awareness of class analysis and its relationship to Manchester and Welsh accents (aka as nothing to do with the topic at hand) Russian Tutor jumps up, gives us a writing exercise, and leaves the class. "When I'm back," he says, "you can start sharing your pieces."

Carrie and I turn to each other, blind panic on our faces, while the ang mohs, undaunted, pick up their pens and let their Juices of Creativity start flowing. After a while, we both settle down and start writing, but with great anxiety and hesitation.

Fifteen minutes pass. Russian tutor flounces back into the room. People volunteer, actually volunteer, to read their pieces. After four people have read their pieces (some of them better than others, but none of them bad) I tremble in my metaphorical boots. Carrie avoids making eye contact with the tutor. But we are saved, because class has ended.

While the third person was reading his piece out, I glanced over at Toilet Boy's book, which was covered with an untidy red scrawl. On the page I spotted a sketching of what could be a missile, a very large bullet, or possibly a piece of radish. Toilet Boy was putting the finishing touches on the ear of a rabbit face he had drawn on his book. I nearly burst out laughing, and Toilet Boy gave me an odd side look across Carrie's shoulder.

I flushed, coughed, and busied myself with concentrating very hard on the third person's story of Danger and Intrigue on the New York subway.

"God help me," I think to myself, "Creative writing has suddenly become a whole lot harder."

Labels: Boys, University