The End.
I’m not very good at goodbyes; I know this because I wrote it on Facebook on the 18th September 2009 (this is the wonder of timeline). I can recall publishing such an emotive insight due to the consuming dread I felt at my imminent relocation to a city I had visited only once before. But now I face a farewell that trumps the tragedy of 2009, as I prepare to kiss goodbye to my carefree student life, and replace it with ‘real adulthood’.
Goodbyes mean change and, naturally, being British we are adverse to this; which is why my forthcoming departure from Leeds is more than a mild inconvenience. As nice as it was being reared in rural Surrey (a slight embellishment on reality there – it’s less polo-playing, gillet-wearing and more moped-riding, hoodie-donning if I’m honest), it is hardly my idea of a top place to live as the ‘young professional’ I will apparently soon become.
When I move home my nightlife choice will become bleak; our nearby Oceana began to wear thin after approximately 1.5 visits and I’ve heard of one too many spiking incidents to be tempted to venture into any of the other local hotspots. Yeah, London is just a stone’s throw away but the two hour night bus journey home is less appealing, especially considering that my unfortunate pals and I were once attacked on it by the launching of a crisp packet filled with a substance which had a consistency only comparable to vomit.
My independence will be hindered through a combination of the fact that I can’t drive, and the problematic modes of transport that Surrey boasts. South West trains wouldn’t know what a clock looked like if it struck them in the face and the local taxi companies won’t be making it on to my speed dial list any time soon, with rates being charged at roughly 15 times Amber’s price and they don’t even send a nice text at Christmas.
There is a lot I will miss about Leeds. My job in the union, however cumbersome this has felt in the prime of a hangover; my house, with its nice neighbours: the (suspected) brothel and the cannabis farm; and my incestuous LUU society, which I have grown to love and adore. But most of all I will miss my friends. I can only hope that we will remain close and that, ten years on at someone’s wedding, I won’t have to hire a gigolo to fill my plus one out of pride.
At least it’s all been worth it, though. I mean, with encouraging statistics* that indicate a strong chance of unemployment after uni; at least we can have peace of mind that this upcoming misery will be truly warranted.
*statistics have come from a mix of google results and my pessimism.
