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towel round myself and pick it up.
    — Hiya, Simon son . . .
    It takes a second or two to register the owner of the voice. It’s my Aunt Paula up in Edinburgh.

4
    ‘. . . badly executed handjobs . . .’
    E very time I change my course I feel more of a failure. But for me academic courses are like men; even the most fascinating only seem to hold the interest for so long. Now Christmas is over and I’m a single woman again. But changing course doesn’t make you feel as bad as when you change educational institutions or towns. And I content myself with the fact that I’ve now been at Edinburgh University for one whole year, well, almost. It was Lauren who convinced me to change from literature to film and media studies. The new literature is film, she said, quoting from some stupid magazine. Of course, I told her that where people learn about narrative now is not the book, but it’s not the film either, it’s the video game. Split narrative. If we really wanted to be hip, radical and cutting edge, we’d be down Johnny’s Amusements on the South Side, jostling with anaemic truants for space on the machines.
    I have to stick to one module of literature, however, and I elected to keep with Scottish literature, as I’m English, and contrariness is always reason enough to do anything.
    McClymont is lecturing to the smattering of patriots and wannabe Scots (God, I was one myself last year on account of some great-grandmother I never knew who went to Kilmarnock or Dumbarton for her holidays . . . We move on, quickly, hopefully . . .). You can almost hear the soundtrack of pipes playing in the background, as he spouts his nationalist propaganda. Why do I stick with this? Lauren’s idea again, it’s easy grades, she reckons.
    The gum in my mouth tastes metallic and the effort of chewing it is hurting my jaw. I take it out and stick it under the desk. I’m really hungry. I made two hundred quid last night, on badly executed handjobs. Masturbating men under towels. Those fat, red faces gazing at you with intent as you look through them pulling different expressions for what you think they want: cold, cruel bitch; doe-eyed, open-mouthed little girl; anything. It’s all so remote, so detached, it reminds me of when my brother and I used to wank the dog, Monty, and watch him try to bring himself off against the couch.
    I’m thinking about how unnatural it would be to be good at handjobs, thinking about men’s cocks, and soon McClymont is finishing up. Lauren has pages of notes on the Scottish diaspora. Ross, the ‘American Scat’ in front of us is probably hard as a rock in his Levi’s as he scribbles, filling pages with tales of English cruelty and injustice. We snap shut our folder rings in concert and rise. As I leave, McClymont catches my eye. That owl-like face. Stupid. I don’t know what the ornithologists say, but the real bad-birdie experts – the falconers, the hawk handlers – all of them will tell you that the owl is not wise, it’s the thickest out of all the birds of prey.
    — Miss Fuller-Smith, can I speak to you for a minute? he says starchily.
    I turn to him and push the hair from my face and tuck it behind my ear. A lot of men can’t help responding when you do that: virgin offerings. That act of pulling away the bridal veil, of opening up. McClymont is a cynical, wizened alcoholic therefore perfectly programmed to respond. I stand a bit too close to him. It’s always a good idea to do that to fundamentally shy but predatory men. Worked a treat with Colin. Worked too fucking well.
    The permanently startled dark eyes under the glasses ignite further. That thinning, electric-shock hair seems to rise half an inch. The ridiculous shoulder-padded suit fills as he involuntarily puffs out. — I’m afraid I still haven’t received your second-term essay, he says, a slight leer in his voice.
    — That’s because I haven’t done it. I’ve had to work at nights? I smile.
    McClymont, who