Open Day Blues,

I have to confess; this morning's personalised leaflet through the letterbox from a wannabe Russel Group Reject did not trigger the surprise and pleasure that letters addressed to me usually inspire.

Two trustworthy faces grin academically up at me from the doormat, imploring me to make the right decision, BethCalverley. I respond with mild self-loathing at my own premature pickiness; I haven't yet received those shakily-awaited AS results, my Personal Statement is in its overly-pretentious infancy, and already I'm cocky enough to consider leaving the leaflet to zealous shredding by my overexcited labrador, still in the late stages of Postman-traumatic-stress.

However, it is true that I'm beginning to view myself as somewhat of a UCAS pro. My open-day cohort and I have been on several successful road-trip excursions. We strolled the boutique-adorned streets of Leeds and graced the pavements of Manchester with our conversed step... We scuttled, Beetles-like, down to the Cavern haunt of Liverpool's famous mop-topped quartet (and sharpie-d our names on its already well-scrawled wall.)

Yet as excited as I am to delve into the delights of higher education, the open-day blues have got to me. Nodding awkwardly against the car window after a five-o'clock start I couldn't help but feel that the stretch of blurry-eyed moterway was sweeping me irrevocably towards Independence. Piles of self-laundered underwear and indiscernible bills blinked ominously  in my peripheral vision.

I do feel a little nostalgic, from time to time, at the thought that borrowed ID, scattered empty bottles and reams of drunken rememberings now toast a brilliant party, where the joys of left-over caterpillar-cake and party-popper debris once held their innocent thrones.

Went to Foo Fighters at the National Bowl on Sunday. Fucking amazing...