Next Week

27 Jun

A visual aid.

I think the coming week or so represent what will go down as an ‘important time’ in the all-too-swift departure from the glory days of my adolescence.  On Monday, I leave the comforts/horrors of Doncaster (after only being ridiculed by boys on small bikes once, shockingly) and hurtle up the country, back to my beloved Newcastle, on the East Coast line’s finest.  And I really do mean finest, as I have managed to book myself a cheap first class advance ticket.  Although, from experience, I have learnt that the true benefits of this luxury are only to be felt pre-8am, when you are offered your very own copy of The Independent and your choice of cereal bar all FOR FREE, the numerous and also free hot drinks are available all the time, always, and I am already looking forward to exploiting them.  My polite request for ‘a pot of hot water for my herbal tea bag, please’ always goes down an absolute treat (read: has probably been spat in, but at least I’m not paying for it!).  Anyway, I feel like I’m getting distracted by my love of pretending I am part of a social elite.  Back to more pressing concerns.

The first grown up task: I HAVE TO MOVE HOUSE. I really hate moving house.  I hate the days it takes to connect to the internet, I hate taking my cleverly-selected-to-make-me-look-intellectual postcards down off the wall and being unable to rearrange them to my satisfaction, I hate landlords who try and pretend you broke their sofa (this was about as smoothly executed as Joey Tribbiani accusing Ross Gellar of breaking his fridge), but most of all, I hate cleaning my old house to meet the impeccable standards of its owners in an attempt to get my deposit back.

I am a very clean person.  This may stem from my immense and somewhat crippling phobia of germs, but it still means I lead my day to day life in an orderly manner and with antibacterial spray never more than a few feet away from kitchen surfaces.  So you would think cleaning the house I share with five other tidy folk would be an easy, few-swishes-of-a-duster job. I thought this the first time I had to move.  I then spent 48 hours cleaning skirting boards (it was a big house), and rapidly changed my mind. There are bits of houses that only mums know about, like the tops of wardrobes, door frames, the aforementioned skirting boards and the insides of extractor fans, that are all full of impenetrable grime that takes hours to shift, even with Mr Muscle’s finest.  So at present, my excitement about my lovely new flat with my boyfriend, Mike, is somewhat dampened by the hours of scrubbing that have to take place before I can move in to it.

The second grown up task: This is not so much grown up in what it entails (wearing Hogwarts attire and walking towards a man in even more extravagant Hogwarts attire to pick up a bit of paper), but in what it represents. I HAVE TO GRADUATE.  I am pretty sure this makes me an official grown up, and upon taking the glorious parchment in my predictably clammy grasp, I will be blessed with worldly knowledge like how to change a watch battery, and how to identify birds from only their mating call.  I am quite looking forward to this for two reasons, principally, that of seeing all my classmates in their finery and getting to snoop at their parents, but also because once the ‘big day’ arrives, my mum can no longer talk to me about what cardigan I am planning on buying to go with my dress/what jacket she should wear/if her shoes look ok/what shoes will go best with my outfit/WHAT BAG/!??!!!!????!1111??! etc.  I am all for new outfits, but there is a limit on the number of times I can hear the word ‘shrug’ without responding with one.  Although with the superhuman maturity I will possess by the end of the week, I could probably take on anything.

ps.  In case you were wondering who drew that incredible piece of artwork that looms large at the beginning of this post, as Mike did when I sent him the original in a moment of childish pride, IT WAS ME. Startling, I know.

I do have a BA Hons now after all.

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