Wolfson Close Flat 10

We meet and met many people in the first few weeks here, and become
enrolled in all sorts of groups. I have to get through at least some of
them in order to make any account of my time here remotely coherent,
though I wouldn't wish to go far beyond that remoteness. I've always
liked a cluttered landscape.

Wolfson Close Flat 10, however, should deserve many mentions. On my
way to the campus, when I first arrived at Norwich station with my
essentials, I shared a minibus with a girl called Felicity, a
Scandinavian student - extremely dainty, fragile and norse-looking
herself, with light pastel-moon hair - very forward and friendly,
socially articulate. She must have cultivated alliances with every one
in that minibus in the twenty minutes it took us to get to the
University. I met her again at the Icebreaker in the evening, and
introduced me to the other characters from her flat - Wolfson number
10. In the days since, climbing in through their kitchen window and
mingling among them, I've come to find myself equally at home there,
even to the point where Felicity suggested I have a hand in deciding on
the kitchen rules.

Principle among the menagerie are Cole &; Cliff, who have joined me
in many adventures already. Cole is shorter than me, more excitable,
less angry, and subscribes partly to Goth culture - black or near black
outfits - looking like a black wizard sometimes. He is full of a
trembling energy, sometimes makes a sound like an electric nun going
haywire - hmmah oo oh yeeah hmm. Moves like it too, with taloned hands
shaking and head bowed, wobbling around as if he were in a procession,
addressing us as boys and girls or making facetious erotic
insinuations. Or indeed, innocently tactless comments.

"You know, Si?n," he says to the Vampire Countess. "You remind me very
much of Victoria Wood."

And her glare only made him laugh?

Not that he's without a tranquil side - an avid photographer,
particularly of morning and evening skies - and the lake - a part-time
writer, interested in religion and mysterious, emotive music (Tori
Amos, Sisters of Mercy?) and never destructive. He's trying to wean
himself off anti-depressants, and has a twin brother in Lancaster
University.

Cliff is taller than me, a philosopher - an ardent philosopher,
literate, educated and accurate where H0's James makes brilliant but
clumsy stabs - an unrelenting pursuer of logic and rationale, and in
the tumult of concentration will often adopt the pose of a prisoner of
war being led through the doorway of a four foot high tin bunker, his
eyes narrow as the mind of a fanatic, hands behind his head. Perhaps
one round a pint glass. Wary of causes, suspicious of emotional appeals
and capable of tearing apart any parcel of sophistry - if his talents
were recognised, he'd be one of the first to inexplicably vanish when
the next spurious dictatorship comes along - logic is a dangerous
matter.

Now, there was an advert in the back of the UEA introduction brochure
for Toni &; Guy hairdressers, who have a tent up in Norwich, or so I
understand. The advert claimed Toni &; Guy offered its customers a
unique "collective individualism," for people who "want to stand out
from the crowd, yet are acceptable." I had already spat at this
impossible assertion, so it came as a pleasant surprise to find Cliff's
version of the advert scrawled over with an avalanche of abuse. The
stupid and greedy makes me seethe, certainly - but it sends Cliff into
a psychotic rage. Making him a valuable ally in the fight against
conformist consumerism.

In between his bouts of deadly scrutiny, Wolfson's philosopher writes,
makes an admirable landslide of his bedroom and the Wolfson kitchen,
and attends meetings of UEA's Lesbian, Gay and Bisexual Society, almost
invariably arriving back unsure of why he went. He isn't exactly from
the Mr. Humphries school of camp, after all.

Now, Bertie is a different cafetiere of pike again. The first night I
met him, he put a bread knife to my neck and nicked the flesh. I was
thieving his bread - he'd meant to scare me. We were both drunk. Mind
you, the dry wound I had the next morning made a fantastic story for my
H0 cellmates.

"If you want us to take care of him..." murmured Sparshott, loyal and
brave.

I declined, thanking him nevertheless.

Bertie, grandson of Beryl Bainbridge, has cardinal rubra-red hair, a
grand and respectable crown on a wildly expressive and uninhibited
figure, a lover of spontaneous dramatics, fearless provoker, arguer and
tease. And whilst I'm at pains to point out the artist in every one of
my new acquaintances, Bertie is an exceptional case - a man of theatre,
pen, motion, music, light and brush, at the very least. His door is
already crowded with strange artefacts, his walls covered with large
monochrome photographs of his family, his shelves filled with jazz
records, his room dimly lit. He'll take on philosophy with Cliff,
religion with Felicity, anything with anyone, and foist strong opinions
on the rest. A man who doesn't give a fig if he irritates or not - and
yet knows, and seems to enjoy, the precariousness of his positions.
Well. Why he's doing computer studies is anyone's guess.

The fourth male resident of Flat 10 is Matt, a technically minded
clarinet player who describes me as a 'gangsta' and plays his music
very loudly. When his family paid him a visit the younger siblings took
the opportunity to toss me around the Wolfson kitchen and beat me at
card games. Matt was distraught, but I had my revenge by telling them
they had made the mistake of entering Bertie's Bordello, and would do
well never to forget it.

Joining Miss Pritchard in fleshing out the fairer portion of Flat 10
there is another American, the athlete Lauren, who faintly resembles
the Russian pole-vaulting champion Svetlana Feofanova. Making up a
foursome is the curiously self-contained munitions expert, Rachel, and
the enemy agent, Maria. I have only glimpsed the latter once, such is
the wall of secrecy surrounding her. It was early evening, and I had
crept stealthily up to Flat 10's kitchen window, a habit that myself
and the other seven residents had become accustomed to. Peering in
cautiously, I saw no familiar visages - but a girl of dark hair and, as
I recall, olive complexion, sporting an eyepatch and jagged scar which
she kept concealed in a scabbard. I stifled a gasp of exasperation as
it struck me that this was none other the elusive Maria. I had to take
the chance!

"Excuse me," I said, standing up and putting my head through the
window.

I startled her; she gave a small, 'oo!' and barely had time to secrete
the transistor radio.

"I'm looking for..." (I made a show of looking around to make sure no
one was listening,) "...the others."

"They've gone out," she said, calmly but icily.

"Oh my. What a shame."

"I can tell them you called?"

"I would appreciate that. Thank you. Good day."

"Good day, Mr...err?"

"Henstoat."

And with that I was away like a fox over the hills.