Room to breathe.

Having had all sorts of bedrooms, from poky student digs to enormous country manor kicks, I’ve come to really appreciate the importance of having a room you love. I’ve had my fair share of crap setups, including having to top-and-tail with my little sister, so living in a beautiful room of my own is my idea of heaven.

Being in London, everything is high-energy, no-time, mad-rush. And it can be a bit overwhelming at times for little old me, so retreating to my quiet little corner to read, maybe phone the grandparents, is so relaxing it may as well come with it’s own acoustic soundtrack.

Top shelf L-R: Family portrait of the Kelly girls, school portrait miniature, Beth’s first day of school pic, a card my family gave to me on the first day of university, me and Miss Bennett, empty picture frame that my boyfriend PROMISED to get a picture of us for, one of those fancy schmancy scent things.
Bottom shelf L-R:┬áMy wonderful Holga camera, a pile of books and notepads, “Good friends are like stars, you don’t have to see them to know they are there”,my mini Geisha, Simon Armitage collection/The Female Eunuch/To Kill A Mockingbird/How To Be A Woman, ikea tealights.
And of course I have my Rosie Riveter postcard as a little reminder to myself walking out of the door every morning, ready to face the big bad Smoke. I’ve always loved making my stamp on the numerous rooms I’ve lived in, and this time is no different. London is starting to feel a little bit more like home now!

Welcome to London!

I’ve been a very absentee blogger of late. This is down to two factors: emotional exhaustion and physical exhaustion. So one factor really. Exhaustion.

I’ve been emotionally exhausted because moving is HARD. You’d think as this is something like my fifth move in three years I’d be totally cool with putting my life into a few suitcases and shifting scenery once again. Turns out nope. Moving to London is a whopper, and no amount of previous upheaval-wisdom would have been enough to prepare me.

This makes it sound as though as I encountered a dragon on my way down the M1. I’m afraid the truth is less dangerous and exciting, and more…damp. Saying goodbye to my Northern family as I became the first Kelly girl to venture down south turned into a teary little adventure. Anyone would have thought I was never coming back, and the fact I’m heading home in July did little to comfort anyone.

When you’re emotional like that, it can quickly sap the fun out of you. I was in no mood to blog about how much I missed my mum, because it probably would have brought on a spout of wailing. So I just cracked on.

The physical exhaustion was kinda boring. I’d have a fantastic day at work, be full of enthusiasm and peppiness, then completely crash come 6pm. Being on the tube squished under some guy’s armpit and being hit in the face with some tourist’s backpack isn’t really the best way to set yourself up for a fun-filled evening of exploring a capital city.

So I went home each night, Skyped and called and watched TV. Did extra research for work, played with my new shiny tablet, and got early nights. It was boring. Really boring. How could I blog about it?

But, alas, I perked up. All it took was for my colleague Lara to tell me “No good story starts with, ‘so, I was doing everything completely right…’, my little sister to visit briefly and for the discovery of a fantastic little Mexican in Covent Garden with Laura, and I’m back.

I’ve got some really cool things lined up, including my first ever blogger event, moving house (again…) and a Zoo Late (it’s a party in a zoo. For real.). Plus I finally got my camera fixed so I’m going to town (literally) with that this weekend!

Welcome to London!


I’ve eaten all of the cake.

In second year, my then-housemates and I were discussing how quickly first year had whizzed by. In terms that we could really understand, we drew the most apt comparison we could think of: “If university was a cake, we’d be a third of the way through by now. That’s a lot of cake”.

Eating a third of a cake seems like a lot, doesn’t it? Well that’s nothing compared to chomping down on the whole thing, barely coming up for air, being so busy relishing in the chocolatey-goodness that you don’t realise that- wait- there’s only crumbs left now.

I’ve gotten through it all, the late night word counting and the early morning hungover note taking. It was a pretty bloody tasty cake, and I might not have enjoyed every morsel (I’m looking at you, second year exams), but it was all worth it. I’ve had the honour of being taught by experts, of meeting people who have changed my outlook, and of scoring 10% off at Topshop for the last three years. You can’t argue with that.

University = a cake. Duh.

I finished my final exam yesterday. That’s it. No more lectures, no more assignments, no more cake. Now all I’ve got remaining of education is that final glass of champagne- ahem, graduation- to wash it all down with!


Leaving York

I’m throwing myself a leaving party next week (or in other words: making a self-pity curry so huge I have no choice but to invite fifty people round to eat it with). I’ve packed up my stuff, handed in the final essays, and just have one exam and a one-way ticket to the capital standing in between me and my new London life.

It’s been a hellah busy week, and strictly speaking this blogging-time would be better spent revising sociolinguistic theories, so this post is just a teency offering to the internet to say sorry bro, I would blog properly but I’ve got stuff to do. See you on the other side!

(L-R: Congrats on my new job!; lunch at House of Trembling Madness, York; Revision provisions; packing up; shoe shopping with Jonathan; leaving presents from the LimeHouse; new motivational stationary!)