One of the reasons, I believe, I am having such a swell time at Uni is down to my flatmate Alison.
She is without doubt the nicest, funniest and sometimes craziest American girl I have ever had the good fortune to meet.
It is ironic really that I spent so long worrying about what my flatmates would be like when, just a few hours after arriving, we bonded over a mutual penchant for Stephen Fry and eating cookie dough from a bowl.
A couple of weeks in, and with our friendship already fully fledged, Alison asked me what my first thoughts were of her when I found her on the accommodation Facebook group.
I grinned. “I thought: she looks completely crazy. We’re going to get on just fine.” Alison looked highly flattered.
And she really is a bit crazy.
Sometimes I come home to find her lying on the corridor floor, with her feet against my door frame, texting.
“What’s up?” She says, upside down.
“Hey Alison.” I put my key in the door and shimmy round her to dump my bag.
“Want a cup of tea?” I ask, propping the door open.
It’s like coming home to a very welcoming, intelligent and dexterous pet.
I’m not sure if it’s purely an American addiction, having grown up with a family of nut allergy sufferers and therefore being uneducated in the ways of nut food-stuffs, but Alison has a truly overwhelming obsession with peanut butter and jelly.
Last week in TESCO, Alison, having gone without peanut butter for little over twenty-four hours, pays the man at the till for a new jar then stands at the end of the conveyor belt, immediately opens the jar and starts to eat it with her fingers.
“Couldn’t you wait three minutes to leave the shop?” I cry, simultaneously exasperated and amused.
Alison shrugs. “I paid for it so I ate it. That’s what normally happens, right?”
It’s logic you can’t argue with.
We have also devised a chart of all the names Alison can tell people are hers when we’re out. The list comprises of names such as Britney Leigh-Anne, Mercedes, Crystal and my personal favourite, Destiny. We have discovered that boys will believe any name once they hear the American accent. If Alison told them her name was Susan they’d be disappointed it wasn’t a little more white trash.
Alison works admirably hard to speak as the English do. She says pavement not sidewalk, and now refers to her jeans as trousers not pants. It’s me who is picking up Americanisms. I was taunted for ten minutes for calling the lift an elevator. Which to be honest, it is. It elevates, doesn’t it?
I have been invited to her new house in London for Thanksgiving, where Alison assures me, you eat so much food you can’t remember your own name.
I can’t remember the last time I was full so I have said yes, yes please, thank you so much.
I know you want to meet her now too. Tough luck buddy, she’s all mine.
Don’t pretend you don’t stay up until three in the morning
listening to Mr Fry read Harry Potter. WE ALL DO IT.
Images courtesy of Google