There’s one week left before I go home for the Easter holidays and I don’t think I have ever been more relieved to return to a world where the most stressful decision I have to make is whether to bake a lemon drizzle or chocolate cream cake.
My life has become a never-ending episode of Skins. I can’t work out whether growing up in a leafy suburb has meant I’ve been grievously sheltered or whether university life is just so extreme, even people who grew up in a Mafia-riddled neighbourhood would be slightly tense too.
Actually, if Freddie was part of my life, this week would have been far more bearable
Last week I enjoyed the following events: fights, tears, hand fracturing, heartbreak, arguments, crushes and moshing.
What’s made the whole week weirder is the fact that I am in the unique position of being the only person in my group of friends who lives in a different flat, which meant I spent a lot of time last week sat on an inflatable mattress in the hall corridor, observing the drama unfolding around me with an air of a detachment and quiet incredulity that my life had gone from resembling an Enid Blyton novel to a series in Hollyoaks in the space of less than a week.
After the third night of drama last week, Lorenzo, Lauren and I were sat in the living room at 4:30 am, staring at the walls and in my case, feeling highly comforted by the fact I escape to my flat where the most upsetting thing happening there was my basil plant wilting on the windowsill.
“Is this what real life is like?” I asked groggily. “Can I expect this kind of thing to happen weekly for the rest of my life and I’ve just got to get used to it?”
“No, it’s not,” Lorenzo said. “If it was, nobody would ever get out of bed.”
Up until the past week, I had been having the best time I had ever had so far at university. My course was heating up, I had written for two newspapers that week, I had managed to keep calm long enough to sit a shorthand exam without projectile vomiting and I was with a group of people who were some of the most fun, kind and generally adorable people I had ever met.
The most severe problems I had were, as ever, lack of money and sleep, and Lauren and I would wander around the city centre staring mournfully at shop windows with Lauren declaring things like, “Why are TRESemme products so expensive? Capitalism doesn’t want me to have perfect hair.” and convincing ourselves that investing in a feta and pasta salad from M&S was the wisest economic decision we had made all week.
Then we made the decision that going out clubbing four nights in one week would be a wise move. I’m thinking right now that it wasn’t.
To be honest, if we weren’t in the pressure-filled, hormone-ridden container that is university, I’m pretty sure 98% of the incidents wouldn’t have happened. Life last week was how Twilight would have been if the werewolves had access to a cellar full of whisky and Bella was only one Tequila shot away from a love-triangle induced mental breakdown. Which I suppose she kind of was.
I rang my sister last night because I needed the sounds of John Humphrys on Radio 4 and a constantly boiling kettle in the background to remind me that there was some form of sanity outside the university bubble.
“It wasn’t this crazy when I came to visit,” Maria observed, after I regaled the tale of the emotional roller coaster that was my life. “But at least something interesting has been happening to you. The most exciting thing that happened to me this week was losing a £10 note on the way home and then finding in a neighbours flower pot an hour later.”
“I’m never going to scoff at the ridiculous plots in soap operas again,” I vowed. “They must get all their subject material from university students trying to earn some extra cash.”
What has made me even more bewildered by this week is that the craziness was interspersed with some of the most exciting, new and affectionate times I had had so far at university.
Not that I’m expecting this to last. Growing up reading Wuthering Heights and Pride and Prejudice means I have a healthy respect for the fact that love doesn’t come easily, not least without spending three months wandering around a moor or discovering your soul mate has an estranged wife in his attic on your wedding day.
And alas, six months of being at university has taught me one very vital lesson; when there’s feelings involved, drama is always on the outskirts, rubbing its hands together, chuckling wickedly and biding its time. Especially when you throw a generous amount of vodka into the mix.
And to think, all I had to worry about last week was an hour long shorthand exam.
It’s enough to make you laugh.
Jane Austen must have experienced her fair share of drama-filled nights, the little minx
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