I’m sitting at home on a cream fluffy rug with my build-a-bear, a mug of Mint tea and a posh recipe book. I’m making dinner for five, apparently. A far cry away from my second year at Exeter where I’d be sitting on a murky brown (albeit carpeted) bedroom floor, with nothing but an empty fridge to stare into and a cupboard of mouldy crackers and poppadoms that bend instead of snap.
My room now: I have angels on my curtains, an extension lead connected to my laptop because our house wasn’t built for electricity users and has about ½ a plug per room; a sun-kissed rug and one of those wicker chairs that you’re not supposed to sit on but which is supposedly a tasteful addition to any boudoir.
Gone are the term-time days of bins filled with co-op receipts, crumpled up fliers, hangover smoothie cartons, and letters from Virgin Media who are trying to rob you of your student loan. No more plastic windows which only open 2 inches in fear that one day one of its inhabitants might be possessed with the unnatural urge to fly out of them. And no more Devon locals chanting nonsensicalities at 3am. The temptation to scream at them is scarily high, but cleaning smashed egg shells off a window that only opens 2 inches isn’t worth the hassle.
What’s on the agenda for Paris? Crumpled up receipts from my endless trips to the patisserie around the corner, now-vintage tickets from my limitless visits to the top floor of the Eiffel Tower and hoards of euros sitting in my desk donated lovingly by Papa. “A girl has her needs”. I throw on my diamonds as Parisian men and tourists alike of all shapes and sizes chant my name down from the prestigious streets of the Champs-Elysée. I lean adoringly from my window, throwing my lily of the valley petals given to me that morning by an admiring street vendor. Their arms are laden with shopping bags from Hermes and Yves Saint Laurent, all for me. And then I spy a cream Balenciaga bag through my rose-tinted glasses.
Watch this space.