The smell of Eton is a subtle yet particular one. Or rather, the room I was in that night smelt faintly sweet- of moths, dust and white chocolate- persistent against the bright blue carpets and white bathrooms which, to me, should have suggested some scent of industrial soap or aldehyde. (In retrospect).
It was Completely deviant from, say, the Myton history department where I often was, which stank of damp paper and sweat. Rotting windows.
I only saw the school and its grounds at night. I saw:
A yard,
The coach
Heavy doors
Round windows
A corkboard in the room I was in, encrusted with newspaper clippings of various royals, even the obscure ones, even beatrice, even the second, third and fourth cousins or whoeveronearth.
And a timetable- double russian, shooting, followed by hockey, followed by my flimsy fingers on the page. A name/ the pupil whose room it was.
Sash window
A seed
I captured the seed in my hands
I made a wiwhshwiswhihiswh/ a hwuuiiwihugiegwe oinwhihuwighrw7ee
I remember them playing Karma Police in the Olympic Park
I keep seeing the helter skelter,
Big beacon 2 class destruction, or,
Total aesthetic triumph, Anish!
Torch
Fork
Rice burger
Hale Edge
Brockley Jack
Stratford
Warwick
H/
E/
L/
U/=
TS//_
O =
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