My love for York
Lily is shocked at just how fast her first year at York University has gone. Now, as she embarks on life as a second year Politics, Philosophy and Economic student, it's time to buckle down - but that doesn't mean she'll be having any less fun!
Lily's university life steps up a notch as she juggles more work than ever before and discovers the strange experience of stewarding at a club - all in the name raising funds for the student newspaper.
The distance between this and my last diary entry goes further than anything I write to show what a tragically work-consumed weirdo I'm becoming. My first year is a blissful memory and the second year is going all too fast. All work and no time, I am a broken record, but it's true.
Not that my spirits have been crushed - I love York. I don't think I've ever taken a moment to describe how lovely the actual place is. The campus has its charms and is almost like a nature reserve because of all the ducks, which is in sharp contrast to the blocky 60s architecture. The historic old town is full of winding medieval streets with quaint old book shops and homely old man pubs. Those things pale in comparison to the fact that York smells like chocolate. I live in magical sweetie land! There is a chocolate factory near York and when the wind blows in a certain way the air is sweet. It's like being in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory! The remake of which, coincidentally, was filmed there. Rumour has it that Johnny Depp's favourite bar in England is the Evil Eye Lounge. This is, of course, also my favourite bar. Good enough for Johnny, good enough for me. Not that I've managed to spot him yet...
You do get the odd snobbish city kid whining about "small town York", or a gap year student with itchy feet unwilling to feel tied down. But there's always something new to find. There are more bars and restaurants than there are days in the year, or so I'm told, along with cute, yet expensive, boutiques. With Leeds a 20 minute train journey away, who needs the bright city lights on your door step?
Loving where I live has always helped me. Saturday afternoons in town are sweet relief from campus pandemonium. This year I am thriving off doing too much during the week: essay deadlines, the student newspaper, the New Generation Society politics e-journal, the student cinema, long tea and biscuit breaks and house parties. Clubbing everyday is so 'last year'. All hail the rise of the house party, because everyone you know has a house that needs to be 'Christened'.
"I live in magical sweetie land! There is a chocolate factory near York and when the wind blows in a certain way the air is sweet."
But fear not, I have not left Club D behind. In fact in my second year my fancy dress talents have reached a new level. I don't think I will ever surpass dressing as a Furby for a '90s night. I now get called Furby in the newspaper office, which I consider to be somewhat unfair. I may be quite short, but I'm not really furry.
The office of our fine, and award-winning, publication Nouse is rapidly becoming my second home. We're fiercely proud and happy to take ourselves a little bit too seriously. Working throughout the night and holding the front page is all part of being the dedicated hacks that we are. The only alarming experience that my time at Nouse has brought me was stewarding at the most recent Club D night, in exchange for the night's profit to help with printing costs.
My stewarding experience was an interesting one; sitting in different corners of the room we stewards are watching you. Bored out of our brains we survey the dance floor. It's not our job to curb your frisky antics, that's up to security. We merely guard the fire doors, unpaid, for five hours. All we can do is wait for the end and hope we don't get vomited on. The saddest thing is that you end up seeing yourself in many of the clubbers. The girl who just jumped up and down because Prince came on? That's you. The gyrating slag? That's your friend. And the boy who just got removed for being too 'boisterous'? That's your housemate. It's not so much that you're sober and they're not, it's the absolute exclusion forcing you to be an objective observer. Having been the happy-go-lucky Derwenter at Club D it's disturbing to see it from the other side.
On the bright side, stewards get lots of free pizza, and a robot, a nun, and a footballer asked me for their number. If you ever want to make friends in a club, try sitting on your own in the corner reading a book. People didn't realise I was working; they just thought I was weird, lonely or vulnerable. Oh well, a bit of flirting always brings variety to the evening!