I realise that despite my column being called ‘Second Year In The City’ - and being four editions in - I still haven’t actually written about being in uni. This, I feel, has probably been a problem throughout every aspect in my life: total avoidance of the subject. I made a list of things I had to do this month and stuck it on my wardrobe as a reminder (if I hadn’t seen ‘your head must be attached to your body’ written down somewhere I would forget it). The list had 12 things that I needed to do. I’m not including this article in the list, it’s lucky number 13.
Maybe it’s just because of my terrible memory - anyone who has had a conversation with me knows that half-way through a sentence I stop and go ‘uhhhhhhhh’ - but first year wasn’t like this, was it? It was halcyon days of 12 Hour Tuesday, Orange Wednesdays, naps….even if I nap now I have to put on a law podcast in the hope that while I’m sleeping I subconsciously absorb the Human Embryo and Fertilisation Act. The only reason that I need a snooze these days is because I seem to have to stay up EVERY SINGLE NIGHT until at least midnight to finish something off. Then get up at 9am and have the same horrible day again. I have a constant stress headache, probably from grinding my teeth while I type, because I can’t work harder or faster or more intelligently. I did join the gym this year because I find exercise a really good way of relaxing, but I feel guilty if I do go because it’s an hour of studying lost and I feel guilty if I don’t, which is pretty self explanatory. Get out of my life coursework!!!
I’m also starting to really resent people rich enough not to have part-time jobs. If I have a week to do something it’s actually only five days because Saturday and Sunday are taken up by standing on a shop floor and taking abuse from irate Christmas shoppers. I suspect these rude people that stamp through the door are the same people who never had to work while they were at uni. ‘Hey, buddy, I have this job so I can pay my rent and my phone bill and my petrol and when I’m not having to stand here looking at your face I have to go home and get a degree so just shut up, ok?’
This time of year is supposed to be shopping for a fancy festive outfit and ice skating in George Square and wearing knits. I don’t need to wear knits because I don’t actually go out my flat anymore unless it’s to a tutorial or lecture or something else that’s going to create yet more work. I want to be going for hot chocolate with my boyfriend and secret santa-ing with my friends and decorating the flat with the girls. I’ve been forced into making my first resolution for this year - bit late but better than never. As soon as this bleak mid-winter is over I’m dressing up, going out and getting crunk. Crazy, crazy drunk.

Why is it so much fun dressing up? As soon as it ticks over onto October 1^st I can’t concentrate for thinking about Halloween. Where will we go out? What will I go as? My friends better not steal my idea!

I think this deep-rooted love of Halloween stems from my childhood. I have a nut allergy (one of the throat-closing, eye-swelling kinds) so rather than brave the oral dangers of going door-to-door, my mum bought me my favourite chocolate bar and we watched a witchy movie on the Disney Channel. When Halloween became less about solids and more about liquids that’s when I started to get excited.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Ayr, but take it from someone that grew up in the ‘shire, Halloween is a hayoooooge deal. There isn’t much to do (we have three clubs - two of which only open Thursday-Sunday, and a dire cinema) but once a year everyone 16+ comes crawling out the woodwork donning PVC and fake blood to celebrate in the wackiest and tackiest way possible.

So, the fact that I couldn’t trick-or-treat and having Ayr as my hometown creates Halloween hysteria.

Trying to explain why my friends (most of whom are also from Ayr) were coming round in costume - a larger percentage than you’d think in drag - to my flatmate Rachel (who says that in Clackmannanshire it’s not that big a deal) was a bit of a lost cause. She reluctantly agreed to buy a ticket for ABC and backed slowly away as I attempted to make a Corpse Bride-style wedding dress.

I always think about that thing Miranda says in the SATC movie: “the only two choices for women are witch or sexy kitten”. I’m firmly in the scary (or at least properly dressed up) costume camp. I love going out as either something current (Lily Allen in sixth year) or something classic (Cleopatra last year). It’s not ‘get your bum out’ night, although clearly a lot of people who we saw roaming down Sauchiehall Street need to be told this. I saw more cheese-wire underwear than effort. Bunny ears and a tutu maketh a costume not.

Anyway, with a face full of zombie paint, ripped dress, veil (which was unbelievably hard to find, are all the hen nights happening this week?!) and a few drinks in our living room I was ready to go along with Poison Ivy, the Queen of Hearts, a cowboy, Clark Kent, Little Red Riding Hood, a china doll, a vampire, 80s girl and two prison inmates.

The other thing about Halloween is that quite often the costume planning and pre-session are better than the night out. We paid £8 in advance to get into ABC, apparently so did half of Glasgow. After 2 hours of my make-up melting and relatively-sober dancing with my arms by my side it was time for a Subway (cheese and toasted, southwest sauce) and bed - safe in the knowledge that it’s only 11 months until I can plan next year’s ensemble.

If I’m ever going to be a mum, I want to be just like mine. I say ‘if’ because currently, when the people I work with bring their kids in, I recoil away from the dribbly mouths and clammy hands until these pudgy bundles reach an age where I’m less likely to break them (around seven months old when they actually start doing stuff themselves). Everyone jokes that I’ll reach 70 and still be terrified of babies, with none of my own.

I think it’s the only child in me that makes me intolerant of other people’s children, and I’m sure that with my own I’d be the mumsiest mum (passing the finger-painting round my friends over coffee, insisting that a red splodge is the Eiffel tower) but being the baby of the family I’ve never actually had to deal with anyone younger. I am the one and only as far as my Mum’s concerned and I like that.

I know what you’re thinking (especially those reading this who’re one of six): spoiled. I would have to disagree. Since my parents got divorced when I was four my Mum’s brought me up single-handedly. Things weren’t easy financially, and I remember us wandering around Safeway trying to work out how many meals we could afford that week. When I was 10, something amazing happened: after years of doing supply teaching Mum got a permanent job. She went from value tins of soup to being other people’s boss. Even now - nine years later - when she goes ‘here’s money in case you need anything’ I still can’t quite believe our luck has changed.

The best thing about Mum, though, is that she’s my friend. I like her as a person, not just cause we’re related. Now that I’m grown up we’ll meet for dinner (usually always on her) and if I want to bitch about something that’s happened she’ll unreservedly join in.

And even though I’m terrified of babies, she’ll still treat me like one if I want her to. Last weekend when I went home I had some sort of stress-induced flu, Nurse Mum came to the rescue. ‘Muuuuum, can you make me a cup of hot blackcurrant juice? Muuuuuum, can you run me a bath and sit and talk to me while I’m in it? Muuuuuuu-uuuuuuuuuuuum, I can’t sleeeeeeeep and I don‘t feeeeeeeeel weeeeeeeeeellll, can I sleep in your bed?’ Yes. Yes. (Reluctantly, even though I‘d already clambered in and taken the duvet) yes.

My Mum went to work the next day covered in my germs while I had a long lie and woke up feeling like I could live to fight another day. There must be some reason why parents do all that sort of stuff for us, I’d like to find out why at some point in the future. Maybe whatever it is will be enough to cure me of my fear of the under-2s.

Why did I ever decide to leave home? I’m writing to you from the library as – for the past 3 weeks – I’ve had no internet. I literally ache to update my facebook status.  Nadia Ness misses home, badly. After a year of living in halls (mouldy showers and a living room that always smelled like last night’s dinner) Kerri, Rachel, Susan and I decided that it was time to invest in a grown-up flat of our own.

I spent the whole summer buying things like blue glass plates for all the dinner parties I imagined I would have in “new flat”.  In reality I still can’t be bothered cooking anything much more exquisite than beans on toast.

In between my stereotypical student meals, I spend my time trawling through what little there is on freeview. Jeremy Kyle…This Morning…Judge Judy…Jeremy Kyle. I actually found myself laughing along with some slag on Loose Women the other day.  Talk Talk are taking a more laid back, ‘two to three weeks’ approach to my lack of 4od. I’ve tried to connect my computer up to every wireless network in my area, alas, without any success.

It’s not just internet – or lack thereof – that makes me want to scream. Have you ever tried to apply for a council tax exemption? Half way through the second form I was banging my head off the computer screen (in the library, of course). Glasgow City Council, how should I know my flatmates’ matriculation numbers? I’ve tried to have a nice relaxing bath (with some Matey bubbles) - only the hot water is a bit iffy and by the time the tap spits out enough to cover your legs it’s more lukewarm than luxurious.

Obviously the boys who lived there before us had a much better time as, the other day when my eye-shadow rolled under my bed, I found condom wrappers instead of maxfactor. I’m trying to think positively about it…at least it wasn’t the actual condoms that were lurking in the shadows. I can’t even put into print what we found in our mop and bucket, but needless to say their moving out party was messy. Retch.

I’m terrified to use our central heating until I know how much our first electricity bill is, so my clothes remain soggy on the dryer for 3 days after I’ve finally bothered to use the washing machine. How much is my phone charger costing me per day? I dread to think.

It’s not all bad though, we have wooden floors so at least after our Harry Potter themed flatwarming (I was Gryffindor) our living room wasn’t saturated with vodka. It’s also pretty nice having a kitchen that we can shut a door on when someone leaves their bread in the toaster for too long. And our sofas – big, black, leather marshmallows – are perfect for sprawling over.

Anyway, I best get off the computer, buy a recipe book and organise a deep clean. Until next month, everyone.