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… that persisting homesickness, a lack of sleep and a mountain of revision can officially send me to my limit. And induce a sense of emptiness that only most of a packet of Tesco value chocolate digestives can rectify. Following a wonderful month at home for Easter break, I am back in Glasgow – and, yes, I am aware that the name of the holidays is completely illogical since today is, in fact, Easter Sunday.
Not being particularly religious, at least not in a traditional sense, I woke up this morning (well, afternoon) in my new flat and going to church did not even enter my mind. For the best, really – they probably wouldn’t have appreciated a girl with permanent bedhead strolling in in last night’s clothes, reeking of wine. It gets better: the wine comes in a carton, and is priced at £3.80 a litre. New levels of classy. I’m currently paying rent on two separate flats: one, a tiny room in student halls; the other, a larger room with a double bed in what is essentially a house. Guess which is costing me more? Sadly, since we’re too stingy to turn on the boiler/heating/anything that is not absolutely necessary for survival, and are yet to grapple with Scottish Power regarding a somewhat optimistic bill they have sent us, the boiler is not on. Hence no hot water. Hence no shower. And, consequently, apparent walks of shame between my two homes.
Homes. It still feels strange applying that word to Glasgow, despite the fact that, with the exception of three pesky exams over the next 12 days, I’m now finished first year. Home is, and always will be, Newcastle. And it’s days like this where I miss it. In my previous post, I referenced the nostalgic effect of Greggs. This has increased exponentially. Several days ago, sleeping in the new flat with two friends, I apparently started suggesting that they go there. In my sleep. Clearly, even my subconscious wants me to go back to where people know what stotties are, and perhaps even craves the odd sausage roll. A worrying thought. The proximity of said flat to Greggs is ridiculous, about a 30 second walk, and so I can’t help but wonder if I might end up sleepwalking there. If so, I should really start wearing pyjamas. Unless being naked gets me free food. In which case, fair game. I am a student, after all.
I think I was made to be a student. Revision has reinforced my understanding that everything I study is essentially bullshit. It’s interesting bullshit, but nonetheless, bullshit. Take, for example, Philosophy: Condorcet’s Jury Theorem, which I’m being examined on, is actually the basis for the gameshow ‘Golden Balls’. Which, admittedly, helped my understanding. Genius philosopher, perhaps not, but I happen to be a connoisseur of bad daytime television. In spite of the bullshit factor, I still somehow love what I’m doing. With the exception of Classics. I hate Classics. A lot.
If home is where the heart is, then evidently my internal organs are just as fickle as my external self.
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