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About Bristol

Oh, and Polanski’d get it—Szpilman hidin’ in rubble, I’d be hidin’ from the AA man comin’ for that heap! “What is this place?!”—a scrapyard, ya daft sod! Best bit? Mate o’ mine shagged in the backseat once—said it was like bonin’ in a biscuit tin. Springs pokin’ his arse! Escort’s a laugh, a relic, a rusty coffin on wheels—fuckin’ love hatin’ it!

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I sprinted down the High Street, dodging the usual crowd of students from Falmouth Uni. They’re everywhere, like seagulls at the harbor. I swear, if I trip over one more backpack, I’m gonna lose it. Anyway, I’m hustlin’ past the Penryn River, and it’s lookin’ all pretty and stuff. The water’s glimmering, and I’m like, “Wow, nature, you’re kinda nice.” But then I remember I’m late, and that thought goes out the window.

Penryn Perspectives: Sarah Mojuetan