We got lost, naturally. But we made it in the end, and then we took on the arduous task of lugging my possessions from vehicle to my new, very humble abode. The Freps (Freshers Reps) insisted that I'd packed light compared to others they'd encountered, although we were sure I'd brought too much.
My room was 51O, Middleton block. First floor, right at the end. Closest to the toilet and shower facilities, furthest from the kitchenette. This was both a blessing and a curse, as I would soon find out. Shared toilets are the devil, but that's no surprise when there's 4 between 18 people. One girl once got trapped in the claustrophobic toilet next to my room. We spent almost an hour trying to free her and were left with a lingering anxiousness. The kitchenette was also hellish, boasting an old microwave, less the clean kettle, a tiny fridge and a soon overflowing sink. I only visited it a handful of times and by the end of first term, the smell that emanated from there was so pungent, it permeated through the walls and loitered on the corridor. I avoided it like the plague, preferring to use my own kettle and the sink in my room and dashing in there as quickly as humanely possible to retrieve milk from the fridge.
Milk, my red kettle, and tea became life sources to me during my stay in halls. I've always liked tea, at least the English breakfast variety. Yorkshire Tea all the way (PG Tips are a sin). However, at uni, without me fully realising, tea manifested into a coping mechanism. I became known as the Tea Lady amongst my newly acquired companions and converted them to my northern ways. One girl had come all the way from Malaysia, so had never drank tea the British way before. She's now an addict. It wasn't until 3rd term that I realised why I was drinking so much tea at uni. My mum is the real Tea Lady, I was just a shoddy replica of the original. That woman can consume 8 cups of tea a day, no fuss. And she never quite finishes the entire mug, so all the ones in our cupboard sport a steadfast brownish tinge at the bottom. It reminded me of home.
I remember the first time I returned home. It was the beginning of November, so I had been away for around a month. The town I live in is kind of a dump - but you are only allowed to say that if you live there, of course. In the centre, right near the bus station, there's a Cosmo Bingo. At night, the sign outside is eye-burning neon pink. On the train, that sign was the first glimpse I caught of my town. A sign of no worth to me, a sign that I regarded as tacky, was all of a sudden making me force back tears on a train. My grandma was waiting for me on the platform. I barely made it to her car before I burst into tears that loudly insisted on falling even though I tried to hide. I managed to cease sobbing only to break down afresh the instant I walked through my front door to see my family. Diary of a Self Proclaimed Emotional Wreck or what? It was a much needed, but emotionally exhausting weekend. Every thought of having to take the train back to uni on the Sunday had me weeping again. Not because I detested uni so badly, I can't even explain the incessant downpour, I just couldn't stop for the life of me. And it was ok.
When I stepped inside my kitchen, I was hit with the sudden shock that I'd forgotten what it looked like. You know the feeling, when you go away for a while, on holiday perhaps, and then you come back, and your house feels sort of unfamiliar for a moment. But then the moment passes and it's still home, and you're glad to be back where it's warm and safe and comfortable. You just have a fresh, new appreciation for something so constant, normally so unremarkable. A fresher perspective.
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A Room with a View (albeit not a great one)
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