Simple Pleasures

The other day my housemate and I were lazing about the flat, (shocking I know), waiting for our only form of routine or schedule to begin: Jeremy Kyle followed by Ricky Lake followed by Sally Jessy Raphael followed by Montel Williams, each programme punctuated with cups of tea and the occasional delirious outburst impersonating either the show’s eponymous host or one of the undesirable guests. Yes, it seems ITV2 daytime “sponsored by ITV Bingo” (Powered by Party Gaming don’t you know) has become a bit of an unwanted addiction for Chloe and I.
Anyway, whilst the tenth DNA test result of the day was revealed, we both noticed that it was rather hot. Pulling back the floral curtains to reveal beaming sunshine prompted a scene far too similar to one from the Hunchback of Notre Dame than I was comfortable with. It was at this point, whilst we both grimaced and squinted in the daylight that we realised how little time we had left to make the most of Bournemouth’s gorgeous beach.
We raced down to the seafront in record time and decided it was time that we both went for our first swim in the sea for 2008. Excluding a mini-surfing encounter in Polzeath a month earlier, neither Chloe nor I had been deeper than ankle-level in Bournemouth’s waters this year. Come to think of it, I hadn’t swam in the sea since the blissful summer heat of 2006; a time where almost everyday for a month the beach was mine and Sammy P’s alone for at least an hour each beautiful morning!
As we waded into the surprisingly warm waters a bout of girly giggles got the better of us, but nevertheless we ventured on. I maintain that even the grumpiest of sods would be reduced to childlike squeals if pressed into a good old-fashioned seaside paddle.
When we reached a point where the water was at shoulder height we stopped and bobbed, swam deeper then returned, splashed around in the waves and soaked up the atmosphere. The view of the promenade from the water is not one which is usually encountered and provided an interesting spot for people watching.
I can honestly say that nothing has brought me as much simple pleasure or contentment for a long time, than simply bobbing about in the sea, just being. The experience put me in a euphoric mood for the rest of the evening.
The following day was warm and pleasant, although not as picture-perfect as the day before, however we decided to re-enact our little excursion. Unfortunately, as is often the case, returning to a place that created such an important or enjoyable memory on one occasion, it was disappointing. Don’t get me wrong, it was fun, but in almost forcibly trying to have as good a time as the previous day, we inevitably didn’t. My mother, a wise woman as all mothers are, has often pointed this unfortunate fact out to me before – that revising somewhere you really loved would never be as special upon a second visit.
So it is with great sadness that I resign myself to the inevitability of change, the fact that once I have left Bournemouth a day trip here would never quite be the same. Yet I am comforted by the simple fact that I have made the most of every second of my time spent here – even on the numerous days spent vegetating in front of mindless daytime TV, because each and every moment spent at uni over the past three years has forged me into the person that I am now and for that, Jeremy Kyle, I am grateful.

Mind Clutter

I've got these jeans. Jeans that I haven't worn for over five years. But I just can't get rid of them. The pair, indigo denim with a beige trim of tatty faux-fur, and bell bottomed ankles, may sound like a heinous crime against fashion, but I still can't chuck them. I have come to some reasoned conclusions as to why this might be the case. Firstly, the battle I faced in order to obtain the jeans in the first place, was a struggle of gigantic proportions, that to throw them away now would be an unthinkable crime! You see, they are Miss Sixty jeans. Miss Sixty!I must have spent at least an hour-a-day for a month begging, pleading with my mother to part with seventy five (yes SEVENTY FIVE) pounds in exchange for the object of my dreams, before she finally gave in.

Another reason as to why I may be so attached to this garment may lie in their the symbolic connotations. The jeans reside in a white chest-of-drawers in my bedroom at home. The room in which I had lived for at least ten of the nineteen years that My family had owned this house... until, I went to uni. I've always felt a very strong attachment to my family home. Maybe it's because my first breaths of air, my first seconds of life, occurred in this very house. Or, maybe it's just the character that my home possesses. It's a grand structure, built in the Georgian era, painted white, with two columns supporting the solid awning above the front door. The garden is huge, (well perhaps not huge, but big enough, and exciting enough to occupy me and my brother in our outdoor adventures for hour upon hour when we were growing up.)There's something about it which I just love and anytime the mention of selling up and moving comes up I just can't bear the thought of leaving it. But back to the jeans. What I'm saying is, that this old, tiny (I used to be a scrawny size 6 up until the age of about seventeen)and unfashionable piece of attire resembles a piece of me, a tangible extension of my character, before I left home. A younger, more innocent, dependent 'me', who has now well and truly disappeared. Every holiday throughout university, I would without fail, open the drawer to check that they were still there, consider giving them to the charity shop, and then tuck them neatly back into their home. The place where they belong.

And it's not just the jeans. Every object that remains in my bedroom at home, every survivor of my termly purge, holds a story, a meaning, that to me, is too important to throw away.

I have but one term of university to complete until I graduate into certified, there's-no-going-back-now, adulthood. This fills me with dread. But I am safe in the knowledge, that when I eventually move back home, before finding a job and a place of my own, I can find comfort. I know where it is. It's where it always is. Tucked away in a white chest-of-drawers.

It's getting closer...

The point has come where I have to seriously start thinking about... Yep, you guessed it - THE FUTURE!!! A daunting prospect.

I am currently tapping the keys of my rather perfectly formed new laptop to the beat of Aerosmith's Love in An Elevator, (not a rare occurrance might I add!)But the life that, over the past three years, I have come to know so well, where sitting in my dimly lit room listening to 90's Rock, clad in a T-Shirt I got free from Walkabout's 'Snakebite Sunday' (yes it does exist) in the middle of the day is acceptable, is soon to be a thing of the past.

In the first year of Uni my Peter Pan mentality helped succesfully eradicate any possibile thoughts or conversations about jobs, graduating and 'The Real world.'However, now, the idea of earning a decent salary as opposed to scraping together the peanuts I earn at my part time job with my ever-diminishing loan, the prospect of coming home at 5pm and NOT having to think about an assignment deadline/scheduling in hangover days around assignment deadlines/overdue library books/wondering whether the festering pile of washing-up left to rot on the crumby surfaces in the kitchen will be there to greet me when I get home are all quite attractive prospects!

Three years at Uni is definitely long enough! Now it is time for a new chapter in my life. One that involves structure and routine. Forgive me if I'm boring you, or perhaps enraging you for not being grateful for easy I've got it by expressing a desire for the routine and mundane. But that is what I really feel I'm ready for...

Now there's just the problem of graduating and finding that dream job. The Journey continues...