The British Telecom Tower, silver space ships of memory

When I was a student at University College, I would often visit friends in Ramsey Hall, in Maple Street - I would wear my leather jacket and suede shoes - I only had to shave once or twice a week - I was a nervy, crazy, innocent,  boy -

I'd studied for my A Levels in a newly built comp - my history teacher suggested I go to University College - he'd gone there, too - he would wind his long legs around each other - we'd sit, in a small classroom, scribbling notes, grappling with exciting ideas - nationalism, sturm und drang, revolution - I was sometimes distracted by the sight of the long legs of one of the girls - she would sprawl upon her chair, toying with her biro -

My hall of residence was International Hall, just off Russell Square - we'd all cram in the television room to cheer on Captain Kirk in Star Trek -

But Ramsay Hall was overlooked by the British Telecom Tower - this silver space ship pierced the sky - I would look up at its mysterious galleries -

When we came back from the History freshers' weekend in Bushy Park, I called in to see my chum from the comp - we sat in his overheated room - we spoke of our fellow undergraduates - one gentle young man had  sat right in front of the speakers, his mane of hair covering his face - he was listening to Piper at the Gates of Dawn - a weaselly boy was still wearing his Eton tie -

Whenever I'm in London, I look out for the Telecom Tower - it reminds me of those delicate days - I wonder what happened to them all - what fates befell those slim boys and lovely girls -

I know that one of my faults is never to look back - my role model for a while was Desmond Thane - yet, recently, I found myself in Maple Street - I glanced up, to see a jet flying across a flawless sky -

I resolved to harvest my memory - I would find my leather coat - I would wear it again - I would breath the same exciting air -