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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Oh, Medieval Studies hit me hard! I'd had to give myself a dressing-down, A telling-off: "You want that cap and gown? Then get your ass to lectures!" Bowland Yard was frosty, unforgiving on my feet that Monday morning. Seven forty-five? I'm all alone? Is anyone alive? I took the lecture theatre's highest seat, (that is, remotest from the podium). What sap gives lectures at this time of day? "The Role of Guildsmen in the Passion Play" - small wonder I was held in odium by my professors. I'd been bent on passion, and far too keen on play, to have a clue what any of this meant, but now I knew I had to sharpen up ... well, after a fashion. That early stuff took place was news to me, the party-loving fresher. One more yawn resounded in the chilly air. Forlorn, my scruffy pad took doodles, listlessly. A door lisped open. In swayed Cheryl Ladd - no, Rita Coolidge - Buffy St. Marie. Some little trinkets tinkled gracefully as Buffy slid beside me. I hid my pad with one swift forearm. "Is it taken?" She bestowed on me a smile so sweetly knowing, I didn't know if I was coming or going. "This seat," she said. I stuttered, "No, it's free." The lecture, when it happened, was a killer, but I was insulated from all pain. I even thought I might show up again, with Miss World wafting something like vanilla. I crossed the Yard with no thought but my bed, but someone tugged my sleeve. That fragrance! Her! "I'm Helen." My whole campus was a blur. "I wonder ... could you help me, please?" she said. The next part can be skipped, or summarised. She wanted me to teach her Skelton, Chaucer - well, anything. Even Hengist and Horsa! Three lesson-dates went by. I hadn't wised up yet. Tonight, she didn't seem that fussed with Grendel's mother's vile propensity for harm. She looked with strange intensity full in my eyes. "You catching that last bus?" The air seemed cooler as I left her flat. No hug tonight. No pasta to take home. Her hair stayed stolid, captured by her comb. Somehow, our lessons died off after that. Long decades drain away, we don't know how. A moral to this tragic history? All I can think is, what I'd give to be nineteen again - and know what I know now!
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