It filled me with a tiny bit of despair leaving university for Easter this time round. Not that I wasn’t missing my family back home, but this semester had been so dangerously joyous that it becomes hard to leave a world where even lying upside-down on a couch, eating strawberries and watching your friends prance around to the lyrics, “I wear your grandad’s clothes. I look incredible.” is the epitome of happiness.
What heaven is made of
Some of this utter contentment can be attributed to the fact that I have finally signed for a second year house with two of the most beautiful and lovely girls I could wish for.
Emilie, Maria and I had been taking this housing lark pretty seriously.
“So, what is it exactly you girls are looking for in a house?” Our estate agent wanted to know. We were viewing our fourth house and as yet, we still hadn’t found ‘The One’.
“We’re not sure exactly,” I mused, exchanging looks with the girls.
“Well, do you want a garden? A big kitchen? A study? Hand basins in the bedrooms?” The estate agent prompted.
“Eh.” I said.
If we were totally honest, the house we were standing in was pretty nice. The bedrooms were big, the kitchen was newly furbished and the living room was bright. The real issue was the fact it was almost an hours walk away from not only our friends’ houses and also (it felt like) civilisation.
Three viewings later, we were still no closer to finding our home from home. They were either too damp, too cold, too small or too far from the university. Then I found a house online that looked promising.
“What number house is this?” Lauren wanted to know. We were curled up on the living room sofa, where I was being educated in the ways of the achingly gorgeous man that is Ryan Gosling by watching Crazy Stupid Love, which was, according to the girls, as vital a lifetime experience as seeing the Milky Way or eating so many jelly babies in one sitting that you can’t enter the confectionery aisle for months.
“Number eight, I think?” Emilie said.
Maria nodded. “This one looks good though, Lauren,” She said. “It’s a four bed, on the market as a three, with a study and garden. And, it’s just around the corner from you guys.”
“We’re hoping we can convert the extra downstairs bedroom into a living room and have a kitchen/dining area as well.”
I think we were being a little romantic in our plans for this house. I knew I wasn’t the only one who was imagining Cath Kidson curtains, a set of real, cast iron scales on the kitchen top and a collection of whimsically labelled potted herbs on the windowsill. Although the herb garden is non-negotiable.
“It’s going to be good,”I said, eyes locked on the screen. “Shh! Shh! He’s taking his shirt off!”
We all sat in quiet admiration, pondering the likelihood of running into Gosling in our local Sainsbury’s. Not so good, I concluded.
During our viewing the next day, we realised joyfully that the house really was lovely. We wandered around, checking the corners for damp and flooding, but it was clean from top to bottom. Bar the decapitated stuffed sheep one of the current male residents had decided to adorn his bedroom wall with.
“So,” the estate agent asked when we were congregated in the spare attic bedroom. “Any thoughts?”
We looked at each other; Emilie tilting her head and Maria grinning.
“Yes,” Maria said happily. “Yes please.”
So now we have a house on a road with trees lining the street and an alarming fascination with vintage furniture. It’s almost as exciting as the time I thought Jon Snow winked at me in a guest lecture. He didn’t.
We can dream
Images courtesy of Google