Obsessed with Foucault?

So there I was the other night, at my Creative Writing class at Shipley College, happily scribbling away. Our task was to write a piece of description inspired by a picture of a fairground.  I find writing description really hard, in fact totally impossible until I create a character who’ s eyes I can describe a scene through, but I was quite enjoying myself when I had a thought. I was describing the fairground as a heterotopia, a space of otherness and seperateness. And then I had another thought. Oh God, I’m becoming obsessed with Foucault!

The lights, flashing and dancing. The pop music blaring, beats competing for attention. Teenage girls link arms and run, shrieking. They’ve no money to spend on rides or candyfloss, but just to be here, out after dark, is exciting.

The fair isn’t real life, normal rules don’t apply. And wearing short skirts that make their dad’s mutter under their breath, and after the bottle of rosè that Abigail ‘borrowed’ from the wine rack, they’re out for a good time. They dance – with each other, not boys – to the chart toppers that the big wheel’s speakers pump out, disco-loud. It’s the fair! Anything could happen, it’s like a huge party, and no-one cares that they’re only (just) fifteen. Grass turns to mud beneath their feet, Faye’s new converse are spoilt, but they don’t even feel the rain. They’re out in the dark, and don’t have a curfew – who, in their (increasingly wet) shoes, would care about rain?

Everyone’s out tonight. Their little town, where nothing even happens and people spend Friday nights with a takeaway curry and ‘Live at the Apollo’, has come alive tonight, this one weekend when people brave the weather and venture out. It’s magic. It doesn’t feel quite real.

They see their geography teacher, Mr Jones, which is embarrassing, and they hide behind a candyfloss stand. Worse still, Molly’s hairdresser Tracey is with him – with her hand in the back pocket of Mr Jones’s jeans! The girls giggle and clutch each other, still too young and self obsessed to even consider that a teacher (especially a geography teacher) might have a right to a love life. Mr Jones waves. They scream and giggle, Abigail waves back. Tracey, glint in her eye, takes Mr Jones by the shoulders and kisses him. The girls stare – then run.

Anyone for the ghost train? They’ve spent their pocket money on nail varnish and magazines on the way home from school, and dads are unreasonably strict about advance payments. They wonder if Abigail’s mum will notice the absence of a second bottle.

Molly’s older brother here – she doesn’t want to talk to him, but the others do. Why else did they get dressed up, if not for the 6^th Form boys? Ross buys them a candy dummy each, which they suck, trying to look provocative. Trying to be grown up. But it’s getting on for eleven, and the families have all gone home, and the people who are left as not so fun, more sinister. Lone men eye young legs, the girls tug at the hems of their skirts. It’s getting cold, and those legs have goosebumps. When Ross offers them a lift home (he’s got his own car!), back to the slumber party they’ve got planned at Molly’s, it’s so inviting to think of their pyjamas and pizza, and the beloved One Tree Hill dvds. Warm sleeping bags – and maybe more wine, if Molly’s dad is happy to turn a blind eye.

They leave the mud and clutter, the rubbish piling up underfoot, the excitement now turning stale, and head for home.