Teenage Clones

I’m on the train, and never before have I been so intimidated. Jesus Christ, I hope that they can’t tell that I’m writing about them. They’d probably batter me death with their Adidas trainers, slice me into small parts with their fake nails and hide my body in one of their brown leather handbags. Lord, I don’t want to die like this. I’m on a train to Bath – standing room only, because First Great Western have lovingly decided that they’re only going to run trains between Chippenham and Bath once an hour – and I am surrounded by a group of teenage clones. They are travelling in a massive herd, and are wearing exactly the same things. All of them. It’s as if I’m in Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, in the middle of the group wearing boiler suits, and I’m the prat in the yellow coat. Bugger, they’re looking at me now AND I FEEL SO AWKWARD and oh god they’re doing the looking-up-and-down-disdainfully thing, as if I was piece of gum on the bottom of their white Adidas trainer. There’s no need to look at me like that, thank you. Just because I’m not dressed like you (I’m wearing embroidered trousers and the infamous yellow jacket, and ALL TWELVE OF THEM are wearing white jeans, white Adidas trainers and a black Adidas tracksuit jacket with white stripes) doesn’t mean that it’s necessary to keep glancing in my direction and sniggering. Thank the Lord that we’re pulling into the station, and I need never see you again.

OH GOD NOT AGAIN. I’m sat in the park, reading Peter Brook’s The Empty Space and thoroughly enjoying myself. But I saw the pack again. Are they trying to deliberately intimidate me? Is this the same pack? I don’t even know; the majority of the teenage female population looks exactly the same to me. They’re either art hoes, who are trying to label themselves as ‘creative individuals’ (when in fact they look exactly the same as the other ‘creative individuals’), or are wearing similar ensembles to the one described above. I simply cannot tell the difference. I’m going to seek refuge in the theatre. At least there I’m not under the threat of being whacked around the back of the head with an iPhone 6s Plus. I also won’t be judged for reading, while every so often whispering ‘bloody hell’ as I experience another ‘mind-screw’ moment.

(side note: If you’re studying drama/plays/or if you’re an idle appreciator of theatre, you have to read The Empty Space. Totally screws with your mind, but throws up very important questions, such as ‘WHAT THE HELL EVEN IS THEATRE?’. You’re welcome.)