That Girl from Derwent dwells on the value of religion this Christmas.
That Girl from Derwent has learned a few more things about prejudice since moving up North.
That Girl From Derwent reckons if you're going to be offensive, you should find a better reason.
That Girl from Derwent considers why it is that some words have wider implications than others.
Sadly, long gone are the days of wandering, zombie-like down to the kitchen to devour toast in Hello Kitty pyjamas, eyes hardly open. A new routine is establishing itself: I must shower, apply plenty of make-up, get dressed (choosing the biggest hoody, so people think I really don’t care what I look like), and cheerfully pour cereal into a probably-less-than-clean bowl. (I tell myself this lack of washing up is all part of the ‘student experience’. It’s really just laziness.)
Another casualty in this upheaval has been the luxury of blaring (and performing) the cheesiest pop music I can find: I had hardly unpacked before establishing just how loudly I would be able to get away with playing (and miming along to) Justin Bieber without exposing myself to the absolute ridicule of all my flatmates. As far as anyone knows, my favourite songs read like the Have You Heard? section of the Yorker, and I hope to keep things that way.
Having side-stepped these issues, the biggest dilemma of my day is the novel experience of having to prepare my own food. Having dawdled reluctantly to the kitchen, do I plump for the indistinguishable yet effortless ready meals lurking at the bottom of the freezer or test my culinary ability (judged all the while by the gastronomic genius sharing my kitchen) with something as daring as pasta or (heaven forbid) a casserole? In spite of its inconveniences, life in halls has also opened up a range of completely new experiences for me: I still can’t quite believe that I can take absolute control of everything. It will take some getting used to the concept that I can spend all night chatting in the kitchen, or stay out until 4am on a Tuesday morning (even if I hate myself for it at 9.15). If I want to, I can postpone indefinitely the tidying of my room (though this has led to the odd bit of crippling shame whenever anyone knocks on my door and peers into the horrors within). Although the choices I make for myself aren’t always the most sensible, I think it’s important, having just moved out, to make these decisions (and inevitable mistakes) for yourself; how else will we learn that staying out until Willow closes will never pay off, or that neglected coffee stains really will be difficult to get out of the carpet?
Whilst Taking-Responsibility-For-Myself might not be the great success I’d idealistically imagined (there are many more clothes that I re-wear without washing and many fewer fresh vegetables), I am, thus far, surviving. Let’s hope ‘Baby’ silent dance routines and microwavable lasagnes see me through another week.
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