psy·cho·bab·ble
Function:noun
a predominantly metaphorical language for expressing one's feelings; also psychological jargon

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I had heard of a professor at Hertford College that taught a rather good Victorian literature course. I attend the first lecture to see for myself if the rumors are true. Seated front and center, I prepare to be unimpressed. Professors are too often overrated.

John Bradshaw has his name written on the corner of the chalkboard.

I study the letters of his name. I like his refined penmanship. Before beginning class he passes out the syllabus. I barely take a glance at it. John has black hair and piercing cerulean eyes. He sits perfectly poised at his desk. Serene. I envy his confidence. I slouch back in my seat, hoping he won’t notice my inner distress. He frowns at me.

“Please don’t slouch.”

I begin to regret the fact that I’ve chosen to sit in the front row.

---

After the lesson I timorously approach his desk.

“John?” I’m fumbling with my books, in a desperate attempt to keep my hands occupied. They’re flitting everywhere, and I can’t help the nervous habit.

He studies me and my uncontrollable hands. "Do you require assistance?"

I blush when he smiles at me. “I won’t be here next class, so if you would provide next week’s assignment I’d be especially grateful.”

He just keeps eyeing me. He’s starting to look mildly concerned. “Don’t worry about it, Blake. The first written assignment is due three weeks from now.”

---

John is everything I expect him to be.

My first assignment earns me an A. Naturally.

While John lectures my mind wanders. I try to get a sense of the texture of his lips. Focusing on the lesson is a lost cause. After class John asks me if I ‘have a few moments’.

I visit John during his office hours.

“I wanted to have a little talk,” John explains. “About your…performance…”

The world suddenly stops turning. I open my mouth but find that I'm too horrified to speak.

“Relax, it’s nothing bad,” he assures me.

My pulse returns. I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief, until John cuts in: “But you do need to focus a bit more.”

Something about this infuriates me. “Yeah, while everyone else is having a laugh, I’m actually keeping up with my work, and I’m certainly not going about it in a half-arsed way.”

“It was just a suggestion,” John smiles patiently.

“I know,” I reply.

“You seem reluctant to participate. That’s all I was getting at.”

“Maybe I don’t want to participate. I’m listening, aren’t I?”

---

I return to the flat, irrationally pissed off. John must think I’m an immature prat. I make a personal note to do extra well on the next assignment, and perhaps convince him I’m not an arsehole. Gradually I’m calm again, reading Hemingway and taking notes. But then I look out the window and find myself enraged, for no particular reason at all.

A few hours pass this way until my flatmate finally arrives. His name is William but he doesn’t answer to anything but Oggy. His eyes very large and alert, like that of a small mammal, or a bird. He is extremely detail-oriented. His mates dubbed him Oggy and he has been known as that ever since.

My flatmate makes a grand racket while he walks in, as he has decided to purchase a drum set. Oggy tends to get into the most random interests, only to become bored of them a week later. This week it’s the drums. I can only hope the following week doesn’t consist of the gong, or some other instrument even more annoying than the drums.

“You can’t be serious,” I mutter as darkly as possible.

“I’ve joined a band,” my flatmate announces. “We’re called the Happy Andersons and we’re having a show in less than two weeks.”

“I’ll be sure to note it in my schedule book.”

"Fuck you too." He cheerfully abandons the drum set with a massive thud and lumbers towards my desk. "You're just jealous of my wide, respectable range of interests. You wish you had your own drum set."

"Right," I murmur. "That's the only thing I've ever wanted. A drum set. It's been my ultimate fantasy for ages."

William claps my shoulder. "Don't worry, mate. I'll let you have a go at them now and then."

I look up at him. "Okay, look. Go over there. In that corner. Please go away."

He complies with a smirk. "Got a massive dildo stuck up in your arse today, eh?"

---

A couple of weeks later, a large crowd gathers at the park square. I perch onto the edge of the fountain and watch the activity from afar.

The Happy Andersons sound absolutely horrible. There is no other way to describe the noise. I can’t even discern what genre of music they’re trying to play. And considering the fact that Oggy couldn’t keep a beat if his life depended on it, I’m not surprised. Still, everyone has a good laugh and there’s an abundance of bad beer.

“See you at the flat.” Oggy’s determined to get completely sloshed, so I abandon the notion of waiting for him and head home.

It’s a twenty minute walk, which suddenly seems like an awful long way at three ‘o clock in the morning. And I’m starting to hear the steady tread of a group of footsteps, heavy and full of impending danger. I walk quicker. It had been stupid not to wait for Oggy. Although he probably wouldn’t have been much help in this situation, considering his inebriation. I look over my shoulder and a cricket bat glints in the moonlight.

There certainly are a lot of them.

And then they’re all around me, ready to instigate a fight. I’m not in the mood, so I contemplate running.

“Out for an evening stroll?” A tall bloke leers at me, jaws psychotically crushing something, like gum or perhaps chewing tobacco. He lightly starts tapping the flat side of the cricket bat into his palm. Without the bat he’d look pleasant enough, if not a bit cliché, straight out of a Hollywood movie, what with the glint of unfounded menace in his eyes and all.

I’m tall also, so I look him in the eye and reply in the negative.

He smiles. “What’re you doing out here, then?”

I tell him I want to go home.

In less than a second they’re on me, and as I fall to the pavement and start bleeding I think of what it’d be like if my life were a film. Surely at this point John would miraculously happen to appear and chase the scoundrels away. And then we’d be all alone, and he’d pick up my broken body and take me home.

No, wait. I’m lying on the pavement, after they’re finished beating me, and then John finds me and takes me home. Love scenes ensue.

Or I’d manage to drag myself to John’s apartment, because it happens to be nearby. I would then ring the bell pathetically and John would answer the door, robed and disgruntled. But then he’d see me and become immediately concerned. He’d let me in, and put me to rest on the couch, and then I’d fall asleep.

Yes, that’s it.

As I slip into unconsciousness, the cricket-bearing stranger leaves and everyone follows him. Nobody ever comes to get me.

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