From the City of Dreaming Spires
I'm in Oxford for a week attending the University's English lit summer school, alone apart from a blank journal, a Joyce novel and a volume of Wordsworth. Packing yesterday, I reached automatically for M&S (in their plastic incarnation) to fold into my “Good grammar costs nothing” t-shirt. But I stopped myself.
“Behave like a grown-up for once, A.,” Action Figure Scully reminded me.
Now I miss them terribly. I was never a child who clung to soft toys or worn blankets, how is it then that I've come to depend on two 6” inanimate objects for their symbolic protection?
In their absence I'm consoling myself imagining a young, bookish Mulder, during his undergraduate years, admiring the same skyline that I am now, possibly trying to avoid one Phoebe Green and all the while not knowing that a few years later he'd meet a precocious redhead who'd blind him with her science.
“Behave like a grown-up for once, A.,” Action Figure Scully reminded me.
Now I miss them terribly. I was never a child who clung to soft toys or worn blankets, how is it then that I've come to depend on two 6” inanimate objects for their symbolic protection?
In their absence I'm consoling myself imagining a young, bookish Mulder, during his undergraduate years, admiring the same skyline that I am now, possibly trying to avoid one Phoebe Green and all the while not knowing that a few years later he'd meet a precocious redhead who'd blind him with her science.