Deja Vu

Finally, after several months of nervous anticipation and general lifestyle upheaval I have my first actual seminars at Goldsmiths. The week before I went into the University on two mornings, once to register and pay my fees and once to find out who my tutor would be, get a copy of the timetable and other general “welcome” activities where they give the impression that you‘re actually getting something for the huge amount of money you‘ve just signed over. However, it just didn’t feel real yet. It was though I’d wandered into the wrong building by mistake and nobody had noticed.

On both occasions I was going into work straight afterwards and was consequently probably the only person in the whole building wearing a suit. On my student ID card I look surprisingly respectable. It’s a long way from the long-haired, trench coat wearing youth with his eyes obscured by dark glasses on my undergraduate card. That felt more like how a student should look. Still, at least it’s better than the card I’ve been issued with for my temp job which inexplicably has a picture of a middle-aged black woman called Margaret on it.

But today is the real deal. I’m dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. My trainers have a rip in them that is from wear and tear rather than fashion. My battered old leather jacket could be worn by pretty much any student in the world. I haven’t bothered to shave. I look the part. I walk down to the college despite having a bus pass (and indeed a car) because I‘ve always gone to lectures by foot. When I overtake the stationary bus at Brockley Cross I feel somewhat smug.
I arrive slightly early because I want to get a council tax rebate form from the admissions office (which is shut), drop my contact details off with the department administrator because I’d forgotten my passport sized photo last week (she’s not in yet) and get an application to become a student ambassador (she’s off ill). Frustrated I decide to just wander around for a bit and get a feel for the place.

It’s surprisingly busy for nine-forty in the morning. The campus here is pretty compact - there’s just the three main buildings, of which one is predominately staff offices, plus the library. This tends to concentrate all the students in the same areas and walking along the corridors of the main building a sense of calm and contentment creeps through me. I was incredibly happy as a student last time around and this feels really comfortable.

I decide to do a couple of stereotypically student things and look at the notice boards advertising for band members even though I sold by bass years ago. I check the politics society for upcoming talks and am disappointed to see that the only debate seems to be whether the BNP should be chucked off Facebook or not.

It’s all coming back to me. I’ve got the student slouch and shuffle going on. Stepping out the back of the main building I smile to myself remembering the barbecue we held here at end of the third year when an inflatable sex doll became stuck in a tree. Later a gust of wind blew it free to land next to that (what’s her name?) Scandinavian woman’s toddler. It landed provocatively exposing it’s various orifices but unsurprisingly got no response whatsoever from the child.

I stop to have a pre-seminar piss. The last time I was in these particular set of toilets I urinated to the sounds of that camp lad (Alex?) being violently sick after drinking more than he sold at the private view bar he was supposed to be helping me run. Coming out I half-expect to bump into people I haven’t seen for years. I can hear the click of heels coming up behind me and I turn thinking that it’ll be Shonad in her ridiculous shoes and inappropriately short skirt about to burst in hyena-esque cackling with Sarah or perhaps Lene. It isn’t of course.

I’m in the queue at Loafers’ Café when reality slams into me and mentally throws me clear across the room.

These aren’t my memories.

I never studied at Goldsmiths. I went to Sheffield a good 200 miles away. My brain seems to have hijacked someone else’s past and is now trying to rewrite my own. Still reeling I pay for my coffee and stagger along to the seminar. The sensation is bizarre, to say the least, as my own history struggles to reassert itself over these false memories.

I feel like I’m becoming detached from my physical environment. It’s like I’ve smoked an enormous bong or drunk half a bottle of brandy for breakfast. Yes specifically brandy. It’s like when you get incredibly drunk yet retain a heightened state of awareness. I think my eyeballs might pop.

My heart starts to slow down as I reach the second floor. Fortunately, they’ve moved the art department. I think if I’d had to walk through a load of art studios my brain would completely overload and then shut down. Now there are just bland offices - the artists have been decamped down to a purpose built building. Regrettably the building looks nothing like Will Alsop’s original drawings which just showed the New Cross road with a dog wearing sunglasses and a dress going into the local branch of Iceland. Instead there’s just a box with high windows and a sign on top that says, unimaginatively, “Goldsmiths,” but looks like a strong wind would bring it crashing down on top of the pedestrians below.

By the time I find the room where my seminar is due to start I am beginning to feel normal again. I’m still slightly early, but then so, it seems, is virtually everyone else. We stand and chatter for a few minutes. The tutor arrives and we re-arrange to room layout away from that of a 1970s style primary school classroom. We realise that there are actually too many people here and send the three people who are uninvited extras on their way.

The seminar starts with introductions going clockwise around the table. Looking at people’s faces I think that I know at least three of the people already. Or do I? I’m pretty certain I recognise them, but I’ve no idea what their names could be. The name Alice springs into my mind when I look at the girl opposite. Have I ever known an Alice? Perhaps I’ve just seen her on the train, perhaps she just look like someone’s sister? Perhaps I’ve just invented them all? Perhaps none of this happening. Perhaps I’m still asleep and I’ve just been dreaming everything. Getting up, leaving the house, walking down to college - it’s all yet to happen. How the hell am I supposed to know what’s real and what’s just my imagination?

I suddenly realise that everyone is staring at me. It’s clearly my turn to introduce myself. I wonder how long they’ve been waiting for me to speak. I open my mouth, but I think I’ve forgotten my name.