A Day Out to Cambridge

Having never been to Cambridge, I relied purely on my imagination to foresee the day ahead. From previous experience of my parents and there explanation of their visit, I thought there would be fields of lush green grass bedding ornate, stone, authentic buildings ravishing with religious culture. Instead my eyes focused on a gargole with a CTV camara poking from its fang lined mouth. Up early after a party surrounded by drunkards whilst, I myself, was stone cold sober (not intentionally). My Family and I travelled to Winchester train station covered by a grey thick sky and water spraying off the tyres, fast on the road so we didn't miss the train. On the train I could't get into the frame of mind for what to expect, which was exiting but daunting. Sitting opposite my grandparents I subconciously thought we were travelling to Weymouth, a place I was familiar with, which comforted me. But then I realised that this wasn't the case again when an American student asked my baffled father how long the journey would be until we reached Cambridge. He looked, unsurprisingly to my Mother for help. Briskly walking down through the town in Cambridge, well-dressed, ralph lauren-shirted students wisped by on there pastel, slim straw basket bicycles, wishing I could be someone like that when I attended University. My brother, a future Cambridge student, of which I am very proud, explained every nook and crany of Cambridge, after my never ending tedious questions fired at him had drawn him to his weakness of blurring out all information he had, like a robot but with passionate emotion. I have a tendancy to, unintensionally, act more simple-minded than my normal self at these moments, in order so that he can tell me information with all its basics, even if I didn't need them, just so I could make sure we're on the same page. I entered through the grand door entrance and tightroped around the lime fresh grass, careful not to disobey the nonexistant sign. A band started to play as we watched on the balcony at them, careful not to become the centre of attension. We grabbed the first bench we saw and I absorbed the band with enjoyment. The music throughout there time on stage was lovely. Including pieces such as jazzed up "thriller". My first experience of live opera had appeared, or at least my first acknoledgement of an opera. It was light and funny and very impressive use of vocal cords and the learning of the vast amount of lines had definately paid off! Whilst enjoying the line up of performances, I stretched backwards with my arms in order to grip the edge of the bench, it turns out, I knocked a cup of coke of rum (which would have been 100% a few years ago) on the floor which flew over the whole of the red speckled flowerbed. I turned around to guess my fate, the man sitting two spaces away looked at me stunned and then stared at the cup filled with dirt, picked it up, with a jaw dropped expression, and I put my trust in him not to tell the man who returned that I left him a little present. After a bit of banter, he winked at me and the then the other man returned. My Grandma "grassed me up" as my Grandad would say, and the man, after embarrasing me for five minutes, had a long conversation with my Grandad about Carrabean rum. We decided to stay to watch their Reggae act. My brother wanted to absorb the overall atmosphere by sitting at the very front, I turned around and I couldn't see anyone in our 100 yards radius, I blushed. The drums beat my ear drums and I decided to return a few rows back, whilst my brother pulled my arm unwillingly. Later on, after the song, they dedicated to song to "maz". Unfortunately our Grandfather is really called Baz, so my mother and I corrected the Reggae performance, unfortunately my Grandparents had already returned home, leaving us to catch many trains, tubes and buses because of the construction work. We returned home 5 hours later, exhausted.