By Quinn Wilde
Quinn Wilde spends a formative yr learning on the college of St. Andrews, Scotland, and dwelling in Fife Park, the most cost effective pupil place of dwelling within the united kingdom. alongside the way in which, there are error and pretend pas, damages and destruction, passions and revelations, longing and belonging, love, secret, tragedy, admire, and only a tiny bit of intercourse.
"One of the simplest home-grown comedies of this 12 months, a true campus-themed gem."
"This first-time writer is basically one to monitor. His booklet is generously provided and generously priced. I recommend you gift him via interpreting it."
"A unusually compelling novella, which I chewed via in one laugh-out-loud sitting."
"If you have been to school, and do not know half this e-book, you then have not quite been to University."
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It’s right for everyone, people said, houses only ever go up in value! Now that the crash has happened, everybody else saw it coming and I’m the idiot. That doesn’t make me unhappy. That makes me feel smug and unappreciated. Plus, I like owning my house. I would have paid double to end my hate-hate relationship with estate agents and landlords. I appear to be good at my job because, frankly, most people are not. They are the smart ones. Being good at your job is an awful idea. You will only ever get extra work by being good at something, and you will be passed over for promotion because you’re too damn valuable to lose.
The sights, the sounds, the dirty smell of the sea and the smoky taste of my junk food. It was a good night, but it came in on a good tide. The sweet mood was merely an extension, an expression, of what was already true to me; that I was in the right place, that things were going to be fine. Warm and homely, it also carried an electric note of excitement. It was anticipation, and joy. It washed over me like the lapping sea; it kept on lapping, kept on giving, in waves. It seemed to be almost never ending.
I was jealous of Frank. Frank didn’t get fazed, ever, by anything, and I desperately wanted that quality. Outwardly, Frank had nothing to teach, and he was anything but motivating. He was just a mate, but he always seemed to have the answer. And the answer was always to worry less. Mostly I found it impossible to worry less, but I liked the idea of it. Frank was a reluctant mentor. ‘Quinn,’ he said, during one tellingly metaphysical chat, ‘firstly, the very fact that you’re asking for help chilling out worries me so, as you can see, no man is an island.
A Year In Fife Park by Quinn Wilde