There are three days left before I leave university for the Easter break and I am once again torn between wanting to go back to a world where I am woken by birds chirping or stay in the Student Village where I am woken by drunken nineteen year old’s singing surprisingly impressive versions of Les Mis’s ‘Do You Hear The People Sing?’
I rang my Mum today to wish her a happy Mother’s Day.
“I haven’t got your card yet, baby,” she said. “Did you not send it at the beginning of the week?”
“I’m sorry,” I wailed. “I did send it four days ago.”
I was disappointed. I had been unusually spontaneous when picking the card. It had a photo of an owl wearing a sombrero. I’m not really sure why but it seemed like a good choice at the time.
I’m sorry, but I don’t regret that decision at all
“Ooh,” Mum was saying. “Your Dad’s just brought me a croissant. One of the really good ones. He went all the way to ‘Big Tesco‘ for it.”
My town is so small that sometimes people just refer to places with phrases like, “The street where the grit salt used to be.“
“So what have you been up to?” She asked.
Yesterday, Lauren, Maria, Emilie, Rose and I decided to have a ‘Girls’ Night’. This meant we began listening to songs like ‘Run the World’ and ‘All Woman’. Lorenzo became so offended, he barricaded us in the living room after throwing three bin bags, toilet roll and the nomad air mattress onto the floor with shouts of, “This is what you all deserve!”
We had been at our chosen club, Viper Rooms, for fifteen minutes and already we had been treated to some top dancing from several lads, moves that mostly involved placing their hands on top of their heads to create a triangle and shouting, “House! House!” I don’t understand boys.
For some inexplicable reason, three different boys offered to take me to Nando’s. I will never understand the romance in that offer. Lauren pointed out that it’s the equivalent of a boy saying on your first date, “I know this great place you’ll love” and then taking you to a Wetherspoons where the beer is £1.95 and you can eat nachos from nine am onwards.
I was also treated to the pick up line, “Do you have a car? My clutch just went.” I wasn’t sure if I was at a job interview or an auto repair centre.
The night was relatively uneventful until Rose lost her phone, ID, student card, keys and debit card.
“That’s my third set of keys!” Rose cried. “And my purse is missing!”
“Where’s Maria?” Lauren said suddenly.
“She was here literally two seconds ago,” Emilie said.
“I need to find my phone!”
“Seriously, where’s Maria?”
“I need to go home!”
When we left the club, it was snowing. I had complained to my local greengrocer that day about the drop in temperature. He just shrugged and said, “You’re in the North now love. We don’t get Spring up here.” I sometimes think the Southern-ness in me is so obvious that I might as well wear a sign that says, “When you talk about the ‘Sheffield Wednesday’s’, I assume you’re all just really excited about the middle of the week.”
My phone buzzed in the taxi.
Maria had sent me a text saying, “I’m by the bar, where are you guys?”
“Maria is at the bar, waiting for us,” I told Lauren.
“But we couldn’t find her anywhere when we were there!” Lauren said. “We looped the place three times.”
“I hope she gets back okay,” I said anxiously. “Did she have any money left?”
“Babe, we never have any money left,” Lauren pointed out patiently.
When we got back to the girls flat, Lauren immediately set about making herself scrambled eggs on toast. Eggs are the best post-night out food. They cost about 50p and you don’t wake up the next day to discover you accidentally sat on your take-out box.
Maria text me to say she was fine and could get home okay. I decided I needed my bed and went home.
Overall, I wasn’t sure how much of this I wanted to tell my Mum. I could imagine her, sat in her wing-backed John Lewis chair, sipping her fresh coffee with the light spilling in through the bay windows and Nelson Mandela’s autobiography sitting quiet and majestic on the book shelf. Particularly as it was Mother’s Day and the fact that everyone’s favourite cocktail last night was called a ‘Porn Star Martini’.
“We had a good girls’ night out,” I said. “None of us lost anything.”
I think I’m ready for a holiday.
You can understand my reluctance
Images courtesy of Google