There is a school of thought that postulates that there is little of no difference between religious fundamentalists and Star Trek fans. That both suffer from a narrow tunnel vision that doesn’t allow them to see the benefit of anyone elses point of view, that keeps them isolated from the rest of society and heaps scorn upon them from the uninitiated. Although Heather was now standing outside the lads flat, getting increasingly damp, waiting in severe vigil for Loz to ablute so she could exorcise the vileness as it passed from his body, it wasn’t her presence that Loz would have been worried about, not if he had seen her bedroom.
Heather had never quite managed to make if off of campus. Nobody was quite willing to share a house with her so she had ended up back in halls of residence not too long after leaving them. Resembling part of the set design for Prisoner Cell Block H, Heathers room consisted of a bed (with graffiti proudly proclaiming “Darren’s sperm marathon ’92” just above it), a small sink a a wardrobe. Every other available space, including the window, was covered in phtographs or drawings of Loz and pieces of scripture written in a meticulously neat script. Comparatively, she had already done the equivilent of learning Klingon and building her own replica of the ENterprises bridge. This did not bode well for the Ginger Warrior.