This Michaelmas term is flying by.
October came and went, taking with it the last throes of summer. Now, November has well and truly settled on Cambridge like a chilly grey shroud. It is most definitely knitted bobble-hat and thick coat weather, and my hair is crying out for mercy from this never-ending drizzle; the very bane of its existence.
November did not start well. I had a blinding hangover for most of its first day, spent the next four days on a shed-load of essays, and finally wrapped up the week with the dubious acquisition of a neurobiology talk to present, courtesy of a very short orange straw.
Consequently, I've just spent the whole of last weekend in the library in a panic, trying to learn everything I could about Huntington's disease so that I could over-prepare myself for the horror of having to stand at the front of a lecture theatre and tell everyone about it.
I'm breaking out in a rash just thinking about it, so I'd rather not.
Also, I haven't seen Jonty for ages, let alone shared any condiments with him. Rumour has it he's now fucking Leila Jarvis on top of his other bit-on-the-side and his long-term girlfriend from home.
Well, obviously not on top of all three at once in the physical sense.
Or not as far as I'm aware.
I don't want that awareness.
Seriously, this is a shit month so far.
Today is Tuesday, which means a whole afternoon of anatomy dissection beckons. We've finished cranial nerves and are now focusing our attention on the brain and spinal column. Last week, as part of a non-assessed test, the lecturer brought a 'primitive brain' specimen to class; a tiny pair of cerebral hemispheres carefully encased in a glass box. We had to note down what species we thought the brain was from. Fewer than half of us recognised it was a walnut. Which is a slight worry for the future of the UK medical profession.
"Hey, Yoshi, you never did tell me what you came up with, mnemonic-wise," I say, suddenly remembering our conversation from nearly three weeks ago, as I stuff my bag into locker seventy-six and pull on my now pink and violently-illustrated lab-coat.
"Oh. Yeah. I've come up with a couple of ideas," he replies, putting on his coat and checking the pocket for a pen. "Trouble is, the mnemonic's not very good. Restricting the words to the first two letters of each nerve made it kind of difficult. There aren't that many choices for 'Ab' or 'Hy'."
"No, I don't suppose there are," I agree. We walk out of the changing room together and into the dissection hall towards table twenty-seven, where Leonard and Al are already discussing something, and Claire and India are rifling through notes.
"Hey, my little profiteroles; over here!" Leonard shouts, jumping up and down and waving his arms eagerly, making Yoshi and I laugh. "I got us the best table. Look!"
Table twenty-eight glance at Leonard in amusement for a change, rather than derision. I think the stuffy wankers are finally catching on to Lenny's bizarre sense of humour.
"So, Yoshi, back to the mnemonic. What did you come up with, anyway?" I ask, before I forget again.
"Oh. Well, I came up with this one," he says, before clearing his throat and rapidly reciting "'Old Opponents Occasionally Trouble Triathletes About Famous Vegans Gleefully Vaulting Across Hy-jumps', but I think it's a bit shit, you know?"
Leonard and Claire are looking quite impressed. India looks vaguely bored, and Al has no expression on his face whatsoever.
"It's tons better than the one we all made up together, Yoshi," I assure him, "but I understand what you're getting at. There's not much purpose or meaning to it, is there? Did you have any other ideas at all?"
"Well, I did think of something, but it's not a mnemonic," he says doubtfully, "and I only got as far as the first nerve and possibly a bit of the third nerve."
"Try us," I suggest, somewhat intrigued.
"Well," he replies shyly, "I thought that 'Olfactory' sounded a bit like 'All factories', and 'Oculomotor' was sort of similar to 'occult motors'." Yoshi trails off, looking slightly embarrassed.
"I think it's a great idea to develop," I grin, because 'Optic' sounds a bit like 'opted'. I clear my throat and recite "'All factories opted for occult motors'. There we go, Yoshi, that's three of the nerves linked."
Yoshi laughs and slaps my held up palm for a high-five.
"Trigeminal sounds like 'try German oil'," adds Al, much to my astonishment. I was half expecting him to turn his nose up completely at the whole thing.
"Trochlear. Hmm. Truck leer…to clear…Ah - got it! All factories Opted for Occult motors To clearly Try German oil!" Yoshi says with a triumphant flourish.
"Abducens sounds a bit like 'a nuisance'," I reply.
"We should keep 'farcical' for Facial," says Al.
"I can do Vagus," says Claire uncertainly. "'Vague, us?'"
"Haha, brilliant!" I laugh. "In which case, I'm going for 'Ack! So sorry' to follow it, instead of 'Accessory'."
"Vestibulocochlear is a tricky one," muses Leonard. "We stable oak ock leer. Nah. Umm, we stay below cockle ear? Cock leer? Cock leer?"
"It could just be shortened to 'we stay below'" I suggest. "No need for any unwanted leery cocks, Lenny."
India sniggers.
"And 'Glossopharyngeal' sounds a bit like 'glossy foreign goal'," laughs Yoshi suddenly. "Just Hypoglossal to go."
"How about 'High-power glass, all'?" Al says.
"Great work chaps and, er, chapesses," says Leonard grandly, as Yoshi runs through the whole non-mnemonic with a silly grin on his face.
"It better win a good prize after all that," I state.
The rest of the session is devoted to examining brain sections under microscopes, looking at gross specimens and filling out work-sheets. There are a number of questions to get through and a few of them are quite complex.
By the time I've finished annotating most of the diagrams in my dissection handbook and checked a few details with a supervisor, it's past five pm and everyone else has left the dissecting room. Pete, the department technician, arrived a few minutes ago and he's already begun to move the jars of brains and trays of slides back into storage. I'll just be in his way if I linger any longer.
I take my lab-coat off and roll it into a ball as I'm walking to the changing room, ready to stuff it into my bag. Most of the lockers in the changing room are open and empty, except for mine of course, and a few which seem to be permanently locked. As I'm unlocking the door to mine, I catch sight of a garment on the floor. Not an unusual finding in this room as someone is always leaving something behind, but curiosity leads me to pick up the item and inspect it.
It's a scarf. A yellow and black-striped one, made out of an expensive kind of woollen material that feels soft and luxurious, like high-quality angora or cashmere. It exudes warmth despite lying on the cold, tiled floor of the anatomy changing room.
At first glance, it looks like a Clare College scarf and I wonder if it's Yoshi's, but then I realise that there's no college shield motif, the pattern of stripes isn't quite correct, and the material is far too plush in texture to be a University shop-bought product. I'm guessing it must be someone's football or rugby scarf instead.
There's an emblem of a badger on each end of the scarf, with the word "Hufflepuff" underneath. It's such a strange word. I wonder if it's the informal name of a sporting team? I know some of the UK's football club nicknames, such as Sheffield Wednesday, who are known as 'the Owls', Sheffield United, who are 'the Blades', and then there's 'the Toffees' of Everton.
I can't think which club the Hufflepuffs belong to. I examine the scarf more closely. Tucked into the lining is a label with a name on it: A. .
Strange. I don't recall seeing Al ever wearing a scarf, but then again, I don't look at him at all these days if I can help it. As for him being football or rugby supporter, he doesn't strike me as the type, but I could be wrong. Another possibility is that the 'Hufflepuffs' participate in a non-British sport, such as basketball or baseball. Al's almost tall enough to be a basketball player, after all.
I take my phone out of my pocket and quickly Google "Hufflepuff", but nothing comes up. The closest thing I can find is an Antipodean cereal called "Honey Puffs", which looks like a cross between Cheerios and Sugar Puffs. There's no badger associated with the product; only a bee.
For reasons unknown, even to myself, I experimentally sniff the scarf. It smells absolutely gorgeous, of bergamot and cedar, with hints of warm cinnamon and orange. I bury my nose into the soft wool for a moment and inhale deeply, unable to resist the delicious, alluring fragrance.
He might be a wanker, but he has amazing taste in aftershave; I'll give him that.
It suddenly occurs to me that I must look extremely weird right now, standing in an empty changing room with my nose in someone else's scarf, and if Pete the technician walked past, he'd have some choice comment to make about it. Hastily, I fold up the scarf and put it in my bag to give it to Al next time I see him, and swiftly exit the anatomy department before the external door gets locked and I'm trapped in here with only some cadavers and brains-in-jars for company.
It's just a short, five-minute walk from the anatomy department on Downing site to the cycle racks on the New Museums site, which is where my bike is secured. I take a slightly more convoluted route than usual to avoid the most crowded part of Pembroke Street, where it's virtually impossible to cross the road safely at this time of the evening. I'm just walking past part of Pembroke College when I suddenly catch a glimpse of someone I'm sure is Al, illuminated by a street lamp in the distance on the other side of the road. He's walking in the same direction as I am.
The light catches the person again. It's definitely Al, no doubt about it. He's easily recognisable with that tall frame and messy, dark hair.
What a happy coincidence. May as well hand his scarf back to him now rather than wait until tomorrow. I decide to leave my bike where it is and try to catch up with him on foot. I consider calling out, but I doubt I'll be heard over the noise of the traffic and pedestrians. Instead, I follow him, waiting for an opportunity to attract his attention.
Maybe we could reconcile. After all, Yoshi thinks Al is a really nice guy, and I trust Yoshi's judgement; plus he's been perfectly amicable during the last few anatomy sessions and he only mildly got on my tits during the neurobiology seminar.
Perhaps Al isn't so bad after all and I just need to give him a chance?
It's at times like this that my imagination really runs riot, for better or worse.
In my head, I run through the events and conversations that might take place when I catch up with Al. I'll say something casual like "Hey Al, I found your scarf," and he'll reply gratefully with "Thanks so much! It's my favourite scarf. That's so nice of you to find it and return it, especially as I've been a complete wanker at times and don't deserve such kind treatment from you." I'll reply with something cutting yet thought-provoking, and he'll accept the criticism and apologise profusely as I smugly lap it up. Then, he'll say something along the lines of "Hey, what are you doing now? Are you busy?" I'll reply with "That all depends," in a mysterious and alluring manner. He'll suggest "Oh. Why don't you let me buy you a coffee to express my gratitude?" I'll follow it up with "Thanks, that sounds great," or I'll say something so wittily brilliant that it leaves him dumbstruck with admiration. We'll laugh heartily, and all this animosity between us will blow over.
One day, my daydreaming is going to land me right in the shit.
I carry on in this pleasant golden fantasy of Al and I smiling warmly over a soy latte, as I traipse after him down Pembroke Street, just about keeping him in sight among the throngs of students. He stops at the junction, where the end of Pembroke Street meets Trumpington Street, and as soon as there's a gap in the traffic, he crosses over to carry on down a narrow little road called Mill Lane.
It's an odd direction to take; there are only a few drab old departmental buildings located down there. Perhaps he's on his way to a pub? There's a nice little boozer at the bottom of Mill Lane, imaginatively called 'The Mill', which sits on the edge of the river Cam. It's a popular haunt with students, especially during the summer months when we can sit out on the surrounding grass and drink beer in the sunshine.
There aren't many pedestrians down Mill Lane, and it soon becomes apparent that Al is not going to The Mill. Instead, he turns left down a tiny, quaint, cobbled lane called Verne Alley. It's not a road I'm familiar with, and the warped Tudor architecture seems bizarrely incongruous with the nearby stately Georgian buildings of Trumpington Street.
I shiver a little, feeling strangely ill at ease in this weird little street with its slippery-smooth cobbles. Al is within shouting distance now and there's nobody else in the vicinity. I take the plunge and call out to him.
"Hey Al!"
He visibly jumps and whirls around with lightning speed. His right hand grapples briefly for something in his pocket before it falls limply to his side. For a moment he stares at me in silent horror, but his expression is quickly replaced by one of fury.
"Just what the fuck do you think you're doing?" he barks. "Why are you following me?"
In one horrible instant, the soy latte crashes to the ground and vanishes. Shocked and hurt by his angry overreaction, I begin a flustered apology. "I'm sorry, Al. I didn't mean to…"
He cuts me off snappily. "Are you stalking me?"
I've been on the receiving end of Al's supercilious side, but I never imagined he could be so hostile, and it stirs a complexity of emotions within. As wrong-footed as I now feel, something inside me ignites. I'm a harmless person who's doing him a favour, for fuck's sake. How dare he fly off the handle? I've done nothing wrong.
"Of course I'm not fucking stalking you, you paranoid prick," I snarl back. "This belongs to you. Here."
I remove his scarf from my bag and lob it in his direction, except I've never been very good at throwing, and rather embarrassingly, it ends up hitting the cobbles behind me with a soft thud. Blushing furiously, I turn around, pick it up and wave it in the air. It's woollen, it doesn't wave very well, and all I end up doing is flopping it across my face several times. I spit out a few fibres in disgust.
He strides forward and snatches his scarf out of my hand without so much as a thank-you.
"I was going to wait until tomorrow to give it back, but saw you in the distance and thought I may as well return it now. Wish I hadn't fucking bothered," I snap, glaring at him.
He stares at me for a moment, his expression cold and hard. "Don't you ever fucking follow me again," he says in a menacing tone, before turning around and walking away.
"Oh, no need to worry yourself about that! There's no danger of me EVER doing you a favour again. Next time, I'll just leave your scarf on the floor instead. And just what the fuck is a Hufflepuff anyway?" I shriek at his retreating back.
He stops abruptly. There's a rigidity to his posture that suggests he's going to erupt angrily again, but as he turns slowly to face me, I'm confused by his expression. It's almost as though he's frightened.
Why should he be at all fearful? It's not as though I could physically do him any harm; he could break me like a twig if he wanted to.
As we glare at each other, the fear slides smoothly off his face to be replaced by blank calm. With one last unfathomable glance at me, Al shakes his head, turns back around and carries on walking.
Remind me to never question the Universe again as to whether things can get worse, because apparently, they can.