I woke up this morning with a hangover. Nothing unusual there then (lad). But then I found something that could only be a description of a misguided STI on my arm: an entry stamp reading ‘Itchy Feet’. At this point I remembered what a great night I’d had.
For those of you who haven’t enjoyed the wonders of Exeter you’re probably wondering why it’s such a big deal that I had such a memorable night. But it’s not very often you find something new to do in Exeter and although the nights out I’ve had here are some of the funniest I’ve had, it’s nice to do something with a little bit of a (quite literal) twist.
I have to say, I haven’t seen a happier crowd of people dancing to some seriously old school tunes. From what I can remember through a whisky mist, it was a cross between Notting Hill Arts Club and Buttoned Down Disco. A welcome slice of home.
I had such a fun time and would really recommend it… And with the podcasts they have online, I have a feeling my feet will be itching for days.
In fact it was so good; I think I’m developing a bit of a foot fetish…
Keep scratching people.
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I’ve always been a little obsessed with birds. Bird jewellery, bird feathers, drawing birds, humming birds and pulling birds (I’m kidding). And to my amusement, a flock of blue tits have decided to set up home in my disgruntled housemate’s bedroom wall. This got me thinking about the fact that, like these blue tits, we all move home all the time, without really realising it.
When I flew the nest and set off for university I really didn’t see it as anything more than another post gap year adventure. I thought I would leave home for a couple of years, party hard, study a little, come home and get a job. This was not the case. Instead, it made me aware of where I came from and where I was going, not in terms of a career but of where I’d be setting up home.
Before thinking about university I had no idea that I was a ‘Londoner’ and didn’t really think that anybody lived anywhere else. Silly really. However, more so than any time I’ve spent abroad, my time spent at Exeter has made me realise how much I do love home. At school I could not wait to fly the nest, but once I did, I couldn’t wait to peck my way back in. University has been fun but I think the problem that I’ve had with Exeter is that I now have two nests. Physically, I could move from place to place but my thoughts remained firmly in West London. What I’m trying to say is that no matter how free spirited I think I am, the safety of a bird cage really isn’t so bad. I think I like to have all my eggs in one basket rather than go on a constant hunt for them if you know what I mean.
I’d hate to sound entirely pessimistic about having two places to live though because for some it works. And although I’ll be permanently based in the capital within a matter of weeks, I’d still like to keep the option open to fly south (west) for the winter.
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What is it about going for a drink that is just so much better than dinner?
Whether it’s a first date or a final date, a gin and tonic or a cold peroni is always better than munching on a salad or a burger. It’s obviously because it takes the edge off, but the only problem is, in this day and age, nobody really goes out for just the one. When you propose to go out for drinks, we are all now prepared for the worst. Girls must always bring ample make up in order to make the transition from ‘after work drinks’ to party time in Shoreditch and guys must always opt for shoes rather than trainers, just in case.
And with all this drunkenness flying about, anything can happen. You can drop a glass, poke your date in the eye, fall over and the ‘going-home-together’ rate sky rockets. Albeit slightly risky, some drinks dates can end up in two people being far more honest than they would normally be with the person sitting opposite them, resulting in something that neither might have expected.
The only problem is, when you finally meet up with them sober, their cute drunken behaviour might actually turn out to be a reality… I think the hilarity of a drunken date however, is well worth the risk. Keep knocking back those southern comforts because even if it’s not fun for you, for those of us at the next table who are partially sober, it really is a treat.
And anyway, the next round’s on me…
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So I survived it.
Over 300 hours, a lost memory stick, 600,000,000 calories and 20 drafts later, I’m done. I feel like I’ve run the marathon and climbed Kilimanjaro all in one day!!
Although I had heard of the dreaded ‘dissertation’, I had never really contemplated just how tiresome it would actually turn out to be. I chose to write about performativity in Anita Loos’ Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, which for most of you will mean diddly squat. I’d like to say it means a lot to me but I would be lying. When I first read the novel I loved it, now I never want to see it again. 8792 words later, my brain has turned to mush.
After living in 1925 for five months I think it’s time to get back to reality and think about things that really matter like what colour nail polish to wear and what time I’m going to head to prelash tomorrow evening. I want to be young, free and silly… even if it is only for a short while until reality strikes! Join me, won’t you?
To those of you who see the dissertation as a distant memory, congratulations for getting through it, for those of you still writing, I promise there is a light at the end of the tunnel (albeit vodka stained) and for those of you now revising for exams… good luck.
I’m off to have a well deserved pedicure and glass of pimms.
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