I Hadn't a Clue What She was Talking About

 

For this week's writing exercise, the group was asked to write for ten minutes using the above title as a prompt. There were a few minutes at the start of the exercise when I hadn't a clue what to write about, until my mind drifted back to October 2000 when I was 18 and hammering through a GNVQ.

I hadn't a clue what she was talking about. “Er... what?” I asked.

This was really uncomfortable. For the record, I know nothing about prostitution, on either side of the exchange. It's not a topic that's particularly easy to talk about, particularly not when you're eighteen and you're talking to your own mother.

“Your 'ookers form,” she reiterated. “Have you filled it in yet?”

You need to fill a form in before you visit a hooker? I thought. Why does my mum know this? And why is she asking me this?

I looked down at my desk for a clue, the work surface plastered in A2 sheets and essays- an almost-complete college module. Hookers would not be an option I'd go for, even if I did have time. I shifted a few sheets around for a clue.

On the edge of my desk, under a university prospectus for next year, was my higher education application form.

Aaaand... there's the penny dropping.

"Oh, UCAS!"

"UCAS," she corrected herself. "Whatever."

"Not yet, let me tidy this up first."

I breathed a sigh of relief and shook my head clear. I had eight months to go. Eight more modules. Eight more deadlines before- in theory- I was to go to uni and do it all again.

"You don't want to be late, or you'll have to defer for a year."

"I'm aware of that," I said, and started to collate the sheets in order. The cereal advert I'd come up with was brilliant. The rest of it, probably garbage.