Unsung
Another quiet evening, another online chat with a friend about the eternal subject: women. As is traditional, the friend’s name has been changed for reasons of anonymity.
Clark: it strikes me that we dwell on these women far more than is probably healthy. Matt: no kidding Matt: but it’s the way of things, and utterly unable to be changed Clark: true Matt: I think of it in the following way Matt: which, since I’m me, is ridiculous and overblown, but has an edge of coolness whilst bordering on pop-culture psychosis, Matt: The bit of us that looks out for these chicks and is concerned for their wellbeing, constantly thinking about their situations, listening to their woes, and subtly maneuvering to make stuff better for them, is like the shadowy superhero beneath the calm CS student exterior. An invisible cape and mask, if you will. Matt: Little do they know of the existence or at least extent of the involvement of these nighted guardians, but they’d miss them if they were gone. Even if there’s never any final happy ending and rewarding outcome, and the credits end up rolling across images of our respective car tyres burning away across soaked tarmac into the distance under the night-time lights of the city, alone and unsung, Matt: we shall still be heroes, god damnit. Matt: and our day shall come. Matt: that’s pretty much all I have. Clark: If there were a movie made, that would be the voiceover at the start, as the camera pans over the dark Glasgow west end streets, past lilybank, and up into the 4th year lab through one of the windows on a busy night before a hand-in deadline. Clark: I’m thinking Gotham city here. Matt: dude, totally Matt: outside the lab windows there would of course be a damn big gargoyle of pitted masonry Clark: There’d be the silhouette of a dirty big crow on on the top of lilybank, which would fly away as the camera panned near Clark: And thunder. There’s always thunder. Matt: damn right
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