I dreamed a dream...

This morning, to the horror of my cleaner, i was discovered cross legged upon the floor of my bedroom, shredding confidential information in my underwear, singing to a Judy LP. The old life is dead.

It becomes quite worrying when you spend your mornings watching children's tv and reruns of To the Manor Born, as means of passing the day. In the last two weeks my life has become just this, a continuous run of Penelope Keith, Dame Judy Dench and Iggle Piggle.

I'm assured that after leaving university it is natural for one to go through a process that almost resembles, grieving. I have indeed been mourning the loss of my freedom and return to the bosom of my slightly over protective family for just over a week. Had it not been for work i probably would have bought myself a nice veil to wear as well. Cornwall seems to have a slightly stale air about it these days that, no surprises, does not sit too comfortably. I feel I now know how Subo felt, dreaming of fame, fortune and show tune covers- to discover she was just a middle-aged scottish singer with a somewhat poorly produced album. I discover, I cannot escape my roots.

So, within a somewhat Social dry spell, i have been forced into some rather compromising, if not shameful situations. Im sure the idea of watching variety shows alongside the parentals, whilst your slightly typsy mother critiques Ruthie Henshall's technique is a low point that very few ordinary people would be lucky enough to experience. Nevertheless, she has a point, Ruthie is not only a bit shit but clearly the charisma deficit that her sidekick, John Barrowman, is the over zealous benefactor of.

I think I'll write more about John Barrowman at some point. Perhaps when I have gone a little bit more mad.

KEEP CALM and CARRY ON.

And now....Lessons learnt.

Four years, one failed attempt, countless unread novels, and an unhealthy quantity of cigarette ends and Merlot bottles later, it seems somewhat shocking to still be in the same place I was receiving A Level results in the sweaty summer of 2006. Mummy and Daddy coupled with the pressure from a back-water Cornish school formed the inspiration that I, like all my contemporaries, would become a world leader or write a book that held the answer to world debt. That perhaps we wouldn't spend our lives making Pasties, or campaigning to re-open the tin mines to become miners but instead move on to greater heights. I just wanted to be a teacher.

Imagine my surprise, following three years of diligence and a false start somewhere across the Welsh border, that I still don't understand the semi colon. Furthermore, after studying literary theory, The Enlightenment and the finer points of Feminism, I still can't spell Rousseau, don't understand post-structuralism, and certainly have no understanding of women.

Admittedly the false start posed quite a problem, the notion of being grouped with four welsh men in a freshers flat, has probably been transformed into an equivalent pornographic film by this stage- another missed opportunity. Nevertheless, the idea of starting again, of abandoning the safety of convention, defying familial expectation is never easy. Leaving education is about as easy as abandoning a child in a supermarket- everyone judges you and no-one thinks it is a good idea. Sometimes you just have to do it. And, somewhat like that metaphorical child i abandoned by the deli in Morrisons, I have never really looked back to see a screaming face, but stepped into a new era of choice that lead to a somewhat tearful return to a different University 11 months later.

Of course University isn't all about Education, they put it on the front of the prospectus, (particularly if you go to a polytechnic). I've had more than my fair share of compromising situations, house traumas involving more than anyone's portion off sanitary towels, and a hangover for at least 80% of my seminars. But somehow, perhaps throughout the three year hangover and horrific flashbacks, i've learnt a few more valuable lessons that i shall begin to divulge whenever i am not too hungover to see a keyboard.