I could become a plastic bag distributor for Tesco’s the amount I have stored under the bed at my university halls. I’m paying for the move this morning; back pain and sore arms from lumbering up crates full of but-what-if-I-need-it doctors letters, bank statements and receipts, 80’s pop-star memoirs (for spiritual guidance) and a spice rack so obese that even my solitary can of cannellini beans runs of the risk of being seriously sexed-up.

Move-in dates are being staggered so, being the only one here, I spent last night gobbling up the only comfort-food that doesn’t make me fat; Avril Lavigne. Binging on lyrics like “it’s so contagious” felt apt. The Best Damn Thing got me through teenage heartbreak so I’ll be damned if it doesn’t soothe my anxiety about sharing one oven between eight housemates/milk-thieves. The rest begin their move in on Saturday, two days from now. With Liverpool a second wave hot-spot and a government announcement due on Friday the only thing celebrating freshers this year with a six-pack will be the recycling bin. All events are being conducted via Zoom (boxercise and virtual discos yay!) and, with the new rule of six and imminent curfews, it’s a wonder the university even bothers.

All this moaning and I haven’t even introduced myself, tut-tut. My name is Lydia and, I’m going to be studying Philosophy and International Relations: I want to be a journalist and a writer. This year is going to be a new experience for everyone. I want to share and connect with all of you the ups, the downs, the politics and, my speciality: general moaning.

Here’s a picture of my face before mask-wearing turned my chin into human bubble wrap.

Au revoir!

Lydia