So this is what we've come to....

Spring is here, al fresco fag breaks are becoming less chilly by the day, and there’s been a flurry of activity among the inmates here at the Lanark Academy. Yes it’s that time of year again, the student union elections are upon us. They set up shop outside the university library (the wet dream of some 1960’s wank -stain with a slab fetish, you know the type, they write for all the standard undergrad bibles referring to concrete as ‘sensual’). The few of us that actually use the building for a long forgotten art called ‘research’ are subject to a tirade of abuse as we try to gain access without buying a stale SCOTTISH biscuit in support of some under-developed ginger teenager campaigning under the motto “PINTS NOT POLITICS.” The truly worrying thing is that this bloke will be earning six figure sums working for some Hagueite in a few years.

Just when I think I’ve escaped to the safety of my lair (10ft by 10ft, laptop, newspapers, library books, tobacco, bed, 60 outfits, 12 pairs of shoes, selection of postcards; nothing superfluous) I realise this mockery of a fashionable, if slightly archaic, political system, has now seeped into my home. It invades in the form of zee German’s rasping voice discussing campaign strategy with one of his Teutonic floosies on the telephone.

After managing to be something approaching nice for a whole week I can’t quite manage any more. Naz has I think begun to sense the combination of fury and hysteria that radiates from my every pore, and so responds in the usual way, by acting like I’m his mother. He lists his achievements, tells me when he’ll be home, shifts nervously and reeks of the desire for approval. If this carries on I may have to break the news that I’m not his real mum.

Good night and good luck.
Olga Whim signing off.