face.
‘Did you hear what I just said?’ he asks.
I nod and grin back at him like an idiot.
‘So what’s your response to the first time I have ever said those words to someone who isn’t my mum?’
‘Cheers,’ I say eventually, and explode with laughter.
Sunday, 5 June 1994
10.45 p.m.
Jim and I are sitting in the Jug of Ale just as last orders are being called. The contents of his pockets are on the table: three bus tickets, balled-up tissues, Chewit wrappers, an old gig ticket and some loose change. I follow by emptying out the contents of my purse: a handful of receipts, a picture of me and Jim taken in a photo booth in Woolworth’s, tissues, lipstick, lip balm and some loose change.
‘This is so studenty it’s depressing,’ I say, rummaging through the overwhelmingly copper coins on the table trying to collect enough money to get us both a drink. I pick up my cigarettes and look inside the packet. There’s only one left. ‘And I’m down to my last fag,’ I say despairingly.
‘It’s all too pathetic for words,’ adds Jim.
‘I feel like time’s moving on,’ I say, lighting the cigarette. ‘My friends who went straight on to teacher-training courses have graduated now; all those types who joined graduate training schemes last summer are chalking up their first year at work. Even Jane’s a dogsbody at BBC Pebble Mill.’
‘Nick’s swapped his temp job to work for a construction firm on a new shopping centre,’ says Jim, picking up two ten-pence coins from the table.
‘And here we are. I’m still working at Kenway’s, you’re still at Revolution.’ I pick up several twenty-pence pieces. ‘It seems like everyone’s moving on apart from me and you. And do you want to know what’s worse?’
‘What’s worse?’
‘We’re not even recent graduates any more.’
‘So what are we, then?’
‘Old news.’
Jim laughs. ‘You’re being a bit melodramatic, babe. Honestly, we’ve got ages before we have to worry about getting left behind.’
‘This summer there’s a whole new bunch of graduates out in the world. A whole new bunch of people chasing the jobs we want. That’s not counting the ones who graduated before us. The truth is, a year off travelling around the world or working in a bookshop or a record shop after you’ve graduated is easy enough to justify on a CV to an employer, these days. In fact, it’s practically encouraged. If we end up taking another year off . . . well, it doesn’t look good, does it?’ I look at the handful of silver coins I’ve managed to collect together so far. It amounts to one pound forty-five. ‘Have you given any thought to what you’re going to do?’
‘Well, if we’ve got enough I was thinking about getting another Carling,’ replies Jim.
‘You know that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about . . . you know . . . with your life.’
‘Not really.’
‘I’m thinking about going back to university to do a master’s in English. I’ve talked to a few of my old tutors and one thinks there might be a place for me in October.’
‘More studying? What’s the point?’
‘The point is I don’t know what I want to do. And an MA will look better on my CV than “Worked in a bookshop because I like reading.”’
Jim laughs. ‘The first twenty-three years of my life I’ve never wanted or needed a career and now, all of a sudden, it’s the most important thing in the world to get one. All I know is I don’t want to be an accountant.’
‘Who said you had to be one?’
‘My dad’s an accountant. His dad was an accountant. Pretty much everyone on my course became trainee chartered accountants, corporate tax planners, financial advisers or business managers.’
‘What do you want to do instead?’
‘I don’t know. But as I’m pretty happy right now I think I’ll stick with what I’ve got for the minute.’
I pour the money I’ve collected into Jim’s hand and he puts it together with his
‘Did you hear what I just said?’ he asks.
I nod and grin back at him like an idiot.
‘So what’s your response to the first time I have ever said those words to someone who isn’t my mum?’
‘Cheers,’ I say eventually, and explode with laughter.
Sunday, 5 June 1994
10.45 p.m.
Jim and I are sitting in the Jug of Ale just as last orders are being called. The contents of his pockets are on the table: three bus tickets, balled-up tissues, Chewit wrappers, an old gig ticket and some loose change. I follow by emptying out the contents of my purse: a handful of receipts, a picture of me and Jim taken in a photo booth in Woolworth’s, tissues, lipstick, lip balm and some loose change.
‘This is so studenty it’s depressing,’ I say, rummaging through the overwhelmingly copper coins on the table trying to collect enough money to get us both a drink. I pick up my cigarettes and look inside the packet. There’s only one left. ‘And I’m down to my last fag,’ I say despairingly.
‘It’s all too pathetic for words,’ adds Jim.
‘I feel like time’s moving on,’ I say, lighting the cigarette. ‘My friends who went straight on to teacher-training courses have graduated now; all those types who joined graduate training schemes last summer are chalking up their first year at work. Even Jane’s a dogsbody at BBC Pebble Mill.’
‘Nick’s swapped his temp job to work for a construction firm on a new shopping centre,’ says Jim, picking up two ten-pence coins from the table.
‘And here we are. I’m still working at Kenway’s, you’re still at Revolution.’ I pick up several twenty-pence pieces. ‘It seems like everyone’s moving on apart from me and you. And do you want to know what’s worse?’
‘What’s worse?’
‘We’re not even recent graduates any more.’
‘So what are we, then?’
‘Old news.’
Jim laughs. ‘You’re being a bit melodramatic, babe. Honestly, we’ve got ages before we have to worry about getting left behind.’
‘This summer there’s a whole new bunch of graduates out in the world. A whole new bunch of people chasing the jobs we want. That’s not counting the ones who graduated before us. The truth is, a year off travelling around the world or working in a bookshop or a record shop after you’ve graduated is easy enough to justify on a CV to an employer, these days. In fact, it’s practically encouraged. If we end up taking another year off . . . well, it doesn’t look good, does it?’ I look at the handful of silver coins I’ve managed to collect together so far. It amounts to one pound forty-five. ‘Have you given any thought to what you’re going to do?’
‘Well, if we’ve got enough I was thinking about getting another Carling,’ replies Jim.
‘You know that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about . . . you know . . . with your life.’
‘Not really.’
‘I’m thinking about going back to university to do a master’s in English. I’ve talked to a few of my old tutors and one thinks there might be a place for me in October.’
‘More studying? What’s the point?’
‘The point is I don’t know what I want to do. And an MA will look better on my CV than “Worked in a bookshop because I like reading.”’
Jim laughs. ‘The first twenty-three years of my life I’ve never wanted or needed a career and now, all of a sudden, it’s the most important thing in the world to get one. All I know is I don’t want to be an accountant.’
‘Who said you had to be one?’
‘My dad’s an accountant. His dad was an accountant. Pretty much everyone on my course became trainee chartered accountants, corporate tax planners, financial advisers or business managers.’
‘What do you want to do instead?’
‘I don’t know. But as I’m pretty happy right now I think I’ll stick with what I’ve got for the minute.’
I pour the money I’ve collected into Jim’s hand and he puts it together with his
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