When in London last Thursday I met Rowena to help her carry her new TV back to her flat. When working for John Lewis it’s easy and convenient to assume you’re getting the cheapest deal when paying with your discount. After lugging the heavy bloody 32” thing down Oxford Street and onto a cramped and packed bus, heading South across the river towards Lambeth, a journey that took around fifty minutes due to driving directly alongside a protest march, we found she could’ve bought the same TV £80 cheaper on Amazon and with free delivery.

Rowena doesn’t live in your typical student household. Her friend’s dad paid for the flat and the furniture, all of which they picked out themselves, and this new £379 TV. It might be on a turning off dodgy Brixton Road but the flat is so nice and bright and she’s painted a staple Rowena red wall in her bedroom. The rent’s cheap to (not that she’s paid any yet) and they have a huge mirror in the hallway.

When I move to London, a statement I can now say very fondly and comfortably having been offered a place at UEL after my interview on Thursday, I hope to have a nice flat to. I don’t know how likely this will be and I haven’t even chosen an area I’d like to live in yet. I found out this morning I’ve got another interview at a uni this time way out on the other end of London from UEL in the Docklands at UWL in Ealing. I know barely anything about UWL and neither are my first choice (The College of Communication down at Elephant and Castle is) but as long as none are total dumps I’m happy to go to whichever.

Being an onlooker to all the uni applications going on when I was at school, I remember the whole thing became a huge nightmare, a debacle. The majority were stressed out and panicked, refreshing their email inbox every five minutes. In the month since I applied I’d pretty much forgotten all about it, getting on with my daily life as usual and had begun enquiring about jobs in London until the last couple of weeks when all my emails came at once.

Knowing now for definite I’ll be leaving Stortford to live in a city I love to study a hobby I’m passionate about is a tremendous feeling, after all the years of uncertainty I’ve handled equally as well as had near breakdowns over, it’s good to finally be able to say that.

It’s the constant demanding from my parents at the moment to know what I’m doing and why I’m doing it and if I’m buying a new camera for personal or professional use in a subtle but nevertheless there judgemental tone that’s really getting to me right now. Frankly, at nearly twenty-one it’s nothing less than irritating. I know it’s because they care and want me to do well in life but it’s the exact reason I haven’t even told them I’ve applied. I want to do this myself and I want to make my own decisions not to be swayed by anyone else’s input or opinion. It’s no one’s business but mine and if I’ve got something to tell them I will. Living in this house is suffocating and in the meantime, possibly harshly, when it comes to matters of life and the future I wish they’d just leave me alone. 

My knowledge of Photography is pretty much nill so I know I’ll learn loads at whatever uni I end up. I’m a full believer of the phrases ‘You get out what you put in’ and ‘Life is what you make of it’. Hell, if I do end up going to the College of Communication I could live in that lonely and empty spare room at Rowena’s flat, Elephant & Castle’s only one stop from Oval on the tube after all. 

I’ve been meaning to buy a new duvet for a long, long time. My current one was purchased in Wilkinsons three years ago and could be seen as easily on a five year old’s bed as on mine. I’m ready for a change. Even looking at bedspreads excites me very much and reminds me that one day not too far from now I’ll be arranging an entirely new room with bedspreads and objects however I like.

I know my future bedroom won’t be as bright or as white or as big as the one above no doubt is and I’m careful not to get my hopes up too high. To be able to say I’ve moved out of the family home into a (small, rented, box-like) place to call my own is good enough for me and a thought I can’t help but smile at. About bloody time.

P.s. Here’s a nice photo taken of me recently. There weren’t any full length ones or else I’d show you my dress to. Even an evening at the pub has become as rare now as getting dressed up for a posh do like this one, our very belated works Christmas Party at Down Hall in Hatfield. I spent two hours getting ready that evening and felt really good.