I was sitting in a darkened classroom, lights off and blinds shut. This was me, taking my first Lit class. I remember being early. I remember being eager to find out about things then, having only chosen the A level on the back of a GCSE the top set were forced to take. I remember the humming of the flourescent lights. I remember the door being propped open and me trying to look excited. Then, I remember the girls coming in, one at a time in what seemed a never ending chain of potential partners. I stuck around, and not just for the hugely attractive female:male ratios. There seemed to be something interesting going on in the English department, a feel in the air that the teachers knew and loved the material, a feel of expectancy, should I say.
We're discussing favourite writers this week and, whilst that subject itself is something I am coming back to, if I was going to pick at some, I'll take two straight from those college years. Ian McEwan sits on top of my list. He sits there for the simple reason that without him, I wouldn't be writing this blog. I wouldn't have read Enduring Love and, if you'll excuse the pun, wouldn't have developed one for the subject. I certainly wouldn't have taken an English degree. I adore his attention to detail, the realism and the most tremendous tension he creates from the most mundane of situations. His book covers say 'the master of disaster', and I can't beat that for high praise.