With the same level of horror as opening your laptop in the first row of a lecture and realising you’d forgotten to turn off your porn, I have come across the first day of my final week. With a rolling of wheels, squealing of confusion and probably a stolen German child, this time next Thursday, I will be in the car, alongside those people that created and (for reasons unknown) kept me, speeding down the autobahn to hit with the homeland. The days will continue to turn, with projects and gettogethers already in progress and preparation, I will be thrown back into the world of London whilst Heidelberg continues to roll its steady feet onward, forever unchanging in my memory.
If an event takes place but you can’t remember it, did it really happen? As the (mostly) sober one last night, I can very much confirm that yes, yes it did. Anticipating an enjoyable yet quiet evening, I turned to my room only to find that the mini oven my housemate bought had turned its back on me forever, refusing to cook the frozen pizza I had spent an entire euro in purchasing. Turning to my frying pan, I covered that biznitch in olive oil and fried the hell out of it. Take note; it was fucking gorgeous. A common cuisine choice in southern italy, fried Pizza is one of the most flavour-entrapped pieces of food I have ever come across. It was at this point, whilst nomming away that Bee texted, deploring the amount of work left to clean for her flat before moving out, so we avengers assembled and took to scrubbing, mopping, refitting and tidying up the rooms. An act that took us until nearly 2 in the morning. At which point, the droopy haired monstrosity that is Kevin called up, inviting us out. Horrified, we dragged our depressed, mortified selves kicking and screaming into a good night out that culminated in the closing of an entire street of clubs and an after party that continued until the pint Graham and I were sat, bedraggled but grinning at the bustop unter the 7am sunshine.
From this night I have learnt that Will.I.Am makes great cleaning music, you can turn a bed into a door and political conversations are some peoples’ aphrodisiac.