First off, I absolutely refuse to have my summary include the generic phrase: "A story about [blank], [something annoyingly hipstery like sculpted beards] and learning to dance in the rain." Because this story is not generic. In fact, it's not even...
25 kilos of pink luggage came rolling down my home's wooden stairs, shaking the house down like some kind of fashionable earthquake. And it's not just one suitcase: that was only the first. Along with that followed my slightly darker (more like a raspberry rather than coral, like the first) suitcase. This one's a little bit smaller, but trust me when I say I left no nook or cranny unfilled. Proceeding that was my makeup bag, which weighs about the same as one of those flour babies my school had us carry around in Year 9 to "simulate the difficulty of being a mother." (Because flour cries and takes shits. Obviously.) If you haven't ever had that project given to you, which I highly doubt you did...just imagine a baby. Made of cosmetics.
Last but certainly not least in the style procession came my bin bag...of shoes.
You see, the problem with my shoe addiction is that I could hardly bear to separate myself from my children, old and new. Having favourite children is an awful thing! So I decided to take them all with me.
All twenty of them...
That doesn't sound that bad, but when you think about the size of a university bedroom, and the real lack of space? You do the maths. It's not looking good.
"Are you having a laugh?"
That's my dad. He doesn't quite understand. Dads do not ever understand shoes. I feel like Poppy Moore out of Wild Child: "No, not the Choos!" (I don't have Choos. I have Adidas Superstars and pretty 5.5-inch heels from New Look. The emotions are still the same!)
"Look, I need them!" I whined, opening up the bag and digging through. I removed all the pairs and began my case. "These are for the gym. These are for the gym too, but might work better with my other leggings. Then these are also trainers, but obviously the ones used at the gym are going to get all worn out, so I need alternatives. I bought these ones really recently, and therefore cannot abandon them...clubbing shoes, clubbing shoes in case I don't want black heels-"
"Okay, stop. Here's the thing. You know how you have three different wardrobes in your room?"
"Yeaaaah...?"
"You have one at uni. One very, very small cupboard. Understand?"
"Right."
"Okay, so you'll halve the shoes?"
"No, I'll put the other half neatly in the corner! There is a floor, Dad," I said before putting the shoes away again and dragging the rubbish bag of non-rubbish down the corridor and out the door to add to the car's load.
When an 18-year old girl on her way to starting university has to pack, how in the hell can she be expected to pack light? I am uprooting my comfortable London life and taking myself to...
The North.
For those of you not comprehending, the North is a very sad, grey part of the United Kingdom, where people say words strangely, like meat rare/bleeding (projectile vomits everywhere) and deal with rain far too often, even for this country. Geographically speaking, the North is something like this:
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