I Blame Bill Bryson

I am currently suffering from the scientific phenonomon known as itchy feet. Which seems ridiculous, given that I've only been back a la France for a week, but it's freezing here and we all have exams and I'm bored. Last term I was plagued by a desire to go back to Durham and see everybody, this term apparently I just want to go somewhere new.

So one of my major revision avoidance techniques, aside from eating and sending incredibly long- winded facebook messages to everybody I've ever met, is to play a little game known as 'What I'm going to do when my loan comes in'. Never mind that I'm currently so overdrawn that looking at my statements actually makes me laugh, in a vaguely hysterical manner. No, I have decided that the mainetenance grant exists not for me to eke out a living over the next few months, but so that I can jet off and have some exotic adventures (and buy a leather miniskirt from Zara, of course).

I have - just - managed to reign in the crazy and stop short of seriously considering transatlantic flights. So instead I have turned my attention to Europe. And the idea of visiting it's major cities all by my lonesome holds a great deal of appeal for me, thanks to one Mr Bill Bryson. Because in addition to writing the only science book I ever voluntarily read, the esteemed Chancellor of Durham University is the author of 'Neither Here Nor There', a guide to Europe which I devoured on a recent Newcastle - Paris flight.

I have told myself repeatedly that setting off to pastures unknown with only a mountain of debt and a pop travel guide which is twenty years out of date for company is a stupid and expensive idea. It would appear that I am not listening. Having discovered, to my disappointment, that flights from Paris to Corsica only run in summertime (which, you know; sensible. I can't imagine there being a great deal of demand otherwise. What the hell is even on Corsica, anyway? Didn't Napoleon die there or something? Wasn't he killed by his wallpaper? I think I saw that on How 2 once. Anyway..), and that flights to Casablanca cost a bomb, I began whittling down the list of contenders.

Marrakech I rejected because everybody goes there. It's like that token 'exotic' place people choose to prove that they don't only want t0 see the Costa Del Sol, mainly selected for it's reassuring proximity to the homeland of said Costa. In fact, the only place more people my age like to tell you that they're going to visit is Australia. Seriously, if you want to grab my attention do not brag about adventures down under. Walk up to me and say 'I am not, nor do I have any intention of, going to Australia for the foreseeable future'. What does that country have, despite soul destroying heat and an infathomable passion for sporting activities? (Aside from Neighbours, obviously) Even Hugh Jackman has moved to LA.

I was extremely upset to find that flights from Paris to Austria simply do not exist. Dreams of cycling around in floral curtains singing 'Doe, a deer' were shattered, unless I'm willing to pay an arm and a leg to spend three days on a coach. Krakow was cheap, but I get the impression that people basically go there to get drunk on cheap wodka, so going alone seemed a bit sad. Naples was just too pricey. Pity - Bryson loved Sorrento.

So our current frontrunners are Venice and Tangiers. Lord knows what I'll actually do if I go to either. I don't even own a camera. We'll see what happens come the 19th..

The Coat Of Wonders (or Why I Can't Really Move My Arms Anymore)

So, I've just been home for the holidays, and the repeated lugging around of all of my possessions has led me to question, fairly frequently, what on earth I actually consider necessary for a three week stint back in the UK. I mean, I had regular access to a washing machine, right? And not that many glittering events to attend? A smallish case should do me.

And I have always been enamoured of the idea of packing light. You know, being one of those people who sneers at those who have to bring the kitchen sink with them on weekends away (something which I have had occasion to do despite my tendancy to overpack, thanks to the fact that my best friend growing up really did bring a phenonomal amount of crap with her at all times). I like to fancy myself either as one of those hippy dippy types who throw a bunch of things into a hemp bag, too cool to be bogged down in all that materialistic crap, or super efficient, with one of those air hostess-stylee mini roller cases, packed with ninja like precision and containing exactly the right things.

However, it has become increasingly evident that I am not one of those people. For one thing, I had to bring ten books back with me. Not useful law degree books; oh no. They're sci-fi mostly, an embarrassing proportion of which are written for Young Adults. And furthermore, I could not possibly face a few weeks with friends and family without not one, not two, but THREE coats (proper, knee-length coats, y'all. I'm not even counting jackets here).

It was perfectly logical. I mean, my official, warm Winter Coat for this year is a brown Primark number with a big fur collar. Which is great, but my wardrobe is predominantly black. And as somebody who still refuses to accept that wearing tights with open toe shoes is ok (I don't care if Cheryl Cole is doing it, Faye), I certainly am not about to start mixing black and brown. So of course, I had to bring last year's coat too.

All very well, you might say, but what possible reason could there be which necessitated the inclusion of a third?

The answer to that lies in the coat itself. I bought it in a vintage store in Paris (Free P Star. Go there - it's crazy fun, unless you're claustraphobic or a neat freak). Which means that whenever it gets remarked upon I get to say 'Oh this? It's vintage, daaahling. Paris, you know?'. Which never gets old.

And it WILL be remarked upon. My sister refuses to be seen in public with it. My nan is spreading its reputation far and wide. I knew I had hit the jackpot when two pixie-cropped, leggings-wearing American Apparel employees on the train took a break from sketching the outfits they planned to wear that night to enquire after it (the vintage, daahling line went down a treat with them). And it's fame is fully deserved.

Because my coat is a knee length, furry, leopard print, swing number. In at least a size 18 (label missing). It simultaneously makes me look like a hooker and an aging hollywood star, and could be accessorised equally effectively with sunglasses, an eating disorder and Pete Doherty or pearls, a little fur hat and a sausage dog. It needed some international airing (and general airing, to be honest. Getting the musty vintage shop smell out of faux fur is no easy feat).

So I had a case containing 20 kilos of awesome in addition to a giant (and weighty) handbag containing a geeky and juvenile library. Have I mentioned that I live up a motherfreakin' cliff? Well I do, and after getting to the top of it I felt like I used to after the torture that was cross country (and no, I couldn't get a cab thanks to a financial crisis induced by a sleep deprived blunder in which I packed all of my euros safely in my sister's handbag before heading to the airport). Anyways, suffice to say that as of my return I ache in parts of me I didn't know existed.

Totally worth it, right?

I must be bored

I can tell that I must be bored because in the last twelve hours I have considered the following

1. Booking flights to New York
2. Buying a 200 euro dress that looks slightly like an Herve Leger and would probably make me look fat (the saleswomen presiding over it were so intimidating that I wouldn't try it on. I'd probably never have escaped alive without purchasing it if I did)
3. Getting a radical haircut of some (still unknown) description
4. Booking flights to San Francisco
5. Writing a novel
6. Going vintage shopping in Paris (actually, I'm totally going to do that one next week)
7. Booking a last minute cruise (with what money I'll never know)
8. Spending over 90 euros on lingerie
9. Getting drunk alone in a cafe on expensive mulled wine
10. Buying a large and extremely pricey selection of maccaroons

Thankfully, what I actually did was go to a lecture, briefly consider a lot of things, then come home, eat an entire pot of hummus and take a nap. Even managed to walk straight past Sephora. Maybe I'm developing restraint (erm.. did I mention that a humongous Zac Efron door poster is due to arrive at my place any day now? Yeah.. I might hide my debit cards before I go out drinking tonight).

So that's all right then.

J'etais malade

So, I haven't been posting for a while but that's because I was ill. And ill in a particularly gross way, complete with infected impetigo/allergic-to-antibiotic-cream blisters on my face. As my mum pointed out (roughly a million times), the student lifestyle is not massively condusive to health. The woman is seriously convinced that I went off to Durham two years ago, got a chest infection and haven't been well since. She asked me if I was HIV positive. In front of the Louvre!

Happily, though, I have fairly regular std screenings, and on top of that I just finished my course of antibiotics and now I am barely scabby. Still not my best look ever, but anybody who witnessed the original will agree that it is a vast improvement.

All of which is just as well, as this weekend I'm off for a Belgian adventure! And I would really have hated to be on antibiotics for the houseparty I'm due to attend in Brussels. It should be awesome, and most excitingly, it's an opportunity to see people from back in Blighty who I haven't seen in ages.

So, that's where I've been and where I'm going. I'll post more once I've actually done something interesting to write about!