Thank God. I can go home every two weeks.
I live in London, one of the greatest metropolitan cities of the world, in my opinion, and I am a second year at the University of Bedfordshire. If there wasn’t an option to disappear for a weekend every fortnight, I think I’d have a mental breakdown.
Student life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be; the glamorous wake up calls at 4am when everyone is returning from the club and you, the responsible adult who has a 9am lecture and a 5pm finish, is kept awake by the revellers. I suppose I did bring it upon myself; choosing student accommodation, I did know what I was signing up for.
We’re heading into the middle of week four of the academic year and I’ve showed up to my Tuesday morning lecture exhausted – yet again. I have to thank every faceless deity there is that I have a sympathetic lecturer who listens patiently to my end-of-adolescence whining. I am sensible; I go to bed at a sensible time Monday night and decline invites to go out.
Let me make this clear; my flatmates are not the problem. We live on the top floor of a block in Lea Halls and my flatmates are possibly the kindest, cleanest, most respectful individuals I’ve ever lived with. No one plays their music out loud at ridiculous times at night, everyone minds their own mess (we do get the occasional dish in the sink, but nobody’s perfect!) and we all get on well.
The problem is that because we live on the top floor; we have one fire door, whereas everyone else has two. It does more for soundproofing than it does for security and it means that when the clock strikes four, the drunkard Cinderella’s and Prince Charmings come stumbling home, noisily climbing stairs to get to their flat.
Oh no, the party doesn’t stop there though. Then comes the sound that serenades me in my sleep; the musical slamming of doors. This amazing orchestral tune goes on until the early hours of the morning. It finally stops around 7-8am. By this time, I have gotten little to no sleep and have to down two-three cups of Nescafe just to stay awake.
Whenever I talk about it with people, they just seem to shrug their shoulders and the phrase I’ve come to dread has become a justifiable excuse for raucous behaviour amongst these nearly-adults; ‘Student Life’. Ughh.
"¡Quiéreme toda; o no me quieras!" 