The Journey

At last I escape the billowing winds of the North Pole, suffocating grey surrounds and embark on a journey home. But alas my voyage is halted by the ever changing movie set that has become my home. Now transformed into warning to all others that Global Warming is upon us. While I leave Denis Quaid to save the others I trudge on in search of a way out of The Day After Tomorrow. Through pelting rain and mysterious fog the replacement bus meanders through the winding coast. Into a car park we pull without the slightest hint of direction we are thrust out on to the street and look upon the dazzling sights of Arbroath, well compared to Aberdeen, and are left to ponder our fate. However as quickly as it began, our epic bus journey is caught short as we pick up the train further down the line and continue on our way. So with the dread and mystery of the journey deflated I am left to ponder the unique situation I am about to enter. Gone are the micro meals and dodgy showers and now it is time to appreciate the home comforts that I recklessly abandoned in search of freedom.

One week of home cooked meals and personal laundry system have me considering other benefits that arise from staying at the 5 star hotel. Suddenly the pound signs rise and the inevitable happens; I begin online shopping. Well what’s a fashion student to do when she saves money on food but to buy new clothes. Already planning ahead; dazzling winter boots cloud my vision and suddenly I have hounded every online retailer in search of the perfect pair. The smooth and sleek over the knee boots cry out to me from the monitor screen instantly reminding me of the previous struggle in River Island. Grasping at the boot in panic as I realise blue eyes is not the only thing I inherited from my mother but the genetic gene also pass on the inability to fit my calves into anything that wasn’t designed for the Hulk. Banishing the negative thoughts from my head I settle on the ever practical ankle boots and I am suddenly in a brighter mood with a slight skip in my step. The also find another benefit of being home which is the hope that your parents will take pity on your shabby collection of attire and insist upon replacing them. Well of course if it will make them happier then I will more than welcome the new additions to my wardrobe. I also will endeavour to resemble a tramp for the next trip home, just because of the happiness it brings them of course.

Halloween

No need for a trip to the cinema for me, luckily my accommodation for this year is like living there with a new horror each week. At least now I know how it cost so much it is like having a free pass. Our latest horror centred on a group of students who were terrorised by giant bugs. Truly horrifying when you realise it’s a reality and you can’t just zap the creepy crawlies away. Not that I am scared of them or anything but it feels that they have taken on a mutant form that makes them larger to my eyes than anyone else (I am sure they were 10 times the normal size). So as I casually watch them carrying clothes around the room which is of course why it looks like a bomb went off and has nothing to do with my untidiness I think about the looming tradition of dressing up to scare fellow party goers at Halloween. Now with the Mean Girls theory behind dressing for such occasion I will have to reveal more skin than is normally acceptable out in public just for the sheer satisfaction of other girls not getting to make any comments. Well since I do not want to scar the residents of Aberdeen for life I decided against their theory.

It will be a trip to the past for me as I don a red spotty dress and furry ears to go as Minnie Mouse. After scouring the Disney store I came upon the perfect costume for the famous character, shame it was age 6-8. To the grown up stores I trudge to find the less magical equivalent and find this to be the perfect excuse for new clothes. Suddenly everything red is an opportunity and the practical and realistic restrictions are out the window. A red dress catches my eye and suddenly it hits me: just because I don’t want to look like another classic lady and the Tramp I still don’t want to look like Goofy. So now with the waist on show, matt black tights and towering heels I will be a Minnie Mouse Gok Wan would be proud of.

Hats off to Aberdeen

As I slowly lower my hands I realise hurricane Aberdeen has claimed another victim. Not only does my hair look like I have had electro shock therapy but my beloved hat is gone. Even though I had desperately clung to my hood despite 100 mph winds altered large structures around me I was doing this in a vain attempt the save them both from a terrible fate. So now as I hastily rush for the bus I am met by stares and whispering due to the general public’s surprise at seeing an escaped mental patient clinging desperately to her juicy Couture handbag as it whips from side to side on Belmont Street.

After confirming it from my bank manager (aka my mum) I began my search for the perfect hat. Many things must of course be put into consideration in this all important decision. My round face reminiscent of a football prohibits the wearing of beanies unless I want to look like Cartman from South Park. Taking inspiration my magazine seemed like a good idea at the time until a picture of Rihanna sporting a bell boy’s hat was blazed across the page. I find that since I do not own a black and white hat I should avoid the Postman Pat look, although on second thoughts the latest Royal Mail strike could tempt me into the profession. As I continue my exhausting journey through black hole that is the internet red bull and jelly babies at the ready I find the perfect hat………the one I had. Now after having my sudden moment of eureka and blinding my flatmates with the light bulb of knowledge I revert back to sulking and mourn over my lost hat with the black clothes at the ready.

Fashion is for the top shelf

After ignoring all rational opinions I idiotically signed myself up for another year at the day release prison often referred to as student accommodation. If the brick walls weren’t enough to defer me then the all night parties should have done the job. Yet here I am sitting on furniture salvaged from Del Boy (yes they are that bad) looking longingly at the luxury apartments just beyond the looming shadow the penitentiary creates. The final nail in the coffin is the cupboard they call a wardrobe. As I first opened the creaky MDF door a red mist descended, where do the handbags go? Well apparently I am supposed to cram my beloved collection into a shelf about wide enough to store this years Vogue September issue and not much else.


As I take a deep breath and remember it is my careless fault that I am in this predicament I continue with my student lifestyle which of course entails venturing out on a Saturday night. I emerge from the bathroom to discover another flaw in their master plan for compact living. The wise idea for a wet room now has the room looking like the set of Poseidon, I half expected Richard Dreyfuss to come paddling through and point me to the exit. Of course my first reaction was to save the valuables which included my battered copy of Twilight, my Uggs and my flat mate’s DVDs. I was at least content that the precious handbags were untouched as they perch high in my room as if lording over their kingdom. So high up in fact that they have thoughtfully provided me with shelves to climb so I can ascend to their level. So now with just the smell of cheap damp nylon to remind me of this week’s mishap, I am relaxed knowing that when (not if) this occurs again the kingdom of handbags will be safe.