"No, I'm fine, grazie, grazie"

When I fell flat on my face in front of a crowd of Italian tourists in Stansted airport, I knew this was a sign of things to come. A deadly embarrassing combination of humiliation and clumsiness, I just knew that today, was not going to be my day.
“Oh, no don’t mind me!” I practically boomed across the terminal as I scurried to the departure gate. Where I slipped twice and almost headbutted an elderly German lady. This is all before the distressing turbulence on the flight. I am not good on planes, and the man sat next to me wasn't the most comforting of men as I began to wail and cling to the armrests.
I've spent the last five months in Strasbourg, France and this sort of experience sums up that time - a really great anecdote. As I write this, in my poky studio apartment, the heating still not fixed after four months and a face like Grumpy Cat, I know that I've outstayed my welcome. New pastures lie ahead! Fresh fields of Spanish gold, my own ROAD TO EL DORADO! But first, I have to pack. Two suitcases. That’s what came with me to France, and that’s what’s gotta leave with me too. Sounds simple enough on paper, but as a student with a serious Zara and Mango dependence, it ain't that easy, folks. For an hour now, I have been re-configuring the layout of my wheelie bag. Books on top or side pouch? Shoes in side pouch too? Finally, I zipped it shut. I walked back over to my bed, smug in the knowledge that my mother won't have to unpack everything and do it again "the proper way" and snuggled back under my duvet. DAMMIT! The duvet! Everything fits but the bloody duvet! Back to square one. After drawing the conclusion that buying another duvet in Spain is horribly impractical, and that money is much better off hanging up in my wardrobe, I'm at my own stress arcade, playing suitcase Tetris again. I have sat on the suitcase. I have rolled my delicates up and stuffed them in my shoes. I have even considered burning probably important paperwork. I loved my time in France, and I'm more than physically ready to accept that I am probably going to fall over in front of foreigners again in Spain, but take my advice children, part one of Things People Don’t Tell You About Your Year Abroad – that dress looks tempting now, but when it’s time to leave, and your mum isn't there to pack everything up properly for you, the bloody duvet won’t fit. 

Lessons in Living Alone

As an introvert, I find the idea of living alone fairly appealing. Impromptu dance parties, singing as loudly as I can at the top of my lungs and no queues for the bathroom in the morning - I FLOURISH IN THIS ENVIRONMENT. But is it all La Vida Loca? Well, sort of yes, though as with most things, there are downsides. 8am starts are not encouraged in "Casa Hope", in fact, they are frowned upon. But missing one means that I am frowned upon, and the glare of an angry French woman is not the glare I ever wish to be scrutinised by again. Oh and when the fridge breaks, and all the electricity goes out at 11pm, there will be no-one there to dry your tears and work out how to get the hot water running again, oh no, you'll have to spend the night in a hotel (which ends up having a bath and being much nicer and comfier than your own apartment).
I have never been too dependent on others to provide entertainment or conversation - not that I talk to myself THAT much - and I do not find myself vying for attention after fifteen minutes of solitude, but as I am sure many of you agree, finding someone already in the house as you return after a long day can be particularly pleasant. And something I miss from second year. Coming home for Christmas in mid-December and being suddenly startled awake by my little sister squealing at me asking me to paint her nails and having to have quicker showers because my brother is banging on the bathroom door, I realised that still, since that (albeit dramatic) post in September about missing the central heating and the fridge, I still do miss them and I am not ashamed. Though I do like living thirty seconds away from a kebab shop and being able to use up all the hot water myself. I almost thrive on it, in fact.
Next semester I will bid adieu to my scary landlord, scarier neighbours and almost certainly haunted apartment (seriously, it's either that or there's a flock of birds trapped and living in the walls) and live in Spain in an apartment with two flatmates, and although part of me is excited to experience the difference between living alone and with other people, I can't help but worry. WHAT ABOUT THE DANCING? WHAT WILL BECOME OF THE DANCING? Will my standard "stand with feet firmly on the ground and just bend your knees and bop about a bit" move become so unpractised that the next time I attempt it, I'LL JUST FALL OVER? It's all too much to bear. All I can do is hope they're fans of Strictly and we can recreate the routines in the kitchen. Failing that, my next blog post will be a plea to all people about the importance of an impromptu dance party. I'll start typing it up now...