I’m going back to school — film school

I’D take a week at work over a week back in school or college any day. I was very glad to leave them behind even though I still revisit both in my worst recurring dream — a phone call from someone at university telling me there’s been a big mistake and in actual fact I’ve failed all my exams. Then I wake up sweating like a hooker in church or desperately needing to pee.

I’m happy to be out of academia, which is why it baffles me that given an education budget from my employer, I chose an eight-week digital filmmaking course — when the idea of doing a three-hour class after a nine-hour day every Tuesday is my idea of hell.

I could have brushed up on my pathetic French or taken a stress management course — but no, digital filmmaking. I find myself feeling sick to my stomach a few hours before my first class. A few colleagues are going to the pub and I’m very tempted, because that’s what I do on Tuesday night — go for a few scoops, not further education. But I feel guilty and go.

I arrive at the classroom nervous and take a seat near the back. It’s just like being back at school — the walls are painted a sad non colour, there are rows of cheap chairs and crappy desks and a giant whiteboard with the remnants of a long forgotten lesson.

There are a few faces too — nice, shy, smiley faces. The teacher is a white man with dreads and once he opens his mouth it turns out he’s knowledgeable and a bit of a laugh. He tells us about scripts, shot selection, cinematography and shows us clips from Citizen Kane (snore) and Seven (when Gwyneth was more famous for acting than vagina candles).

And then something that never happened at school happens — I look at the clock and it’s already time to go home.