Hollyox
As the glowing red figures of a digital clock click from their current reading of 7:29 into 7:30, the sharp drill of an alarm belts out, penetrating the silence. From the darkness of the duvet our protagonist's arm belts out, springing into action, attacking the snooze button into submission.
Admittedly, its an oft-used and clichéd beginning, but with script-writers such as these we have to make do.
Three hours, 47 minutes and 20 seconds later, Quent stirs. A quietly satisfied groan emerges from his pout as he rolls onto his side. At once, his eyelids snap open; "Sugar!", he curses (being before the watershed, swearing simply isn't an option, no matter how realistic).
Leaping out of bed like an "It's a Knockout" champion, a towel is pulled on before the dart downstairs and into the shower occurs. The house is freezing, no thanks to a stingy landlord and Quent's spectacular inability to achieve anything for himself whatsoever.
Just beyond the kitchen, an icy trickle heaves down upon Quent. Two minutes later he's rushing upstairs, clad in only a damp towel, displaying the slight shadowy outline of a six-pack.
Dashing past his housemates, The McNeil, The Sims and The Munro (for some reason it's the norm to refer to oneself in the third person at home - Quent is excluded on the grounds that The Huntington-Smythe simply doesn't work), who have implanted themselves in the sitting room watching 'Beat the Burglar'.
Having kitted himself up in trendily torn jeans and a tightly fitting T-shirt (both Officers' Club), Quent (real name Quentin, but discarded on the grounds of appearing in such a 'hip' and 'with-it'column) drags his commoner's gown over his shoulders. On leaving his room, he cannot help but stop to admire himself in the three-quarter length mirror.
Despite a lack of any care and attention, his hair is pristine - jet-black and stylishly ruffled (not messy, so last year). Quent cuts a dashing figure; broad-shouldered, tallish with boyish good looks. It was, after all, on such grounds, rather than any standard of ability Quent had been accepted.
Following a somewhat death-defying cycle up the Abingdon Road, bizarrely accompanied by the soundtrack of his life, which was bouncing around in his head; another ex-top ten song - once trendy, now irritating - Quent bursts into the room of his collection, sweating like Rik Waller in a salad bar. "Sorry, I'm late."
Not only is he late, he is under prepared. It turns out all the work that he thought destined to happen, hadn't been. 53 minutes remaining - three hours of hardcore essay writing to complete.
"Schlinder! Not to worry. You've blagged before, you can blag again. Deep breaths, calm. That's it." Quent flipped the paper as easily as a pancake.
1. To what extent was the Matthew involved in an ethical debate with the synagogue of Rabbi Johannan b Zakkai?
2. What are the origins and functions of the Logos and the Paraclete in the Fourth Gospel?
And so it continued. Quent knew well that he knew nothing - like Socrates, only honest.
He had been studying the New Testament module for two terms precisely (separated by the long vacation) and was still yet to get around to reading either Matthew or John. That was one of several plans for the vacation, all of which were lost in a blur of festive festivities.
His thoughts drift to life before Oxford - St Edward's School, Oxford. Blissfully middle-class, with rolling green playing fields and an old-school hierarchy. He had been a prodigy there, constantly top. Not so anymore. Sliding rapidly from below average to severely handicapped. Home, a mansion just outside the city, is where Quent's heart is.
He had only accepted his place here so as to keep his starring role in this fucking soap opera. "Should have gone to York," envisioned Quent. Slowly his head slumped into his hands, the realisation of another collection failure milling around inside, alongside a growing yearning for a cold Fosters.
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13th Jan 2005