The Lent Experiment

The other day, I posted a somewhat ranting post about how I believe the tone of Facebook has changed over the past year or so. Dreading the possibility of being maimed by soon to be mothers or being reminded of Thumper’s philosophy in Bambi (If you can’t something nice….don’t say nothing at all), instead I was, suffice to say, surprised. I actually had people agreeing with me, claiming that I had a fair point. Agreement then led me to realise that whilst I complain I have actually not taken any decisive action to separate myself from this toxic form of bragging. Until now.

The 40 days and 40 nights of lent are generally seen, in its most modern form, as a period of time to give up our life vices in exchange for….well not in exchange for anything, just to see if we are up for the challenge. (I hasten to add, obviously for the more religious, there is actually a point but us agnostic/atheist people just wanted to hop on the bandwagon.) In my younger years of 15 or 16 I once, successfully, gave up my vice of MSN for lent. Another, I rather less successfully, gave up chocolate. A couple years ago I participated in a different kind of lent where you spent 40 days and 40 nights simply doing kind things, or things that made you feel good. Apparently throughout all the other years I deemed myself too damn perfect to give anything up. Nonetheless, in the year circa 2006, my MSN fast was strangely a more positive experience than I had anticipated. Rather than scurrying home from school to chat to friends who I had seen 5 minutes prior, I spoke to my mother, socialised in person and if I wanted to catch up I sent emails or called my friends. I actually….communicated?! During the whole of the 40 days my inbox would be full of funny, private, personal messages and I spent so much more time constructing my emails. Our conversations were no longer based on infantile banter of ‘lol’ and emoticons. Despite the fact that I went straight back to using MSN after the 40 days were up, looking back, I realise that my contact with friends felt a lot more worthwhile when it was not constant and was not based on watching the little computer image of a pencil scribbling up and down as they typed.

So, learning from my 16 year old self, I have decided it is time to have a facebook fast. I have signed off, removed my app shortcut from my phone and have reverted back to simply using my phone to get in touch with people…and twitter. During the next 4o days I have no intention of signing back in to check the gossip or whatever is going on in my constantly updating newsfeed and instead I have every intention of actually….communicating?!It was also be a wonderful experiment to test just how much happier I will feel when the few weeks are up. No longer will I look at all the things that pissed me off in my previous rant and perhaps I might feel happy with my lot in life after I’ve stopped comparing it to everybody else’s.

That said…I’ll get back to you when I’ve had enough of staring at my phone praying for it to ring.

Bragbook

I know that I am not alone when I think that Facebook nowadays has stopped being a social networking device. Rather than being used to arrange events or communicate with old friends it has, over the past few months, nay, over the past year, become a bragging ground for those in relationships or for those with buns in the oven. Never, in my many years of being signed up to the website have I noticed such an influx of ‘relationship statues’ or the nauseating newsfeed clutter of ‘my baby’s progress’. Yes, I realise I sound bitter and yes this is probably because I have no such status changes coming up in the near future. However, in a society that is so fixated on modern technology and keeping in contact with people, it now feels like a race to share such life events online. The moment somebody feels a baby kick or the moment somebody says: ‘Will you be my girlfriend’ it HAS to be shared on Facebook to then await numerous ‘likes’ and congratulatory comments. Even negative news has to be put on Facebook to await sympathy remarks and pity textual hugs. (At this point I confess I ring the bell for a pity party; it’s too hard to resist when you’re sick and feeling, quite frankly, miserable) Nonetheless, the main point I am trying to get to, behind all of my cynical ranting is this. If these life events are so important, if they are so momentous, surely you only want to share them with the people who are closest to you, who know everything there is to know about you? Surely, not all of your 500+ friends want to know how big your bump is getting or how many roses your boyfriend shoved through the letter box.

The art of privacy is slowly fading and what is left is a bunch of depersonalised life moments, flaunted for the world to see that blend so intrinsically with everybody else’s moments that they no longer seem unique. Instead it seems to be a competition that we are all silently playing; a competition to be the best, have the best life and get the most positive looking ‘timeline’ there is on Facebook. Yet, ultimately, all that the timeline shows are relationships and holidays. A timeline does not reflect the bad moments in life or the minor moments that can change a person to their core. Whilst one person may look like they’ve lived because they’ve seen the world or they’ve had a child or they’ve got engaged, there is somebody else silently living a different existence. An existence that could potentially be more momentous, more significant and more life altering than anything that Facebook can think to make an app for or post on a timeline.

I realise I am up there with the rest of them. Posting my holiday pictures, throwing a status out there claiming how shit my dissertation is or how happy I am that exams are over. Indeed, in my first years of using the website I continuously made comments on such personal moments I’m ashamed I put them anywhere near the internet. But now, at the end of the day, no matter how many ‘likes’ I get, no matter how many event invites I receive, nothing cheers me up more than an unexpected phone call, a quick catch up coffee or a friend bringing me Ribena when I’m sick just because she felt like it. And I assure you I don’t feel the need to brag about all of those moments on Facebook because they are usually what mean most to me.

Procrastination across the nation!

For the past few weeks I have officially been deemed as a final year student, a fourth year and a young woman on the brink of crossing the borders from education into the ‘real’ world. In fact, just yesterday I spent a number of hours browsing through graduate job placements, post graduate courses, believing I was spending my time wisely, time invested into my potentially successful future. Of course this ‘research’ was utter bullocks. Of course this time spent, ploughing through prospectuses was all a ploy to avoid the real task in hand: The actual work that is going to get me the degree I require to obtain one of these jobs I seem to be fervently searching for. I knew my search was pointless when I started veering into the ‘Accountancy’ placements. I hadn’t been near mathematics since GCSE and spent most of the time giggling at the back with my best friend over Cosmo articles. After the terms dragged on in secondary school our teacher finally admitted defeat and seemed to gain immunity to our incessant giggling knowing, that despite the fact we played dumb, deep down there was some scrap of intelligence...deep, deep down. Of course we both gained successful grades (our skill for blagging apparently began at an early age) but I left year 11 resolutely knowing that mathematics was not my forte. So it seems even more ridiculous now to look at jobs that require ‘a head for figures’. Whilst reading such job criteria I fooled myself into believing that because I once taught myself trigonometry and had a spell of playing around in statistics with a psychology experiment, I was therefore a numerical goddess. Sure I could add up figures of market sales and work out percentages and other such nonsense. I’ve simply avoided that area of expertise because I was just so good, they would be threatened. Naturally these thoughts did not emerge in my literary, linguistically talented (eh hem) mind but it does prove exactly what kind of mind tangents I was running off on that very day.

The fact is, like most students I can be horrendously good at procrastinating. Sure when it’s something I really have my heart set on I am Little Miss Motivated. However, give me a sheet of grammatical exercises or a piece of text that has no obvious relevance to the week’s work and you could probably watch my eyes glaze over so thickly you would think Krispy Kreme had been at my set of sight enablers. Rather than focusing, I find myself doing things that have no relevance to the task in hand or indeed life. I can find an itch on my arm incredibly demanding. The little island that I have been tending to on my phone suddenly needs a great deal of attention to cope with the overload of imaginary customers. On some level, despite finding them terrifying, I am happy to see the wasp that has invaded my room just so that I can run away from the books...I mean the wasp. Tea becomes paramount, hunger pangs are stronger and I will take time out of my busy schedule to read my horoscope just in case it tells me that all Sagittarians will die if they complete a literature essay.

It is at this point of rambling that I realise the most telling sign of all. I can take time to write a blog and meticulously, but possibly fail at, editing it. Whilst, sat next to me is the glare of obligation from an English literature essay about Aristotle’s viewpoint on tragedy and of course the glare is given the cold shoulder. I keep telling myself I’m writing something that could contribute to my desire to be a writer but on this specific blog, at this specific time, I can only admit one thing. Hi, my name is Laura Milne and I am a procrastinator.

Not so sweet child of mine

Having tonsillitis results in a few lifestyle changes for a short period of time, until you stop feeling like your muscles have disintegrated and your throat no longer feels like it’s been shredded or replaced by golf balls. Rather than going to work, exercising or socialising, your days are filled with terrible day time television, over usage of the DVD player and inane staring at the cat. As a result, over the past week I have had the pleasure of carrying out some of the above activities and on my break from my exciting life of shopping and alcohol consumption I regaled myself with a programme about underage parents. Do not fret, I am not about to spend the next few hundred words insulting the pubescent scoundrels who wouldn’t know the difference between a condom and a plastic bag. But, I will merely waffle about how, if I were in their shoes, I would simply make like an ostrich and hope the giant bump was due to my addiction of chocolate. Those who know me are aware that I’m not exactly a fan of children. If a child runs towards me with its arms out expecting a hug, I run for the nearest fire escape. Should a child merely crawl near me, I back away as if the girl or boy is a venomous snake. Dribble, spit laden fingers, inability to control the bladder, screeching, yelling, clapping their feet together like some disabled seal are all factors that some women actually find charming. They aww at how the child missed its own mouth and has now slathered the contents of its yogurt onto the nearest chair: Say, ‘Bless him!’ as the little rugrat yanks at hair and ear rings with so much conviction it is a wonder my whole head didn’t follow: And they coo ‘she didn’t know any better’ when the demon’s recent moment of curiosity meant the demolition of multiple shop displays. Indeed I believe the only time I have actually ventured towards the ‘aww’ scale of admiration towards a child was when it was silent, still and sleeping. Only then will I approach with caution and perhaps understand the reason why so many women genuinely feel broody. The thing is, when it comes to children, women gradually start to find themselves in certain motherly categories. Category one: ‘I want babies NOW, I wanted them yesterday, I want them today and forever’ Maybe I exaggerate but you get my point. Category two: ‘Oh Jesus, look after a child? I killed my goldfish this afternoon; I only bought the thing this morning’ Category three: ‘Well...you never know! Why not have children aye? See what the future holds’ Category four: ‘I hate children but I’ll probably like my own won’t I? I just don’t want to die alone, is that wrong?’

Naturally I find myself in category four. Despite my grievances towards the little blighters I might one day like my own but would probably force myself to have children for all the wrong reasons. For years I’ve been under the impression that when I grew up I was going to be completely career focused, totally independent regardless of what emotional hurdles life threw at me. Sounds cold but that was the idea that I had in mind when I started my university adventure. Three years in and to my dismay, this has changed. With education it’s almost like I had some curious epiphany; an epiphany that made me realise that no matter how many essays I write or how much money I earn, those essays and earned pennies aren’t going to bring me cups of tea when I’m incontinent and senile. Of course I am completely aware children bring more joy than cups of tea and company on the death bed. They provide laughter, new adventures, the joy of watching a person grow up, the sacrifice of free time, basic hygiene and freedom...what was my point again?

Nevertheless, what is more frightening is that at the age of twenty one I see quite a few of my friends now have children of their own. They have become remarkable mothers, strong and seem to have so much more wisdom and self confidence than I possess. At the same age, I’m still thinking about men, dating and all things in-between. I’m still deciding on whether to do a masters or get a graduate job. Hell, I’m still at the stage where deciding what to wear in the morning is a matter of national emergency. Admittedly, I would not change this for the world right now. I’m too immature and selfish to be thinking of another human being’s needs unlike other incredible women I know. However, I do somewhat fear for my sanity when the time comes and I only start feeling mildly prepared for mother hood at the point when I am pushing a bowling ball through my unsuspecting vagina. Maybe by the time I hit my thirties I will finally understand the wonders of having children. I will finally ‘aww’ at the inane sentences some toddler is spurting at me and perhaps I won’t mind being chundered on by a little whippersnapper just because he ate too much chocolate cake with too much vigour. Yet, if all fails, and I really do fear that the arrival mothering gene will never come , I could try to kick start it by watching youtube videos of babies laughing in the hope that mine will always be like that. Sat in a high chair and laughing, constantly laughing. That said...even that sounds infuriating.

21 going on 51

21 is not exactly the age of crippling dementia, arthritis and incontinence but at the rate my mind and body seem to be aging the reality of walking sticks, involuntary flatulence and the constant lingering smell of urine is not far off. The thing is, the moment 24th November 2010 hit, it was almost as if my body realised it was further away from its teenage years and really wanted to let me know about it with not only physical changes but also the rather shocking reality that I’m still as naive as a Care Bear wrapped in cotton wool.

During the Easter period my friends and I chose to regale in some night time frivolity in our usual haunts; a place we had frequented for most of our late teens and the beginning of our university educations. Generally we had never felt out of place until one particular evening when we realised we had become the 20-something people I used to mock and shun and question why they were entering into my under age domain back in the good old days of yester-adolescence. We were now the people trapped in the category of aging limbo; neither too old nor too young to be anywhere. A 20 something can still be immature to the point of shameful recklessness but at the same time can breed infants and shockingly enough, get married. Those who do not fall into aging limbo however have their late night activity fates sealed. They are young, enjoying the hype of possessing ID that actually functions and knowing full well that despite the lingering acne and the awkward shuffle of adolescence, they are relatively attractive with the prospect of new beginnings stretched out before them. They make more of an effort with their appearance because they haven’t quite come across the inexorable fate of essay deadlines getting in the way of vanity and are instead more preoccupied with hair products and clothes. As a result we found ourselves unwillingly staring at the well kept hair, the freshly toned arms, the cocky swagger...I digress. After contemplating their ages for long enough it was time to make an enquiry; this seemed so much more flirtatious at the time but I just realised this sounds like we were asking the boys for advice on car insurance. Much to our dismay, the boys were a shocking 4 years our junior and suddenly the lines on my face that I deemed as charming because I ‘love to laugh’ suddenly felt like deep wrinkled chasms of age. My self esteem felt like it had been attacked by a battering ram as I regressed back to my former 15 year old self, attempting to attract my crush who just wanted to be friends. However, this scenario was worse, much worse. I had now become some involuntary, diabolically useless cougar; a fate I had not anticipated for myself until I was at least 30.

At least by that age I hope I have mastered the ability of physical upkeep because it would seem the moment I hit 21 another ill fate struck my existence. Up until the big 2-1 I had the good fortune of being able to eat relatively anything that I wanted as long as I kept on ignoring the bus and decided to walk everywhere possible. I continued this regime until I realised that it had stopped working. Suddenly my casual strolls to University or work were no longer enough and the more I went into denial about this fact, the more my neck and chin subtly merged into one another. My arms started to sprout tiny wings that made me want to sing at my own reflection: B-I-N-G-O and bingo was his name oh! And I was starting to realise along with tree trunk thighs and a slowly expanding arse my waist line was getting to know the muffin man very well! Of course I exaggerate...somewhat. I’m not quite on the brink of obesity but things have shockingly started to change and ultimately resulted in me, one delusional afternoon, hauling the running shoes out of the closet and deciding to start getting the heart racing a bit faster than ‘leisurely stroll’. The crass phrase, ‘coughing up a lung’ has never seemed more apt. No sooner than a minute into my run did I suddenly remember the fact that I am asthmatic and the instant wheezing in my lungs was predominantly due to a slight difficulty in breathing without medication; although in this scenario, lack of fitness might have had something to do with it. Without said medication I can sometimes sound like Darth Vader’s decrepit cousin with serious hay fever after walking up Everest carrying a donkey on my back. (It is moments like this when my single status becomes all the more clear) Apparently however, when I run I choose to ignore said ailments and instead I carried on through the park, wheezing with that haggard posture of a runner who shouldn’t be running. My arms and hands were aimlessly flailing around as the standardised running arm position had been forgotten and replaced with the simple preoccupation of survival. By the time I had finished and returned home even the cat could not resist mocking as he liberally pranced around and ran up and down the stairs as if to flaunt his fully functioning lungs...the git.


I wish I could tell you that I continued with my running and that it got easier and easier as I strove through the first painful sessions but alas this was not the case. Instead I reverted back to enjoying cake, enjoying wine and generally avoiding my oh-so-sexy asthmatic wheeze by simply ambling everywhere I go. This may be distinctly due to the life I currently lead of Spanish nonchalance and relaxation and probably the moment I return to merry old England I will be screaming for the slim fast and anti wrinkle cream. But until that moment of sheer panic arrives, I’ll have another 1kg of chocolate thank you very much.

A Ferry Long Engagement

For some reason, unbeknown to be, this journey home I decided to choose the ferry option as my mode of transport. Yes, it was more economical if you take into account luggage costs, transport costs city to city and general ease of only having the burden of one mode of transport. But still, whilst these factors may be considered, what still remains are 20 hours...on the same boat...with nobody to talk to as I travel solo.
So, in order to conserve my sanity or at least share the burden of such an arduous journey, I thought it was best to log my 20 hours on the glorified floating titanic replica.

To begin with I felt like somebody had played a cruel trick on me. The journey started at 9, we had been travelling for an hour...and it was still 9pm. Obviously, this was due to the time difference, but to have it moulded into your psyche that you will be travelling for 19 hours and for this to change to 20 is just not cricket. I had a mini exploration of the boat, cunningly conserving certain locations for the latter part of the journey when I would be in need of different entertainment rather than my books or iPod. I did start to feel like a slightly lonely alcoholic though as already I had had two drinks whilst sat by myself. My first in the ferry port café, being wooed by the waiters as my blue eyes were constantly complimented. The waiters were even nice enough to give me a sandwich for free to take with me; I didn’t have the heart to tell them I had already had a substantial food supply in my luggage. The second drink was in the ferry bar where I slunk off to a corner hoping nobody would notice that the lonely British girl was sat by herself drinking because she had nobody else to drink with. In fairness the scenario allowed me to people watch for minutes on end and also to remember how embarrassed British men get when you catch them looking at you. It may sound like I’m bragging but I was literally the only woman under 30 sat without a husband; I could have been bucked toothed, acne ridden and with a hunch back and still been deemed as the most acceptable thing to look at on the deck simply because I was alone and had a vagina. Rather stupidly however I started drinking before the ship left the dock so subsequently when I finally arose one hour later with a pint of cider swirling around my orifices, it was no wonder the world felt like it was spinning and my legs were involuntarily doing the can-can. Naturally I went to sit down in the hope that when I next stood I would have miraculously acquired sea legs.

However, having realised that the only company I was going to have for my journey was a group of older gentleman and the four walls that enclose my oh-so-comfy reclining seat, I decided to return to the bar once more, remembering that there was ‘entertainment’ on for some of the evening. To my delight it was a magic show so I stuck around hoping to be amazed as despite seeing lots of tricks and shows on television I had never seen a magic act before my very eyes. Unfortunately I was disappointed. Don’t get me wrong, the man had talent. His ability to flip balls between his fingers was a marvel if not somewhat juvenile and full of innuendo. But the only ‘trick’ that really amazed me was his ‘tearing up of the newspaper only to put it back together again’ trick. I was admittedly slightly dumbfounded as I found no plausible way how he could have done it but still, that was as good as it got. Even his jokes on oranges weren’t enough to raise a tickle from my gut; that said if I had been laughing I would have been the only one, as the silence in the room was deafening. After hearing that the next act would be cabaret, I made a quick getaway.

When I arrived back to my humble abode for the night, time has apparently (but thankfully) slipped away rather quickly and the big hand had hit 11pm already. Little did I know however, this also meant lights out. What then transpired was an on board one man show re-enactment of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ as I awkwardly shuffled side to side, up and down attempting to find my seat, my belongings and worst of all, my contact lenses. After haphazardly plonking myself down, the task to remove my lenses began. I had already disturbed the whole room by stumbling in with my jelly legs that I thought it unkind to leave the room again for the bathroom and inflict my cumbersome walk on them once more. So I poked, I prodded and eventually found the contact lens, only to realise any cleaning implement was lost in the chasm of my luggage. Needless to say, common sense has never been one of my strongest attributes. 10 minutes later along with my useless sea legs, I was now blind searching for my glasses. I had been on the ship for only three hours and feared for the sanity of other passengers being stuck in the same room as me...all the more considering that I had to start trying to sleep...knowing full well that I’m notoriously bad at sleeping on any form of transport.
Thankfully, out of the approximately 500 passengers on board, only 20 chose the reclining seat option which meant I had the lavish option of the leg over. Let me explain. In the room I was sat there were about 40 seats therefore if you were a lonesome traveller like me, it’s possible to blag a whole strip of seats to yourself; a whole strip of seats with immobile arm rests. Consequently, in order for one’s legs to go in any other direction than forward for a moment of comfort and to avoid inevitable cramp, an awkward shimmy and leg over must be instigated. It starts off well. The leg is over, the seat is reclined and the head is snugly nestled into the chair. The comfort lasts for about 5 minutes. What follows is a series of twists, turns, leg swings, pillow bashing with huffing and puffing; by the time I had finished I felt like I had taken a late night trip to Burgos Castle, stuck high up on a hill, for a little ‘adventure’. After about two hours of pretending I was comfortable I resorted to the solution that always works best; taking a horse sized pill of ibuprofen. Despite this however, I still resorted to peculiar lengths in the hope of getting at least two consecutive hours of sleep. My scarf became a blanket, my leather jacket became a button filled pillow and the floor became a wonderfully comfortable option for approximately 30 minutes until the moment I realised it was like sliding between rows in a cinema and I was the late night creep lurking in the dark.

Despite my horrendous efforts to sleep, morning surprisingly came early and even though I had had a relatively sea sick free journey so far, the morning brought a head that felt like it was swimming in tequila and a stomach so tender a fruit cup felt like eating a full English breakfast covered in whipped cream. As a result I strolled around the deck in a ghostly manner, clutching my stomach and trying not to make eye contact; as if I needed to look more peculiar. Seemingly being the only person on the whole ferry to be travelling solo, it’s easy to be noticed. So having a face as white as snow and a demeanour that screams: ‘You prod me and I vomit’, makes it somewhat difficult to blend into the background. Nonetheless I spent the last few hours staring at the wall in the hope for the sickness to pass. When the ferry finally docked I was the awkward loner in the crowd accidently dropping my suitcase on people’s feet, twitching with the exciting thought of a decent cup of tea in my near future. I had somehow survived the 20 hours with my sanity relatively intact. Also, with the realisation that whilst I will take 2 novels, a Sudoku puzzle book and a selection of obligatory work I will still choose to endlessly listen to my iPod, day dreaming about the soulful and unforgettable renditions of musical classics that I would perform with my nonexistent vocal talents. It wasn’t a dream nor was it a nightmare, however the prospect of completely this journey again is filling me with a slight sense of dread...I might just have to drug myself with more cider and ibuprofen next time.

Janner Abroad part deux dos

Frightfully, I am now entering the last phase of my dubiously named ‘year’ abroad and despite the fact that I have spent nearly seven rather manic months habituating in a foreign country I still feel somewhat inept, incapable and quite honestly incompetent. Don’t get me wrong, I am fully aware that I am not as linguistically challenged as I was prior to this experience. Indeed, after the Christmas period I came back with a certain air of confidence. I knew that this time around I was going to be able to navigate my way around an airport with relatively no problems after previously being reliant on other people and to be quite frank, a travelling novice. I knew that if I needed to talk to somebody I could do more than look like a vacant magpie who had just seen something shiny. And I knew that upon return I had somewhere to live thus avoiding any hassle of aggravating landlords with my general incompetency in life. Nevertheless, with just three months left of this experience, I now and again sometimes feel like my five year old anxiety ridden self, facing 6ft high hurdles whilst tied by the ankle to a random stranger with a lazy eye. Because, no matter how much I enjoy tapas, no matter how much red wine I consume and no matter how much I kid myself that I can fain a Spanish accent, ultimately, I will always be foreign.

Many people will tell you that the Erasmus life predominantly consists of a few major factors. Factor one: Work ethic will become obsolete. By the time exams came around this January, I and fellow Erasmus students were as useful at studying as a snooze button on a smoke alarm. Writing an essay or learning a few facts became secondary to playing cards, watching films and going for a ‘well deserved’ beer. As soon as the exam day arrived our confusion and fear rivalled that of a person being told to complete a rubix cube with their feet whilst being held at gunpoint. Inadequacy and nerves got the better of some of us so badly that the simple request to write one’s name down on the exam paper became such an unspeakable riddle, any remaining brain function decided to take a stroll out of the room with a defeated wave.

That said, thankfully factor two is wonderfully correct: Teachers are easy on Erasmus students. Considering the fact that we had spent most of the term avoiding classes or avoiding deadlines, myself and friends somehow managed to achieve relative success in last term’s modules. Although, sometimes I find the work is not the main reason to avoid class. When the new term started in January it signalled the restart of some subjects and the beginning of new ones. Thinking I had learnt my lesson from last term I decided to sample a few classes before finally enrolling in them. However, apparently, turning up a week late to sample a class is enough to throw a fully qualified teacher into a world of confusion. The class was at 9am so things were already off to a bad start as I am as effective in the morning as an owl with a blindfold. In addition, Spain had decided to be blaringly sunny with icy rain inadvertently pelting itself at my face so by the time I had entered the class I was looking somewhat shell shocked. When the teacher arrived she gave a warm greeting to all other students before taking a double look at the needing to be defrosted English person on the front row. Before I knew it, I was being interrogated about my origins, what I had previously studied and why I was there. Each answer I gave was received by such an intent frown and look of disconcertion, I wondered if somebody was giving this teacher an enema.

Indeed, moments of questioning my general deformities as a human being do not stop there. Our true test as Erasmus students came when we all realised classes that we had decided to skip were in fact meant to be dedicated to ‘research’; research that would form a presentation that would be given in class the following week. Having no clue of said presentation and an empty file of research, it is no wonder that when we quizzed the teacher after the class she stared at us like we were the Grinch who stole Christmas. Thankfully last minute student resilience came to the rescue and our presentation was surprisingly not a catastrophe. However, I still remain dubious whether the applause was patronising, genuine approval or appreciation for the fact that we had used up some presentation time just showing a video.

Nevertheless, whilst we may find it slightly difficult to immerse ourselves fully into education we have succeeded in other areas thus making the third factor of the Erasmus year very true: it is like one long holiday. Part of me hates to admit it but over the past few months a lot of my language acquisition is based on alcohol or the act of drinking. Vocabulary about hangovers or being drunk now just rolls off the tongue and majority of my photos consist of me having either blurry eyes or a drink in my hand. Furthermore with a ludicrous amount of time on our hands we suddenly decide spontaneity is the way of the life. Before thinking and after receiving the second instalment of our student loans, it was deemed completely logical to book as many journeys as humanly possible, regardless of the consequences. By the end of the month, shifty looks were beginning to pass amongst the group until one person spoke up, realising that whilst we can afford flights, we cannot afford to sleep or eat anywhere in our chosen destinations. Journeys cancelled and funds looking replenished, we reverted back to the poverty stricken lifestyle of the Erasmus student. 50 cent wine, 1 euro boxes of cereal and a curious appreciation for Eroski’s own brand of flans.

Indeed, it would appear that whilst we may not have much money, learning Spanish had reached a peculiar plateau and we are slowly pickling our livers, what remains is an experience like no other. With only a couple months left to go I do slightly fear for my sanity on my return to my merry land of England. Not simply because I would like to revert back to the nocturnal lifestyle but because I will not return with the exotic ‘lived abroad’ splendour that I had anticipated. Instead of a confident strut will be a self conscious shuffle due to excess alcohol weight. Rather than self-assurance in language, confusion will emit from every pore of my being as I realise that nobody understands random outbursts of Spanglish. And, quite depressingly, in place of a glowing tan will simply be wind burn as apparently we are living in relatively sunless wind tunnel. Nonetheless, Erasmus may soon be over but what remains are the memories, no matter how blurry they may be...tequila anyone?